Friday the 13th, late afternoon, after surgery on Wednesday.
“You’re ready to go to rehab! They’re waiting for you for you over at Southside Rehab! All you have to do is call your ride.” The arrangements were made. I called Neil. The nurse suggested it might be good to get some pain meds in my system for the ride ahead.
I don’t remember much about the trip there, except that I kept backseat driving.
I went inside in a wheelchair. Was it mine? Or theirs? Who wheeled me? I don’t know, but I was taken immediately to my room.
“Where are my things?” I asked. “I really need to go to the bathroom.”
“Look, we have a dinner tray here for you.” I lifted the lid and replaced it immediately. I remember carrots. I was nauseated.
A young woman in wrinkled grey scrubs and a greasy long ponytail introduced herself as the admitting nurse and said she would have a few questions for me in a few minutes.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
“Can I have my nightgown?”
“Your stuff is all out front. We have to go through it all. We’re going to wash everything.”
“What? Go through it? But my laptop is there and, and, my Kindle and, and…”
It was hard to tell who was talking because there were five or six people gathered in the room. In the halls, other workers giggled and talked too loud.
“You don’t need anything right now.”
“I need to go to the bathroom. I need my phone. I haven’t seen anyone yet.”
“Seen anyone?” the admitting nurse asked. Ah, she was back. “You’ve seen all kinds of people.”
“I need to see a nurse.”
“You’ve seen ME,” she said. “I’m a nurse. I told you I’d be right back.”
“I want my laptop and stuff. And, listen, there is a little silver box inside a clear plastic makeup bag that has teabags in it. I need that right now. My wedding ring is in there.”
Grey Admitting Nurse put her hand on her hip. “Did you not read the part that says not to bring valuables?”
“It doesn’t matter what I read at this point. I want you to go right now and get me that silver box.”
She sighed, flew out of the room, and came back with the plastic makeup bag, and my laptop. All there, thank goodness. I put two rings on my hands. The toe rings and earrings left in the box could be replaced, but not my wedding ring. No way.
“Did you bring my clothes?”
“No,” someone said. “You don’t need them right now. We need to get you admitted.”
Everyone had left. I was alone in the room. I was cold. Was I wet? The spinal block I’d had for surgery had rendered me temporarily unable to control my bladder, well, more than usual.
I was the old woman I’d heard hollering many a time while visiting a nursing facility.
“Somebody please help me.”
No one came. The incontinence pad I was wearing didn’t hold. I might have been dripping.
I can’t stay here. I felt my chest for my phone. It was there, tucked in my bra.
I texted Neil. Do you think you could come get me and take me home?
How serious are you? he replied.
I’m serious. We’d have to round up my stuff but I can’t stay here.
Whatever you want.
I’m on the way.
I thought about calling Dave. I don’t know if I did. I remember arriving at home. I think Neil wheeled me into the bedroom. I know he sat all my bags in the floor. Dave stood by.
Before Neil left the room, I said, “Neil, you’ll have to assemble that potty chair that’s on the porch. It’s in the box. I’ll need it by the bed. I am so nauseated.”
Dave helped me undress. I did not know where my nightshirts were, or my underwear, or my pads, or anything. I knew they were in the bags but not which bag. Dave would never find them.
“At the end of my closet, there is a long pink thing, like a dress, or nightshirt. Give me that, and find me some panties. There are some pads in my bathroom.”
Dave could not find panties because I’d packed pretty much all of them. I did not know which bag they were in. I wanted to lie down.
“Just give me an old pair of your briefs and I’ll wear those tonight.”
I lay down in bed and Neil brought in the bedside commode and left.
Dave came to lie down in bed with me. I coughed, coughed until I might have broken a rib. I was nauseated. I might have thrashed.
Somewhere around 2:00 AM, I got up to transfer to the bedside toilet. It was in the lowest position. I crouched and held to the side arms. My new knees objected when my backside fell too far toward the floor.
I was wet again. The floor was wet. The bed was wet. Somewhere I got panties and a pad.
About 2:00 o’clock (I think), I told Dave, “Something’s wrong. I need to go to the hospital.”
He tried to discuss, but I couldn’t answer coherently.
“Hand me my phone,” I said. I dialed 911. I’m not sure what I told the woman on the other end of the line, but she stayed with me until some EMT’s walked in and asked me if I could get on the gurney.
I didn’t know, and I don’t know how I got on the gurney. I was cold, with no shoes and wet pants–again. The cold of the night stung and numbed. I had no blanket. Outside, the EMT’s moved me to the cot that lifts into the transport ambulance, strapped me in, and hit the lift button. A short grey-haired woman with a gravelly voice positioned herself beside me and buckled herself in.
“I’m so cold,” I said.
“Yeah, I think we’re finally getting winter,” she answered.
Wind whistled. There was no heat in the ambulance. My feet were numb.
I got a blanket at the hospital. When the nurse asked me why I was there, I said, “I just want to go back to the hospital.”
She prepped my arm for a needle stick and inserted the routine IV.
“Where is my phone?” I asked. “I had it. Where is it?”
Dr. Carpenter, a hospitalist, appeared. He didn’t look like the Dr. Carpenter I’d known before.
He asked me why I left the rehab facility. I think I told him something about all my personal belongings in a heap on the floor. Whatever. I wasn’t able to say much more.
“Could somebody get me another blanket?” I asked.
Dr. Carpenter said, “Let’s get her another blanket.”
He patted my leg and left the room.
Somebody said they were going to get a CT scan of my stomach.
“I don’t need that,” I said. “I just need to go upstairs and go to bed.”
The night shift was still on duty when I got upstairs to a room just down the hall from where I’d been after surgery. I was safe. Finally.
“I’m Heather,” she said. (Not her real name.) “I’m your nurse. We’re going to take care of you.”
“Can I have some water?”
“Of course you can.”
Drinking water never felt so good. It wasn’t the taste. It was the feel.
“Are you hungry? Want some crackers? We have peanut butter and crackers, applesauce, fruit cups…”
I knew from experience I could get a sandwich. “Sandwich?” I asked.
“You may be in luck. Let me see if I can rustle up a turkey sandwich.”
Heather smeared a whole packet of mayonnaise on each slice of bread. I ate the best turkey sandwich of my life.
Heather stayed with me for what seemed like quite a while. When I woke, she was gone. I was still wearing the long pink knit sleepshirt from home but I was dry. I felt treaded socks against the footboard. I smelled coffee.
I pressed the call button. “Can I have some coffee?”
Heather appeared with coffee, creamer, and sweetener.
“I didn’t know what you wanted in it, so I brought it all,” she said. “When the day shift gets here, we’ll get you all cleaned up, okay?”
I thanked her and drank that cup of kindness in Holy Communion with all the world’s hurting and those who take care of them: caretakers, professional and not, those who walk every hall, enter doors, and sit bedside. I drank it black. Normally, I want cream.
Shirley and Tessa washed and dried me and anointed me with unscented lotion. Shirley’s been at St. Thomas for fifty-two years. “
Heather said, “Shirley runs things around here.”
“Here. Do you want to brush your teeth?” Tessa asked.
I was hard on the bristles of the plastic brush. Some of them came off in my mouth.
“Here, spit in this emesis cup,” she said. “We’re gonna throw that old toothbrush away anyhow.”
“I don’t have any panties,” I said. “I’m going to need a disposable brief or something.”
“Alright, honey, we’ll get all that.”
The rest of Saturday passed in a blur of dozing, rejecting food trays, and watching helpers enter and leave the room. I slept in two-hour segments, awakened by Yolanda for vitals and the day nurse for medications.
“I really don’t need pain meds,” I said. “I need to pee.”
Sunday morning, I ate pancakes. Dr. Hoffman, “my” hospitalist, stopped by.
“Diana, what happened to you was a _______.” [Now I can’t remember the word. It means overdose– but not.]
“That’s why I was crazy?”
“I wouldn’t say you were crazy, but the medicine was just too strong for you. We overmedicated you. I’ve changed you to something lighter and I think you’ll get by fine on that. We’re going to watch you. PT will come in to work you out.”
“Did what I think happened at Southside not happen?”
“I feel certain it did, but it’s possible things were magnified or enhanced to you, and you were certainly confused.”
“I couldn’t stay there.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “Well, we’re going to let you stay with us another couple of days, and then you can decide what you want to do. Dr. Shell’s nurse practitioner is back now–she’s been on vacation–and she and Dr. Shell will get you all fixed up. You might want to go to another rehab or you may just want to go home. I’m not sure what your home situation is, or…”
“I’m going to Richland House if I can. I need somebody to take care of me.”
“Okay, then we’ll probably get you out of here tomorrow afternoon. I’ll look in on you later on.”
Dr. William Shell, one of TOA’s finest, certainly the sweetest, walked in the room with his nurse practitioner Lori on Monday morning. Lori had already stopped by to tell me that Dr. Shell was coming.
“So you didn’t fare too well over at Southside,” he said. “I’m so sorry about that. I was afraid of that when I realized where you were going. If Lori hadn’t been gone last week, we’d never have let you go there.”
I was now the facility’s defender. “It’s okay. It’s not all their fault.”
“No, well, there are other better places. Lori will get you all fixed up with that.”
“How about Richland Place?” I asked.
“That would be one of my three suggestions,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here this afternoon.”
He started toward the door and then turned around. “Unless you’d rather stay with us one more day, get some more PT done, and then go home.”
“Oh, my, I’d rather go home.”
“That’s what I prefer,” Dr. Shell said, “even if we didn’t have this epidemic upon us. But those people are so stretched, and you could do as much for yourself at home as they’d do for you.”
“One of my main concerns is Covid, too,” I said. “Southside assured me of a quarantined ward and room. I wasn’t going to even get out of the room over there.”
“Yeah, home is always best if you can do it. Okay, then, Lori will get you all fixed up for outpatient care. I think you’ll do just fine at home.”
“Will I have home health?” I asked. I was thinking about bathing mainly.
“You won’t need it. They tell me you have a couple stairs at home. Did you have any trouble with stairs in PT?”
“Then you’ll be fine. Don’t forget to make your appointment for followup in three weeks.”
I left the hospital the second (and last) time on Tuesday about noon.
“Neil, we have to get tacos. I need tacos. Tacos for everyone!”
At home, Neil unloaded my bags and set a casual table.
“Isn’t this a great idea?” I asked.
Mom, Dave, and Neil all agreed!