"I'm mad at you!" he declared, as I walked into his hospital room. I paused, unsure of how to take his declaration, as it was not the typical expression usually received from my post op patients. He elaborated for me, "I'm sore, and," he held up his coffee cup for emphasis, "I want some toast!"
He was an elderly, stubborn gentleman I'd had the pleasure of meeting the day before. He had only finally presented to the hospital after a week of pain and not being able to tolerate food. His gallbladder by then had turned into varying degrees of dead and dying, and of this he was blissfully ignorant. His independence of the utmost import to him, he had requested I not call anyone or talk to anyone after surgery. Life, he went on to explain, had always seen him as the caretaker of others, and he refused to acknowledge that roles perhaps needed to be reversed.
And now I stood, apparently on trial, and I wondered was this worth it. Worth the tip-toeing through tiger country for over an hour to find his thin little duct and its accompanying associated artery? I smiled. I've handled much worse. I proceeded to strip his blissful ignorance away layer, by layer. His eyes grew round. He sat a little deeper in the bed. He sheepishly confessed that he had just been teasing wanting toast, and by the end we were joking about when the funeral for his dead gallbladder was going to be held.
Sometimes those stubborn grumpy elderly individuals, are the softest teddy bears on the inside. As I left his room the following day he even told me that he loved me, explaining that in general, we don't say that often enough to each other.
I love you.
