How Heart Disease Led Me to the Reading Room on the 7th Floor
It's been several years now since I found myself traveling frequently to Durham, North Carolina.
My husband had courageously battled congestive heart disease over five years until June 23.
After four admissions to hospitals during three months, his local doctor recommended transferring him to Duke on August 1.
Monday, August 1st is a day I will always remember, a turning point in my life.
While I was walking in shock, my husband was being transferred to the cardiac unit on the 7th floor.
Machines, doctors, nurses, lights, beeping noises, rolling beds, windows, elevators, stairways, parking garages, rapid transit, hospital gift shop, and volunteers are among the numerous memories permanently embedded in my mind.
Volunteers for heart transplant patients gave long distance calling cards to us along with their contact information and a list of resources for patients and their families.
The most important resources for me included a chapel, a chaplain, and the 7th floor reading room.
Little did I know then the strength that 7th floor reading room would give me.
Equipped with a door, a window, a telephone, a computer, a couch, a light switch, numerous books, and an on-call chaplain, the 7th floor reading room was my lifeline.
Things I usually took for granted miraculously became my best friends.
The door could be shut to provide quiet.
I saw morning and night through the window.
Use of the telephone allowed me to call family, co-workers, and church friends.
Volunteers for the "Heart Floor" even set up an access code for me so I could send e-mail messages and conduct computer research as I explored ideas and searched for hope.
I curled up on the couch in the 7th floor reading room with a blanket and rested in peace.
The kind and compassionate chaplain spoke with me at length as we discussed the overwhelming challenges at hand.
This small reading room in the hospital on the 7th floor was my respite from the noise and traffic in the waiting rooms.
Overwhelmed with reality, I craved quiet, which I had successfully avoided for years.
The strength I desperately needed waited patiently for me to be quiet.
My husband had courageously battled congestive heart disease over five years until June 23.
After four admissions to hospitals during three months, his local doctor recommended transferring him to Duke on August 1.
Monday, August 1st is a day I will always remember, a turning point in my life.
While I was walking in shock, my husband was being transferred to the cardiac unit on the 7th floor.
Machines, doctors, nurses, lights, beeping noises, rolling beds, windows, elevators, stairways, parking garages, rapid transit, hospital gift shop, and volunteers are among the numerous memories permanently embedded in my mind.
Volunteers for heart transplant patients gave long distance calling cards to us along with their contact information and a list of resources for patients and their families.
The most important resources for me included a chapel, a chaplain, and the 7th floor reading room.
Little did I know then the strength that 7th floor reading room would give me.
Equipped with a door, a window, a telephone, a computer, a couch, a light switch, numerous books, and an on-call chaplain, the 7th floor reading room was my lifeline.
Things I usually took for granted miraculously became my best friends.
The door could be shut to provide quiet.
I saw morning and night through the window.
Use of the telephone allowed me to call family, co-workers, and church friends.
Volunteers for the "Heart Floor" even set up an access code for me so I could send e-mail messages and conduct computer research as I explored ideas and searched for hope.
I curled up on the couch in the 7th floor reading room with a blanket and rested in peace.
The kind and compassionate chaplain spoke with me at length as we discussed the overwhelming challenges at hand.
This small reading room in the hospital on the 7th floor was my respite from the noise and traffic in the waiting rooms.
Overwhelmed with reality, I craved quiet, which I had successfully avoided for years.
The strength I desperately needed waited patiently for me to be quiet.
