Titles, Inc.

The Hospital Part 2

In the ambulance the medic was very kind.  “There are some bumps on the way to the hospital. But I will let you know when they are coming.”  It’s only a 10 minute ride to the hospital with the siren blaring at the street corners so I couldn’t see the problem. “Here comes a bump.”  He was right – when alerted of danger, the jostled body doesn’t howl as loud.  After a few bumps, I suggested they get the shocks treated.  He said the car is on the road all day, it doesn’t hold up.

In the emergency room, as I remember, the first question is, “Are you allergic to any drugs?”  “No,” I answer.  Second question, “Date of birth.”  It becomes your ID. You are asked it throughout your hospital stay.  Another verification of your identity is this small electronic gun (like the one on the checkout line when you buy something too large for the counter scanner) aimed at your plastic wristlet. 

I had been dressed ready for work, and now being undressed for the gown.  Sliding off easily was my brand new vest (animal print with soft leather lapels, brown, a color I don’t like at all, but it was so reduced in price how can one walk away?)  The tight long sleeve rose color silky tee was a problem removing from the arm clutched to my side with the forearm folded at the elbow in a tight embrace across my belly.  “Cut it, cut it!” I roared, but they lovingly slid it out. 

Very shortly after, they asked, “How do you feel?”  And surprisingly, I felt Very OK. “You’re getting morphine.”  “Ah,” I said, “Now I understand Michael Jackson.”

I don't remember the Xrays.  The diagnosis was a jagged break near the top of the humerus bone.  Not a good one to break, I soon learn.

Up in the room, I was asked whether I would like to continue with morphine, or to take pain killers by mouth.  Primly I decided to forgo the morphine in favor of pills.  “Don’t be heroic,” they told me, “don’t wait for the pain.  You can have a pill every four hours.”  Later whenever the nurse asked, “On a scale from 1-10, with 10 being the most pain, how do you grade yourself,” I cautiously guarded my pain-free existence, and hedged, “Oh, 2 or 3.”  When was it that I connected my breaking out in a sweat and severe weakness with the Vicodin?  Yep, no good.  We changed to Darvocet.  (At home, I was fading away instead of getting stronger, so I stopped taking even that pill.  It took about 24 hours until I woke up with everything looking vivid again.  Maybe I am allergic to some medication after all, but, ah, not the morphine.)  Over-the-counter drugs don’t do it.

Hey, the food was great!  Here comes a server in a black suit like a bridegroom or a Maitre’d, complete with the white pleated shirt and a cute black bow tie, handing you a leather bound four page menu with listings to rival any fine restaurant.  During my four day stay I had tilapia, salmon, shrimp, strip steak, assorted veggies.  I allowed myself the double brownie cake drizzled with chocolate sauce only once a day.

Now I’m home and I peer hopefully in the refrigerator but it’s still only filled with packaged frozen foods. 

The pain is subsiding, finally.  I’m healing. 

----Florence

The Hospital Part 1

It was a small hand-vac on the bedroom floor that I walked into (what was it doing there?) that sent me hurtling through space only to come crashing down against the edge of the recliner seat before rolling to the floor.  Bundled in pain, I thought This is no good.  I thought Let’s wait for the pain to subside and think this out.

 

The left shoulder was immobile.  I could wiggle my fingers and knew that was a good sign – I had read that somewhere.  The shoulder was broken or dislocated, and locked.  There was no getting up.  I considered.  How long until someone finds me?  It was about 8AM.  Art would remain in the hospital for at least five days after his successful reversal colostomy surgery.  If I didn’t show up to visit he would think I was busy at the bookshop.  If  I didn’t show up at the store they would think I was visiting at the hospital.  If anyone phoned I couldn’t answer.

 

I had to save myself.  I had to get to a phone.  I couldn’t get to any of the phones resting up on  tables or desks.  Yes, there was a phone on the floor next to the bed in the bedroom at the far end of hallway.

 

I was lying on my side.  What part of me still worked?  I wiggled my left foot and my right hand and elbow.  I dug in with my heel, pushing with my hand and advanced myself about an inch, moving backwards.  Was I in pain?  Probably, because I stopped to rest now and then.  After about a half hour of inching along, I reached the end of the hall, navigated into the room, crossing the length of it and finally to the phone.  911.

 

The emergency operator was wonderful.  She kept talking and told me to hold the phone until I heard someone walk in.  The police would be there any moment, and the firemen were on their way.  I heard a man’s voice holler Hello!  I hollered back, Up here!  They came into the room and asked, “Can you stand up?”  I said, “Would I be lying here in a heap if I could stand up?” 

 

They sized it up quickly and wrapped and wrapped tape around my shoulders.  The firemen were on scene too.  I kept my eyes closed all the time.   They lifted me to my feet holding me, one on each side, one behind me, the one in front of me walking backwards.  He asked, “Do you always take tiny steps?”  “No, I walk good.”  I am maneuvered slowly out of the room.  “Can I rest my head against your chest?” I ask.  “Sure.”  With relief I dropped my head against him.   Finally I peeped up at him.  “Oh,” I said, “You are so handsome!”  They laughed, and a medic said, “That’s the first time anyone said that to him.”  I said, “You have to realize I am only half conscious!”  So we all laughed, they lifted me into a chair, carried it down, got me onto the stretcher, slid me into the ambulance, and off we went.

 

End of Part One.  Writ with one hand, phew!

 

----

Florence

It's Not Just the Turkey

Of course Thanksgiving is everybody’s favorite (eating) holiday.  The results of my anecdotal survey show it an absolutely leading holiday.  Although the traditional food can be made any day of the year, everyone reserves it for the gluttony of Thanksgiving.  As a family get-together event it is a treasured day.

Well.  Maybe not for all. We had a late visitor at Lauren and Carl’s table, just in time for dessert.  No, she already had dessert.  She was fleeing her own family reunion.  She joined us for some respite from the turmoil at her own Thanksgiving day.  Okay, I will acknowledge this single one person is keeping it from being a unanimous favorite holiday.

The young people had computers on their laps, playing games.  And word games – Boggle boggled my mind as I watched the speed with which they were scribbling their words down, long lists, while I was still baffled by the rules.  Well, it was my first time.   I did come up with “prey.”  See, I remember with pride that I came up with one good word because they heartily congratulated me.

Jane in the kitchen was baking gourmet accents.  I loved the braised onions folded into a tiny bit of pastry.  Oh yum.  I hate the kitchen.  She thinks it great fun. 

Or is Thanksgiving colored by my own delight?  As a distant mother/grandma it is a happily anticipated annual event.  Just eating and hugging and kissing.  And oh yes, Celeste tightened all the dangling buttons on my coat.  Lauren, a quilter, brought down a huge bag with spools of every color of thread – with enough purples for choosing the right shade. 

Now every time I button my coat, twice a day at least, I think of Celeste, and Thanksgiving.

---Florence