Are you familiar with the series of books and movies titled "HUNGER GAMES" ? Or perhaps you are a fan of "SQUID GAMES" ? (Which I liked but also found quite disturbing). I always wonder when watching or reading these stories how the authors have come up with this stuff. Forget about my favorite author, Stephen King. That man has the mind of a genius or a lunatic.
This morning I got thinking about what I may/will encounter during my next adventure. Open heart surgery is scheduled for me this coming Monday. I will be in the hospital for about a week after the surgery and then a couple of weeks in a rehab facility. This is nothing new to me as I have had many dubious "opportunities" to experience surgery, hospital stays and the torture they inflict on us patients who are at their diabolical mercy. (That is an oxymoron for sure.) I do not really look forward to any of it. If I were like anyone else I would take a cruise every so often to get away from "The Daily Grind" but since that is usually not an option I visit the hospital to have a "vacation"
It must have taken the hospitals years to get their evil torture perfected. I think they must all be fans of the genre of reading material that I enjoy.
Let's start at the beginning of any hospital stay. You are told to arrive at the Devils Lair at some unGodly hour of the morning. They blithely say, "Be there by SEVEN but arrive 15 minutes early to fill out forms. These forms they refer to are the very same ones that I have filled out seventeen times already on my iPhone or computer. For weeks before the surgery I receive a constant barrage of requests to "REGISTER ON LINE". Who these seventeen different persons are I have no idea. They apparently don't work in the same place or for the same office and they do NOT communicate with each other. Every questionnaire is EXACTLY the same. Each time I fill in my information it is like the hospital has NEVER heard of me before. With this in mind, by the time I arrive at the hospital is it no surprise when they ask me to "FILL OUT SOME FORMS" !!!!! For me this is not an easy task to perform at SEVEN AM.
From the registration desk I move on to "PRE-OP" where I will be asked to remove all my clothing and put on a hospital gown that is 87 times too BIG. (That is always a moral booster to put on clothing that is too big. It doesn't happen often.) Depending on the surgery the gown will either open in the front or the back. Which ever it is I know that gown will be removed as soon as I get into the operating room where it is twenty degrees below zero.
As soon as I have gotten the "gown" on and climbed up onto the bed the parade begins. Nursers, aids, house keeping and I think I have even seen the valet that parked my car, keep showing up to stick me with needles, take blood, put in an IV line, take more information, sweep the floor. Every single one of these people enter saying, "What is your name and date of birth?" I have no hesitation answering these questions because I have spent the last month and morning writing down this information. (In thinking about it I should put a different name and date of birth on every different form.). Once this flurry of activity is done I am left alone to freeze and think. If I'm lucky some one has asked me if I am cold, (which I am), would I like a blanket. This is the FIRST GOOD thing that happens in this adventure, They proved me with a heated blanket or two so I can "relax". The heated blanket is in fact a sheet that they have doubled over so it really doesn't cover me but it is better than nothing.
And now I wait ! There is always a huge clock on the wall facing me so I get to count the seconds, minutes, hours that I wait, and wait and wait until FINALLY a doctor shows up, all smiles (if he doesn't have his mask on), and asked me how. I'm doing. SERIOUSLY . . . I'm cold, tired, achey from sitting in this "bed" for 3 hours and scared shitless. (Actually I have not been nervous about any of my previous surgeries but this open heart thing has my tummy in a twist.). My mantra of, "I'm in God's hands" has always carried me through but as much as I know that I am still nervous. Once the Doctor shows up it is now a whirlwind of activity. All of which ends in the operating room where I get knocked out.
But the games are not over. When I wake up there is usually someone about 2 inches from my face calling my name and asking how I feel. They ask me this before I have time to assess the situation so I mutter something and they are satisfied that I am in deed alive. I will have plenty of time in recovery to figure out what hurts, where it hurts and how much it hurts. From this point on every nurse and doctor and aid will constantly be asking me, " How bad is my pain?" They actually have a dumb ass poster on the wall with ten round faces that go from smiling to agony. The faces are numbered from one to ten with one being no pain and ten being "Holy Crap . . . give me drugs !!!!!!!!" I usually answer this dumb, "How am I feeling" question by telling them my pain is at about 17. It gets me now where but at least I'm being honest.
From recovery I get to go to a room. This this time it will be the ICU where they will monitor me for a couple of days before sending me to a regular room for another few days. ICU means "I Can see U" because the nurses are constantly watching. Or at least that's what they are supposed to be doing. Nine times out of ten they are sitting at a desk doing paper work. (I thought computers were supposed to take care of that.). If an alarm goes off they will slowly put down their charts, stand up and calmly walk to my room. As they enter they say, "How are you feeling, on a scale of 1-10?" This is all part of the game.
The hospital stay continues with many more games such as . . .
Let's give her a huge bag of fluids in the IV and then wait and see how long it takes before I have to pee. What goes in must come out. The joke of this game is that they have put a monitor on my bed so I can't get up without someone helping me. (Even if I am feeling fine I am being held captive because of my age). Anyone who enters the hospital and is over the age of 60 is automatically considered a fall risk. There is a HUGE red sign on the door of the room stating "FALL RISK". I could stand up and dance a jig for them but I would still be a fall risk because of my age. As soon as you tell someone you are 80 they immediately expect you to be a drooling, wheelchair vegetable who can't remember her name. I hate thatI! The water came continues as they "allow" me to get up and go into the bathroom. I am tethered to the wall with heart monitors on my chest, IV's in my arm and things on my legs that keep squeezing my legs to keep from getting blood clots. If they would just shut off the "fall" alarm, take off all this other stuff and let me walk I wouldn't have to worry about blood clots or atrophy of my limbs. Once I get all the paraphaernalia into the bathroom I am tied up in knots of wires and tubes that keep falling into the toilet. Funny game.
Another game is to put an IV in my right arm so I can't bend it to eat or scratch my nose. Every time I move the most annoying noise starts because the IV line is now bent. This "IV DRIP" machine has been around for years and in all that time they have not figured out how to shut it up once it starts blaring. Eventually they get it to quiet down, they leave the room and within 5 minutes it starts again. No one is in a hurry to come shut it off so I get to lie there listening to this damn thing over and over.
The leaving game is the most cruel of all. Once I have "recovered" , the hospital staff begins the "DISCHARGE GAME". They usually start a couple of days before I actually get to leave. Someone comes into my room and announces they are the hospital "Social Worker". They of course ask me my name and date of birth before asking how I am feeling . . . on a scale of 1 to 10. Then they start their standard speech about my "release" . Where do I want to go? Home or Rehab? Who do I have at home to take care of me? How am I feeling . . . on a scale of 1-10? What rehab would I like to go to? Who will pick me up? How am I feeling . . . on a scale of 1-10? When would I like to go home? Are there stairs at my home. Can I bathe myself? How and I feeling on a scale of 1-10 ? When they leave my room they make it sound like I will be discharged any minute. When in fact it will be days before they get all their paperwork done, made sure I am indeed ready for discharge, and most importantly of all . . . I have pooped!!!! This is a big thing with hospitals. They will NOT release you until you have done #2. What I have realized from one particularly difficult past recovery is that they really don't need proof of this bodily function, Telling them I have not gone to the potty only delays my release by days until I am so filled with fluids and laxatives that I can't be more than 5 feet from a bathroom. To avoid this embarrassing situation I just tell them YES when they ask their question.
Sweet freedom is only hours away and I can feel the fresh air already. But as they arrive at my room with a wheelchair to take me down to the hospital exit they once again ask for my name, date of birth and HOW AM I FEELING ? ON A SCALE OF 1-10.
And I have all this to look forward to this coming Monday.
No comments:
Post a Comment