LGBT hospital visitation rights a step in the right direction

By Lisa A. Eramo

Last December, my partner spent 10 days in the hospital with multiple blood clots in her lungs--bilateral pulmonary emboli, to be exact. We're not exactly sure how or why they formed, but several specialists seem to think her birth control was a major factor. She has since given up the birth control (which she had been taking to prevent the formation of ovarian cysts) and is now on a blood thinner called Coumadin. We've been told she's lucky to be alive. The jury is still out in terms of whether or not the clots will come back.

While she was in the hospital, I spent the majority of my waking hours at her side. Becoming recently self-employed as a freelance writer allowed me the flexibility to make trips back and forth to the hospital, staying for hours at a time during the day.

She spent the first two days/nights in the ICU--an amazingly eerie place where machines seem to rule the environment with a disturbingly dictatorship-like dominance. Minutes and hours are punctuated by a symphony of oftentimes unwanted and ominous ringing, bleating, buzzing, and droning. It's a world in which there is no day and night. It's almost as though time stands still actually. People are fighting for their lives, and not much else seems to matter.

What struck me is that nurses and physicians working 12-hour (or more) shifts are oblivious to the sounds and oftentimes melancholy atmosphere in which they work. I can't tell you how many times a wide-eyed nurse came into my partner's room to check a vital sign, administer medication, or change an IV. They were often cheerful and kind, and for that, I am thankful.

I stayed overnight twice, propping myself up in a faded blue tattered chair borrowed from another floor. To say that I slept at all would have been a lie. Instead, I listened to the wheezing and moaning of the other patient in the room who was on a ventilator. I also watched my partner sleep and seemed to be completely mesmerized by the monitors that told the story of her heart and lungs. If I didn't watch her and keep an eye on the monitors, who would? Never mind the fact that the nurses could also monitor her progress from their station twenty feet down the hallway. I wanted to be alert and in control even though I was completely aware of the fact that I had absolutely no control at all.

When physicians made their rounds or came to talk to us about treatment options, my partner always introduced me as "Lisa, my partner." I shook every hand of every physician who entered the room. I asked questions and demanded answers. For the most part, physicians made eye contact with me and spoke to both of us. Nurses let me stay overnight in the ICU despite the fact that guests technically weren't allowed past a certain hour. The nurses and I got to know one another on a first-name basis. They'd give me updates regarding my partner's status when she was napping. They involved me in the decision-making process.

Although I am grateful for the treatment my partner received as a patient as well as the treatment we received as a same-sex couple, I know that not all same-sex couples have the same experience nationwide.

When I read that Obama requested that hospitals not deny visitation privileges to based on race, color, national origin, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, or disability, I was thrilled to say the least. I am relieved to know that hospitals in which same-sex partners are denied visitation rights will no longer be able to get away with this unfair practice. To read the complete memo issued April 15, visit http://www.whitehouse.gov/the-press-office/presidential-memorandum-hospital-visitation.

When I read the memo, I couldn't help but think of our most recent hospital experience. Not being able to be a part of my partner's experience and decision-making process would have been unjust and unfathomable. I'm thankful that Obama has taken this step. It's the first in what I hope will be many steps toward LGBT equality.