Dear coffee kiosk employee,
We’ve come a long way. You know my husband better, but we’ve met a few times.
I’d like to think I made a memorable first impression. My husband usually gets the coffee, but I decided I would get it on our last day in the NICU — the day we took our daughter home on hospice. I got on the elevator to head down to the first floor, and as the elevator doors closed, I saw a couple rushing over. I don’t typically risk a limb for the elevator doors, but it was too late to press the button, as the doors were nearly shut, and the couple seemed to be in a hurry. I held my arm out, the doors opened, and the couple joined me.
The man started yelling at the woman; he was upset about her surgery being canceled. The elevator ride is short, only going from the third floor down to the first, but this elevator ride felt much longer with the man yelling and the woman looking down at the ground and then glancing up at me apologizing profusely. I could tell this was not the first time he had spoken to her in such a manner. The elevator doors opened on the first floor. The woman got off and walked quickly toward the parking deck. The man followed her, still yelling. I got off the elevator to find people staring. The welcome desk was to my left and the coffee kiosk was just around the corner to my right. I turned to the welcome desk and said, “You need to call security. I am scared for her.”
Frazzled from the elevator fiasco, I turned the corner to buy the coffee. I assessed the kiosk. It reminded me of a newsstand with one employee – you – standing behind the register. I tried to walk past you to pour myself a cup of coffee.
Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. I was met with an abrupt, “Ma’am, I will get your coffee for you.”
I replied, “No, that’s okay. I can get it myself,” to which you responded this time with a little more oomph, “No. You can’t come back here. I have to get it for you.”
That was the first time we met.
Since our initial meeting, we have had many more hospital stays. Our order most of the time is two large coffees. You were able to link me to my husband with our two-large-coffees order. I believe you asked me if I was with “that guy.” The next time my husband went down to get coffee, you told him that you had met his “lady friend.” I think I prefer “that guy” and “his lady friend” over the typical mom and dad. Your creativity is appreciated.
I don’t think you know how much you humor us. After one of us brings the two coffees back up to the room, we always talk about how you’re doing. You used to have your work buddy with you, and we enjoyed the banter between the two of you. Sometimes it’s about the Super Bowl halftime show, other times it’s about your glasses, or the shows you’re watching. Unfortunately your buddy quit without much notice, you’re having to work weekends, and the coffee kiosk was out of large cups for several months. You probably don’t like working the weekends, but we appreciate the good coffee. We can tell when someone else brews it – it’s too weak.
Have I told you how much we love the coffee? We frequently hear about Java, the coffee cafe that closed during Covid. Even if it opens back up, we will still get coffee from the coffee kiosk. We are loyal customers. You serve Metropolis coffee, which is roasted in Chicago, a city we adore. It’s actually where Zach and I met, and the coffee shop down the street served Metropolis coffee. It’s a sweet memory to be reminded of every time we’re in the hospital with our daughter.
If I take coffee duty, you usually ask why it’s me instead of my husband. Going down to get coffee is sometimes the only reason I leave the hospital room. Gosh, I have to get out of that room. There was a time on Gen Peds when our room was across from the nurse’s station. Someone accidentally left the door open, and the nurse came hurriedly into the room to ask what was wrong. She had been sitting at the nurse’s station, and Zach and I were in a trance staring out into the hallway. I am an introvert, but I feel the Little Mermaid’s lyrics deeply when she sings “I wanna be where the people are.”
It’s hard for me to leave the hospital only to come home to an empty house. Sometimes the first floor is as far as I can go, and even then sometimes the first floor feels too far. Over the summer, I went down to get the coffee and waited in line behind a familiar neonatologist and resident. The neonatologist knew the resident and said good morning. The neonatologist got her coffee and left. The resident ordered and then had to wait. She saw me when she turned around, and we exchanged small talk. I ordered the two large coffees and waited for a fresh pot to finish brewing. Suddenly I panicked. I felt like the ceiling was coming down, I was going to pass out, and I could not wait for the coffee to finish brewing. A surprise panic attack.
Eloise was having surgery on this day, and my nerves were already running high. I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. This was the first hospital stay after a long stretch off (five months) from hospital life. But I think what got me were the flashbacks. As I watched the neonatologist and resident exchange good mornings, my mind jumped to the labor and delivery nurse pushing me through the doors of the NICU and being greeted by this neonatologist not with a good morning but with an accusation of “Eloise should have been here right after her birth!!!” followed by the number of apneic spells she had experienced so far. My mind jumped to the resident rushing to the room after Eloise had her first seizure and me asking her the question that I knew she couldn’t answer, “Is this a sign that she’s declining? You have to be honest with us!!!” I dialed back from the large coffee for the rest of that stay. It threw you off, but now you know why sometimes our order changes. It’s an anxiety gauge. Zach came down to get the coffee once I returned to the room.
It took me a while to return to the coffee kiosk because my brain associated it with panic. That’s one of my struggles with hospital stays – it’s not only what happens in Eloise’s room. It’s walking down the hallway and passing by other rooms she has previously stayed in. It’s the unexpected run-ins with past physicians and residents at the coffee kiosk or in the parking deck. I was forced into returning when Zach broke his foot and couldn’t crutch down the hallway while carrying two large coffees. I think you were glad to see him again once his foot healed.
Hospital stays lack consistency and are full of surprises. We often joke that it’s a revolving door of doctors. We never know when there will be a knock on the door or who it will be. We live in a constant state of hypervigilance trying to ready ourselves for the next person’s assessment and questions. You are consistent. You are one of the originals from the NICU days. I can honestly say we look forward to seeing you. Thank you.
Cheers to good coffee,
That Guy’s Lady Friend
