Not like College

I have always had good luck with roommates.  In college I spent 4 very good years stumbling back to my room with close friends, always assured that if I was going to wake up feeling like I got hit in the head with a pile of bricks -- the 1, 2, or 3 others in my apartment probably felt the same way.  Every different roommate situation has its own dynamic, and oftentimes it is hard to predict exactly what someone will be like when you actually live with them.  But, like I said, I've always had good luck.

But, what happens when you are forced to room with someone in a hospital, separated by a curtain, and given no reason to actually communicate with each other?  Well, that certainly changes the situation.  I knew the first night that I arrived in my room at MSKCC that my roommate, Mr. Morton, was not going to be the easiest to stay with.  He was not an outlandish man by any stretch of the imagination.  In fact, the first few hours I was there I don't think I heard a sound out of him.  He was a frail 70 year old black man that liked to listen to the TV really, really loudly.  However, his most noticeable characteristic was that he had unique sleep cycles, or lack thereof I should say.  While I slept most of the day post-operation, the anesthesia had begun to wear off, and around midnight I actually found myself truly awake for the first time all day.  I popped my ipod in and tried to relax, only to be kept awake by a grunts, moans, and violent coughs from the other side of the curtain.  It was obvious at that point that Mr. Morton was not in good shape.  This continued all night, and every night throughout my stay.  He would use the period of midnight - 5am to make loud noises, repeatedly call the nurses, or blast his TV; whether he was awake or not.

The only true glimpses I got of Mr. Morton were when I would leave, or enter the room.  The curtain truly blocks off 50% of the room, and you only have a short second to get a look at your roommate.  This created a unique challenge for me, as I tried to paint a picture of why he was here, what his affliction was, what kind of man he was, etc.  I could only use short 1 second snapshots to do that - the rest was done blindly by what I heard on his side of the curtain.  As noted, he was usually quiet, which made his random outbursts of moans and groans stand out even more.  He seemed genuinely in pain, or at the least, helpless to what he was fighting.  He would often page the nurses and complain or shortness of breath.  This, it became obvious, was his biggest obstacle.  He often noted that he had to move very slowly in everything he did because his breathing just couldn't keep up.  Needless to say, in the 4 days I stayed at MSKCC, he did not complete one lap.

Mr. Morton and I did not exchange any words during my entire stay, but I learned the most about him on Monday afternoon, during one his very rare visits from a family member.  What I think was his niece came to visit and had a very direct conversation with him, including the nurse.  You see, they change the nurses every 12 hours, and most don't work 2 days in a row, so Mr. Morton had a great knack for tricking the newbies.  I, on the other hand, heard all his tricks, and caught on to what he was doing.  He would skip breakfast by saying he just wasn't hungry and would wait until lunch, and then when lunch came he would make up another excuse until the next nurse showed up.  When someone would ask what he ate today, or what he did, he would stall, make up an excuse, and change the subject.  It was obvious he was lacking the strength to eat, walk, do anything at all.  Because of that, his niece and the nurse approached him and told him that while this hospital can help him, oftentimes there is only so much help you can provide.  It was at this moment that I found out he had lung cancer, and while he needed additional chemotherapy, he wasn't strong enough to endure it.  They recommended transferring him to a hospice where they could focus on comfort, instead of cures.  Just as Mr. Morton didn't have the strength to do his laps, he didn't have the strength to argue this conversation.  He seemed content; tired of fighting.

The irony of this entire interaction is that Monday was the day I found out I would be released the next day - anxiously awaiting my chance to go home and get back to full strength.  When I left on Tuesday Mr. Morton was still there, and I have no idea how much longer he would/will stay there.  However, his weakness was really sad, and all too sobering as I complain about back pain and the ability to pee on my own.  I didn't get a chance to know Mr. Morton very well, but wish him the best wherever he is.

Matt