Small Kindnesses That Matter

It is a rare camaraderie there in the Intensive Care Unit waiting room. They call them ‘campers’: The people who have been there for a long time, days, weeks even, and staked out a claim on certain chairs or tables with their blankets and pillows and bags of books and notebooks. They are there offering gentle help to those just in, not intruding or prying or offering too much but just a bit of a smile at first, a nod, then a not-too-threatening question about who you’re there with, maybe an offering of their story, and ear to listen if you need to dump, a box of tissue if you break down. The campers always have boxes of tissue, not so much because they use them so much anymore themselves but because they know those of us just arriving and raw from the shock of it all will need them.
They remember if you have a meeting with the medical staff or if the one you are there with had a procedure or surgery done and quietly ask of it after to see if you need to talk or need fresh advice or resources. They know where to score a snack or a soda and the best stuff in the cafeteria. They know where you can camp and not get busted and what behaviors to avoid to keep from annoying the local gatekeepers. If you are just tired of keeping up a brave face, and don’t want to scare your family, you can go cry with them a bit. Or just sit: They know when to leave you alone. They are tough by now. And when it all goes bust, they hold you while you cry. Or if you’re not the hugging type, they just sit there and let you cry as much as you need to. And hope for their own better outcome that grows less likely with each passing day. But that kind of hope is a funny thing: Like most Good Things, the more of it you give away to others who are in desperate need, the more you have left to cling to yourself.