Let’s do an experiment. Close your eyes for a minute and think about the sounds that you hear in the hospital.
I hear pagers beeping (over and over again). I hear telemetry monitors signalling S1 and S2 heart sounds. I hear ventilator alarms, the awkward silence in elevators, cash registers in the cafeteria, carotid bruits, code blues being called overhead. I hear patient care teams rounding the hallways, New Age background music in the lobbies, bowel sounds, the pounding of the MRI machine, asystole and telephones ringing.
Our lives in the hospital are filled with unique sounds, and each one has its own significance.
The most significant sound I heard in the last month was actually a voice. I had been taking care of a very sick middle-aged woman who had lost her vocal strength after extubation. It was an unfortunate story, and she was the sweetest, most gentle patient I can remember. It was hard to see her deteriorate in front of my eyes. I had seen her every day for 3 weeks, and every day I heard her whispers as she told me how she was doing.
I always wondered what her real voice sounded like. One night I had to obtain informed consent for a procedure we were doing and called some numbers to speak to a family member. The phone rang and rang until the voicemail came on. It was her, my patient speaking in her normal voice. Her voice sounded just as I had imagined it would and yet it still filled a void I had of her in my mind. The sound of voice is such an amazing and complex aspect of life, but we oftentimes forget to acknowledge it.
I went back into her room and told her about my call, and she held her hand out to me. I held it for a minute and she shed a tear and whispered, “Thank you.” It was an experience I’ll never forget.