New Guy in the House

She said, “Here’s your room,” and showed me inside. Plain white walls with a couple of inexpensive framed prints, a pair of beds and fake flowers on the nightstand. It was pleasant, but still felt vaguely like it must on your first night in a barracks or a rehab halfway house.

Even as I tried to figure out how I’d landed in someone else’s life in the last few hours, there was no denying that I’d always suspected I might wind up in this house. I realized early on that its trajectory and our family’s just seemed to be running too recklessly close together to never cross. And after most of a decade of wondering, I’d finally arrived at the junction on a muggy Wednesday night in Iowa City. The surgeon said this afternoon that he saw no choice but to operate on parts of my daughter’s nervous system that I can hardly imagine anyone but God touching. But then, I still have trouble digesting the science of how a 747 gets airborne. And the surgeon is the best in the business, we’re told, and he’s done it hundreds of times and he said that we’d better make ready to come back next week and stay for three weeks after the operation. Two hours later, I was walking into Room 120 of the house for visiting families and calling it my own for the night as a test run. Just me, while one kid stayed with grandma back home and the other one held down a hospital bed a few blocks away with mom at her side. This house is built out of generosity and a spirit of service to the families of hospitalized kids from out of town. But no matter how welcoming the concept, it’s a place that no one aspires to dropping their bags in for the night. Generous donors keep the cash cost of a room very low, but the real price of entry is a parent’s heart that’s almost certainly breaking.

The friendly college girl showed me around the place. The laundry room (free for guests). The four communal kitchens where you have a cabinet with your room number on it, ready to hold whatever groceries you want to stash. The pantry and “Everyone Fridge,” where donated food sits as fair game to anyone who’s hungry. Despite the fridge’s name, I unwittingly broke the rules the first night by drinking a cup of lemonade from a jug in the Everyone Fridge, only to notice after two swigs that the jug had someone’s name on it. Just like the new guy, clueless to the unwritten rules.

She walked me through the great-room, where a couple of families eating their dinner stared at me as we passed through. A guy on his cell phone in the upstairs lounge didn’t seem to notice us. A kid sat down next to me in the office and watched as I filled out the paperwork and paid my $15 for the night’s stay. “I’m just standin’ here,” he said and watched as I opted to give my driver’s license number instead of my social security number. As other guests and I passed in the hall, I imagined each of us with a sign stuck to our backs explaining our story. The Cancer Family. The Kidney Transplant Family. The Spinal Surgery Family.

The girl gently explained to me that there were rules to staying here. Keep the noise down. Don’t walk around in bare feet. Change the bed linens in the morning and clean up the bathroom because there’s no maid here. But, she said, if a guest ever manages to find some downtime from their vigil at the hospital, they’re welcome to take on one of the cleaning tasks listed on the job sheet by the front door.

I almost asked if we’d get an early parole from the hospital if I did a few extra chores. But I didn’t. Just like I didn’t ask the woman putting out cookies next to the Everyone Fridge, “So, what are you in for?”

As I walked by the rec room and heard people playing Ping Pong, I remembered that someone wise once said that if all the world piled its problems into one great heap and let us choose which one to take on, we’d probably all choose the one we came with. I envisioned all of us in the house throwing our kids’ issues out into an Everyone Pile next to the Everyone Fridge and choosing the one we’re most willing to bear. It’s possible that if I knew the facts, I’d like to steal the problem of the Smiths in Room 102, just like I unintentionally stole their lemonade. But I don’t intend to ask too many questions yet. When you’re the new guy just launching a long stay, it’s probably best to keep the noise down and stay out of the fridge.