A Piece of My Mind August 18, 2004 Healing in Spaces Cheryl…

Question Answered step-by-step A Piece of My Mind August 18, 2004 Healing in Spaces Cheryl… A Piece of My Mind August 18, 2004Healing in Spaces Cheryl Dellasega, GNP, PhDJAMA. 2004;292(7):780. doi:10.1001/jama.292.7.780My nursing training took place in one of those reliable, old-fashioned hospitals that still exist in small towns: squat and square with linoleum-lined hallways and front doors that push open and shut. There were seven floors stacked precisely on top of each other in that hospital; each had a north, south, east, and west wing with a nurses’ station centered inside the rectangle of patient rooms. None of the staff there could glimpse the outside world, so they never knew if it was night or day. In the patient rooms, only the bed nearest the outside wall offered a slice of the world left behind through a small window that overlooked random trees and rows of brick townhouses. (My alumni newsletter tells me these have since been razed to generate a multitiered parking lot.) The color scheme throughout the hospital was drab: perhaps gray, brown, blue, or some neutral combination of the three. In 1974 I graduated and went to work at an equally old but more distinctive university hospital in a large city. The brick building that housed this facility was crumbling but dignified, covered with ivy that turned lush and shiny in the spring. Inside the patient rooms was an odd juxtaposition of technology and tradition: portable heart monitors stood next to sturdy metal beds with hand cranks, and sleek IV poles on wheels were wedged behind painted bedside cabinets containing bulky washbasins and bedpans. Searching for the area of nursing that would satisfy me most, I took a job as a “prn” nurse, floating from hospital to hospital throughout that city. I loved exploring each new building I was assigned to on my way to and from work. Often the first glimpse of a place gave me a feel for its character. Some were dangerous, with barred windows and buzzed doors. Others were religious, with statues and icons guarding the entrance. Occasionally hospitals sported large, catchy signs that advertised their agenda: care for women or children or cancer care. The hospital where I work now is unique for its vast windows. From the outside, half the building seems to be glass, which gives the place a transparency and a connection with stretches of grass, clumps of trees, and clusters of bushes bordering the campus. My first office as a researcher had a lovely view that offered ongoing surprises. In the fall I saw deer venture from a fringe of nearby woods. In summer runners jogged past with their dogs. Once, a woman in a sari spent a long time collecting leafy branches from select trees. In winter my window became a giant television screen featuring oversized snowflakes that drifted steadily to the ground. My new office is in a building dubbed “The Crescent,” a structure of smooth white stone shaped like a half moon settled on the ground. Although my window is slender and tall, I still see the green of well-tended grass when I look out. But there is room for improvement throughout the medical center. Our waiting rooms, where I’ve also spent many hours, are dull and depressing. For a long time the Pain Clinic was jammed into a converted patient room. The artwork that lines the walls leading from our main lobby usually features baby animals or flowers. More than once I’ve heard complaints about the lack of television, music, or current magazines in many of the spaces where patients and visitors congregate. When I was contacted about the opportunity to host a famous orthopedic art exhibit, I thought it would be a chance to enhance part of the interior environment. Many approvals were required before the proposal was accepted, and many conditions had to be met: no overtly religious art, and no nudity. Several pictures in the exhibit catalogue cautioned against drilling holes or making any other permanent changes to the walls. Several faculty members and I worked late into the night to uncrate the art and install the exhibit, and I was amazed by the frequent comments of passersby. I had conversations with people I saw nearly every day but never talked to: security guards, cafeteria workers, and physicians. Once everything was in place, I began to hear from visitors and other staff, as did our dean and CEO. The comments ranged from irate (How could we hang art showing disabled people in a hospital?) to appreciative (This is long overdue!). When I received a message to call a patient room about “the art,” I prepared for the worst. Rather than telephone, I found my way up to the rehabilitation floor, where I discovered a mother standing guard over her daughter. The fragile child was curled on one side in a fetal position, her nearly bald scalp feathered in places with bits of downy soft hair that was beginning to grow in after a series of brain surgeries. The mother told me her daughter’s illness had taken them literally across the country in search of treatment. “I’ve never thought a hospital could be a place of beauty,” she said. “But then I saw a picture downstairs and loved it. Thank you for making this time different.” In the days that followed, whenever I passed the picture she had referred to I paused, grateful for the effort that had brought it to our medical center: to the artist, whose illness prompted the painting; the physicians, who established the exhibit; and the medical center powers-that-be, who took a chance. As clinicians we are always creating environments that heal—in a room, on a unit, throughout a building. We bring calm and familiarity to the ICU with family photographs and funny posters. We paint bright pictures on windows of waiting rooms to distract and amuse visitors. Cheerful flowers hang outside the entrance to emergency departments because we know they are terrifying places. A few years ago, an administrator at our medical center gave permission for lighting to be kept on all night at The Crescent. In an era of cost cutting, it was a controversial decision, but sometimes I drive by just to see those outer walls, illuminated and curved like welcoming arms. No matter how dark the sky, our Crescent can be seen from miles away, a lighthouse that signals to those in need and says yes, come, this is a place of healing. Does the reader believe the artwork in a hospital, clinic, or private practice can have an effect on patients?What effects? Do the healthcare spaces you’ve visited perform a good job choosing artwork and other visual elements of the space? Why or why not?The paintings in the exhibition the writer describes are of people with disabilities. What would the reader reaction have been if they would been a patient in the hospital?   Psychology Social Science Social Psychology MEDICINE 334 Share QuestionEmailCopy link Comments (0)