Some family members of the patients on the neurosurgical ward are truly amazing. One patient's wife in particular really touched me while I was on call last night. When you speak to Mrs. Z, she always seems so cheerful, almost to a point of idiocy and unawareness. But she's always so grateful, so attentive, and so seemingly aware of the treatment plan and the status of her husband that you're inclined to think she's not a complete idiot. However, last night as I was about to make my midnight rounds in the ICU I thought I saw her leaving the unit to go home for the night. I wasn't sure if we had consented her for her husband's procedure on Friday (he's delerious and thus can't sign for himself), so I approached her to find out. She was waiting for the elevator. "Mrs. Z?" I asked, wondering if I had the right person. She turned around and upon recognizing me quickly wiped the tears from her eyes, abruptly cutting off the flood of sadness she held back the whole day while smiling, laughing, and encouraging by her husband's side. "It's been a long day," she said, smiling again behind her flushed and still tear-damp face. "It's been a long month for you," I thought to myself.
The family members of the comatose patient's almost have it easier. They don't have to pretend to be strong, hopeful, or happy to boost the morale or spirits of their loved ones. But the patient's that still seem to understand what's going on, are aware enough to know that they are sick, if they're lucky, or dying, if they're like many patients on our service... those family members wear the smokescreen of love in the forms of smiles and undying optimism so their loved ones won't succumb to despair in addition to their devastating illness.
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