It should have been A Sign but I'm not a big believer in omens. Em and I arrived timely at the hospital at 5:00 a.m. to begin the admission process. This involves sitting for extended periods of time in a space about as inviting as an old Trailways bus station in Arizona c.1947, but with sepia-tinted photographs gracing the walls of Catholic nursing sisters over the years. There was a large coffee urn (capacity 5,000) on a table in the corner, but I was NPO after midnight, so that did me no good whatsoever. We settled into our coach section seating area and Em deployed her knitting equipment while I tried to read the Time Magazine app on my BlackBerry. I happened to look up and something caught my eye.
"Em," I said, "Do you see those people sitting over there? The guy has on a camouflage jacket and ball cap and the woman is wearing enough makeup to frighten Elvira."
"Mm hmm." she replied, busily stockinetting around the tiny hat she was working on.
"Unless I'm badly mistaken, I denied them a bond reduction last Thursday and I put their child into state custody yesterday." At this she looked more closely and said, "Are you sure?"
By this time both of the aforementioned folk were glancing furtively at me (at least it seemed that way) and I was wondering what on earth I had gotten myself into. While I realize we were in a busy hospital, it was also 5:00 o'clock in the morning. I was loathe to believe that they were there for some surgical procedure because she was tricked out like Cleopatra and I had been severely cautioned not to apply a lick of makeup to my winter-pale face. At some point before my own Angel of Mercy called me away for poking, prodding, sticking and indelicate questioning, our putative Bonny & Clyde had melted into the background. I mentioned this episode to my surgeon during our tête-à-tête. His immediate response was to contact the front desk and tell them that no one was to know I was in the hospital. All very exciting in a 1960's crime show fashion. I was glad that Frank P. didn't hear about this or he would have been there within moments with an entire squad of Special Services operatives on high alert. Frank P is like that. As it was, I saw no more of my minor villains and, as it turned out, they were probably the least of my concerns for that stay.
Muddling through a surgical procedure is usually less exciting than it appears on television. At least, I think it is, not having had a television set to speak of for years. The last thing I clearly recall is the sight of the back of one of the surgery staff in the operating theater, sorting the tools of his trade into their respective stainless steel baskets. If you've never seen the stuff they use in orthopedic surgery ... well, consider yourself lucky. It is not for the faint of heart. However, I remember nothing else until I was more or less awake in my hospital room some hours later. Em told no tales of bizarre behavior in the recovery room (such as an ex-Somebody used to tell on me from recoveries during his tenure), so I'll assume I'm behaving better as I age.
The rest of the stay was probably completely normal. I do, however, wish to call just a few things to your attention and ask if you have had these experiences as well.
Circulation booties: These are cunning devices, developed by someone on the staff of Fra Tomás de Torquemada during the Spanish Inquisition. What they tell you is that these things massage the feet and assist in maintaining proper circulation after surgery. The reality is that they clap these things onto a moderately helpless patient, flip the switch on the compressor and walk away. You rise to consciousness and realize that your feet feel as though you've been attacked by a boa constrictor and he's just about to make a meal of you, starting at your toes. The really diabolical part is that these fiendish thingies then relax their death grip on your trotters and, just when you think you're safe, it all starts again. There is an eerily Hitchcockian sensibility to the entire experience.
Adolescent nursing staff: When did they start hiring 12 year olds as health care providers? The day of surgery a young physical therapist came in to "get me out of bed and moving" (sic). The only thing I clearly recall is that he appeared to be younger than my grandson and whatever he was doing hurt like hell. It's as well that Em stayed with me the entire time (is there a galactic award for friendship?) because I suspect that most of what went on the first day or so will have to be retrieved from her memory, not mine. Most of the anesthetic from surgery had worn off by nightfall so I was tired and uncomfortable. This is, of course, the time that the hospital staff deems it best to begin attacking. And whom do they send as their little foot soldiers? The 12 year olds. I swear the phlebotomist they sent in there to wake me up was no more than 13 and he looked even younger. It was sort of like a nightmare in which Opie and Dracula had joined forces. He kept calling me Ma'm, and I kept asking him if he was sure he knew what he was doing. I really should know better than to annoy someone who is tasked with sticking needles in my arms ... Bless the lad, he was kind and left no more marks on me than any of the others. Thereafter, just about the time we had fallen into a light slumber (Em had to endure all this nonsense as well), a perfectly vast young woman came in to wake me up and "take yer vitals" (sic). I swear, she blocked all the light coming in the door from the hallway and I'm just as certain that she wasn't old enough to attend a senior prom. The midnight parade continued and I think I was less than charitable and grateful by the time the last effort was made at monitoring my survival. Is there some reason they can't do all this stuff at the same time instead of spreading it out just enough to let you drift into a shade of rest before poking, sticking, wrapping, yakking, etc.? And don't even get me started on the subject of CNA's who work in an orthopedic unit and aren't sure how to move a patient safely ... (I am sounding positively antediluvian, aren't I?)
Restful Ambiance: The facility at which my surgery was done has just about completed a grand renovation and remodeling of the orthopedic wing (or "tower" as it is called). While I appreciate the effort, I think I would even have preferred to be in the pediatric unit until all the workmen had left the building. Ambulating with the grown up physical therapist aside, I only left my room once during my stay. So I have no idea how other areas looked. Our little kingdom appeared to be intact and finished. On the second day, however, Em and I noticed some decidedly strange noises that seemed to be coming from an adjoining room. I was stuck in my bed, but Em went to investigate because it seemed to be getting louder and my drug-addled brain was prone to all sorts of desperate imaginings. The staff told her that the racket was being caused by workmen on another floor and that there was nothing to be done but wait until they were finished. It has been awhile since I read any really scary Gothic stories, but I was convinced to a moral certainty that there were enormous rats scurrying through the walls and that vast quantities of water were rushing through those same walls and would come bursting out into my hospital room at any moment. What can I say; it was dark. But it really did sound as though the World's Biggest Washing Machine was going crazy on the other side of the wall and as if there was Something trying very hard to get out of it. I don't even want to think about what the workmen were actually doing ...
Eventually, we all got tired of each other and they let me come home. On the trip home from the hospital last September I talked Em into stopping at the liquor store and the book store. This time I just wanted to get home and into my own bed. I am so very glad to be here. Getting about is harder than I thought it would be and I am acutely aware of my own mortality. I was happy to the point of tears when Brother brought my dogs home from the boarding kennel. They sit and watch me get dressed, using all the special adaptive tools recommended by the Occupational Therapist (she was an adult), and look askance at each other. We have reached some sort of accommodation regarding their presence on my lap before that 8" incision heals a bit more. I have devised a clever method for feeding them. Em is coming to take me grocery shopping and to visit my mother tomorrow. Life is good.
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