What Day is it Again?

What day is it?

According to the pill box that I use to dole out my daily supplements, today is Sunday. Is that right?



Yesterday my brother-in-law and I were discussing the timing of his trip home to avoid commute traffic. Then someone pointed out that it was Saturday, so likely traffic wouldn't be an issue. On one level we knew what day of the week it was, but without the regular daily routine that made up our lives before my honey's stint in the ICU, the names of the days simply don't hold the same significance and signals.

I have a new daily rhythm that is very different from those I have relied on in the past. It is different enough from the school/teaching rhythm, from the vacation rhythm, or the semester break rhythm to be disconcerting. Beyond the physical and emotional stress that is to be expected, there is a lack of connection to the reality of time.

I use the Note app in my cell phone to keep track of information every morning at rounds as each person on that day's team shares their observations and insights. Each entry begins with the date, and I use that information to write the Caring Bridge site update. Still, I am getting my dates confused.

It's not just dates and days that I am losing track of; time is an issue. Hospital time is strange. The sense of hurry up and wait is exponentially higher here. The clock at times moves so slowly; the first few days Joe kept falling asleep for short periods of time and waking up to look at a clock whose hands were still in the same spot. At other times the hands move so quickly, I pause to breath and 10 minutes have gone by. As I write this it feels as if we are still in the first few minutes of a sedation vacation, but it has been over 2 hours. Instead of that linear feel, time has become waves of movement, sometimes flat, other times ferociously fast and furious, crashing over our heads and carrying us away while we focus on breathing or blood pressure or heart rate numbers.