At Grandview, I had room 205, a semi-private room, to myself. And my nurse let me keep my underwear on under my fashionable hospital gown! And they let me keep the door closed. And I was allowed to go to the bathroom on my own! Life was good, for a hospital.
I got cool yellow slipper socks and several bracelets. “I’m a fall risk?” I said to my nurse. “You’re on blood thinners now,” she told me. Indeed, Heparin was hanging from a mobile IV pole that I would dance with several times that night.
Everyone was diligent about asking my name and birthdate before they gave me tests, vampired my blood, dispensed meds. Half of them apologized for having to ask. I really didn’t mind. Better than getting an accidental lobotomy meant for the guy in 204. Oops.
The 1980’s 12″ hinged TV had a plethora of channels. I even watched a 2007 medical vid on angioplasty. I hope the doctors have at least modernized. Had a great view out the window of the exterior of another wing. Whatever. I wasn’t there for the scenery.
I had the foresight to bring a 600-page science fiction novel so I started on that after dinner, which wasn’t bad. Great apple crisp! I got my notifications out of the way, took concerned texts and phone calls, played with the bed controls, scrolled through the TV, read, met the overnight nurse and aide, read, danced into the bathroom, read, dozed, read.
There were a couple of Code Blue calls over the PA during the evening. I remember that happening at Temple in 1995 in the middle of the night on the intensive care unit I was inhabiting. It woke me up. For a minute I seriously wondered if they were coming for me, but they ran past my room.
I slept well. When I slept. I had to keep my left arm extended or the IV line kinked and it beeped and beeped and beeped until I pushed the button for the nurse who would reset the IV. Every couple of hours there was a blood pressure check, or an EKG, or a blood draw.
“Name and birthdate?”
“Just a little pinch.”
“You can go back to sleep now.”
Sigh.
In the morning I could not eat or drink in preparation for surgery. The nurse “primed” me with eight Plavix. An hour later my sister, who is a nurse, texts me that her friend who works in a cath lab warned to avoid Plavix. Something about bleeding issues leading to death.
Another sigh.
I had already signed several forms, and would sign several more, that spelled out my odds of dying during this or that procedure. Like I can say, “How about we skip this one.” The odds were probably better I was going to die of a heart attack if I didn’t get this fixed.
While I waited for my transportation to show up, I gained a roommate: asthma issues, 30’s, pregnant fiancee with him. Eventually, a respiratory doc came in to talk and lay out a plan. Unfortunately, the conversation was influenced by the fact that the guy is barely making ends meet and couldn’t afford medications. “Maybe I can get the drug company to give you a reduced rate for a month or two.” Too bad Pat Toomey wasn’t in the room.
The ambulance attendants arrived. On the way downstairs they kept complaining that my stretcher was shocking them. I wondered what the odds were of being electrocuted. I hadn’t signed a form about that. But we got to Lehigh Valley uneventfully, and I settled into a cubicle in the cath prep unit. I had to change into a new gown and ditch my underwear. I got to keep the yellow slipper socks.
The Q-View 