Post by Ken_Nye on Jan 26, 2008 20:53:59 GMT -5
EMERGENCY SURGERY
Stomach ache last night.
Still got it this morning - couldn't sleep.
Geeze, midddle of the afternoon - still got it.
Something wrong here.
A Friday night
call to the doctor
at bedtime:
("Why couldn't this guy have called
this morning, for Pete's sake?")
"I'll meet you in the Emergency Room."
Data collection when I don't feel like talking.
Pushing a little metal basket on wheels,
a blood collector says, with a smile,
"This will only take a minute."
Can't find a vein.
Doctor team, all in white robes,
stethoscopes around their necks,
take turns poking my ballooning stomach.
X-ray, CAT scan, decision made:
Going up to OR.
Blood collector wants more.
But now I'm plugged in to
the world of plastic tubes,
carrying things into and out of me.
Want some blood?
Just flip this plastic valve.
Nurse arrives with big plastic hose.
Says, "Neither one of us is going to like this."
Up the nose, down my throat,
past the gag mechanism,
down to my stomach.
She turns a switch and
I watch as all kinds of putrid debris
flows through the transparent hose out of my nose
to a large jar on the wall that begins to fill.
On the move now,
watching the ceiling of the hospital corridors fly by,
but everything is upside down.
Snuggled under a couple of hospital blankets and
buzzed on a pre-op drug,
I am having a nice time.
"This is nice."
"This is a nice ride."
"This must be the operating room. It's nice."
* * * * * *
Coming to, in a bed being wheeled
through the corridors by a madman,
lover of speed.
Bed is twirled around, and
it and I are dragged backwards
into room 318.
The angel of my life waits for me.
She gives me a kiss.
The pain killer of choice is morphine.
(Not my choice. But what do I know?")
Nurse gives instructions:
"If you need the nurse, you press this button right here."
"OK."
"IF you need more pain killer, you press this button right here."
"OK."
I lie back in the slightly inclined bed,
unaware that I am slipping into a frightening
drug induced world of confusion, paranoia, and terror.
I cannot have anything to drink or eat.
Lips are heavy and difficult to manipulate.
Mouth dry, making speaking even more difficult,
producing a sound like a spattula covered with heavy syrup
being lifted from the counter top to which it is stuck.
At one point they administer a pain killer which makes
me unable to move.
I am terrified.
(They don't understand that Parkinsonians
react differently to drugs and anesthetics.)
They ease off.
Middle of the night they say
I'm going back on that pain killer.
I say no.
They call head nurse.
I can barely talk intelligibly.
I am near panic.
I consider calling 911, telling them I can't move,
(but because I can't move I can't reach the phone).
I can't call for help.
If I do, they ignore my help light
(because I pressed the button for more pain killer
instead of the button to call the nurse.).
I consider calling the 6th floor and telling them that
I am having a nervous breakdown and to come get me.
I dream that I am at the police station:
"Thank God. I'm out of there."
But I waken and find that I am being held in someone's house
for some reason.
The person who owns the house
calls me "dear"
all the time.
When I ask her if I can use her bathroom she says, "Of course, dear."
There is a path to the bathroom.
There are other people sleeping in beds in this room
in this house but they have all gone somewhere.
They sleep on cots, not big beds like mine.
A CNA comes in to check on me.
I tell her I think I'm having a nervous breakdown.
She is very understanding, calms me down,
talks me down,
reassures me this is all going to end soon.
Her name is Linda, and I will never forget her.
Later in my fuzzy experience,
Linda gives me a shave,
all the while talking about what
a great man I am.
(Why would she think that?
She knows me only as an old fool.)
Ten days away from my own bed.
I'm home now.
But when I'm capable of doing so,
I am going back to find Linda.
I want her see who I really am.
And I want to tell her "'Thank you,"
to tell all of those people who
devote their lives to helping others,
"Thank you."
But I never want to do this again.
Stomach ache last night.
Still got it this morning - couldn't sleep.
Geeze, midddle of the afternoon - still got it.
Something wrong here.
A Friday night
call to the doctor
at bedtime:
("Why couldn't this guy have called
this morning, for Pete's sake?")
"I'll meet you in the Emergency Room."
Data collection when I don't feel like talking.
Pushing a little metal basket on wheels,
a blood collector says, with a smile,
"This will only take a minute."
Can't find a vein.
Doctor team, all in white robes,
stethoscopes around their necks,
take turns poking my ballooning stomach.
X-ray, CAT scan, decision made:
Going up to OR.
Blood collector wants more.
But now I'm plugged in to
the world of plastic tubes,
carrying things into and out of me.
Want some blood?
Just flip this plastic valve.
Nurse arrives with big plastic hose.
Says, "Neither one of us is going to like this."
Up the nose, down my throat,
past the gag mechanism,
down to my stomach.
She turns a switch and
I watch as all kinds of putrid debris
flows through the transparent hose out of my nose
to a large jar on the wall that begins to fill.
On the move now,
watching the ceiling of the hospital corridors fly by,
but everything is upside down.
Snuggled under a couple of hospital blankets and
buzzed on a pre-op drug,
I am having a nice time.
"This is nice."
"This is a nice ride."
"This must be the operating room. It's nice."
* * * * * *
Coming to, in a bed being wheeled
through the corridors by a madman,
lover of speed.
Bed is twirled around, and
it and I are dragged backwards
into room 318.
The angel of my life waits for me.
She gives me a kiss.
The pain killer of choice is morphine.
(Not my choice. But what do I know?")
Nurse gives instructions:
"If you need the nurse, you press this button right here."
"OK."
"IF you need more pain killer, you press this button right here."
"OK."
I lie back in the slightly inclined bed,
unaware that I am slipping into a frightening
drug induced world of confusion, paranoia, and terror.
I cannot have anything to drink or eat.
Lips are heavy and difficult to manipulate.
Mouth dry, making speaking even more difficult,
producing a sound like a spattula covered with heavy syrup
being lifted from the counter top to which it is stuck.
At one point they administer a pain killer which makes
me unable to move.
I am terrified.
(They don't understand that Parkinsonians
react differently to drugs and anesthetics.)
They ease off.
Middle of the night they say
I'm going back on that pain killer.
I say no.
They call head nurse.
I can barely talk intelligibly.
I am near panic.
I consider calling 911, telling them I can't move,
(but because I can't move I can't reach the phone).
I can't call for help.
If I do, they ignore my help light
(because I pressed the button for more pain killer
instead of the button to call the nurse.).
I consider calling the 6th floor and telling them that
I am having a nervous breakdown and to come get me.
I dream that I am at the police station:
"Thank God. I'm out of there."
But I waken and find that I am being held in someone's house
for some reason.
The person who owns the house
calls me "dear"
all the time.
When I ask her if I can use her bathroom she says, "Of course, dear."
There is a path to the bathroom.
There are other people sleeping in beds in this room
in this house but they have all gone somewhere.
They sleep on cots, not big beds like mine.
A CNA comes in to check on me.
I tell her I think I'm having a nervous breakdown.
She is very understanding, calms me down,
talks me down,
reassures me this is all going to end soon.
Her name is Linda, and I will never forget her.
Later in my fuzzy experience,
Linda gives me a shave,
all the while talking about what
a great man I am.
(Why would she think that?
She knows me only as an old fool.)
Ten days away from my own bed.
I'm home now.
But when I'm capable of doing so,
I am going back to find Linda.
I want her see who I really am.
And I want to tell her "'Thank you,"
to tell all of those people who
devote their lives to helping others,
"Thank you."
But I never want to do this again.
