Hotel Hospital-ity

Tonight I write about the needs of people. Not people whose needs are filled on a daily basis by their spouses, or families, or jobs, or hobbies, or friends. But there are a host of people out there in need of something- otherwise unfulfilled in their lives- but unaware of what that something is. Some of these people are mentally ill. Some are addicted to substances. But this entry is about another category of person-one that I have been fascinated by since I was in medical school: Lonely, sane people.

On a given Saturday night in the Emergency Room, the crazy people and drunks are abound- but also tucked away, in corner bays, are 22 year old college kids, far away from home with stomach aches. There are 82 year old women with children on the other coast with chest pain. There are 50 year old divorcees with headaches. And after $1000 of tests show "nothing serious," more often than expected these people will ask a simple question: "Please, doctor, can I stay the night?"

When I was 23, I fell almost 3 stories. I broke bones, and had a concussion, and came inches from my death. And I was hospitalized for almost 3 weeks. And at the end of this ordeal, on my last day, I found myself terrified to leave. The nurture that the hospital provided went beyond my broken body. And despite all of the needle sticks, the mistakes, the frustration- call buttons pressed with no answer- catheters left in too long- I derived something in those 3 weeks that I needed for months before the accident: An emotional hug.

A hospital overnight stay costs $1500, even for an uncomplicated patient. This cost takes into account nursing, supplies, a percentage even pays the janitors, keeps the lights on. But the cost doesn't take into account human need. Yes, the homeless man who needs a roof over his head and a cup of soup- it's easier to wrap the brain around giving him a bed. But that 22 year old? Who is to say she won't derive as much, or more from a night of hospital loving? Maybe that night will inspire her in some way to find that feeling of nurturing in a more appropriate place, like a relationship, or in work that she loves, or in giving to her community. And the 82 year old- maybe this is the first, and only human touch she's had in months. Maybe she just needs a reminder in kindness, to make it through another year of arthritis and television.

In an ideal world, perhaps we'd have a special floor in every hospital for these folks. Perhaps funded by those of us with more love in our lives. In reality, 9 times out of 10, our answer to the question is unfortunately no. We don't have the funds for admissions for no good reason. That isn't the point of a hospital. Mental health can be provided in an outpatient setting. Lonely isn't a diagnosis. The arguments I've heard go on and on.

And as I watch these folks walk out, I send them virtual hugs from afar, and hope that they find what they need out there, in a world that is tough on those without.