I Choose to Laugh

It’s said that when bad things happen to us we can either laugh or cry about them. A recent experience at my local hospital provided me the opportunity to make such a choice.

First, I find it interesting how the emergency room of my local hospital is ran. Silly me, I was under the assumption that patients are seen in the order of the seriousness of their affliction. Granted, I didn’t come in there with my entrails hanging out of my stomach, but the fact that someone had to drive me to the hospital because I was doubled over and profusely sweating from the excruciating pain in my stomach should’ve been a clue that something serious was going on.

But like a department store, patients at our E.R. are evidently seen in the order they arrive. I’m surprised I didn’t have to pull a ticket from one of those wall contraptions and stand in line, waiting for my number to be called. Can’t you just picture the scene?

“Number 250 is now being served!”

“Uh, ma’am, I believe that’s him there on the floor having convulsions in what appears to be the throws of death.”

“Oooooh w—ell; now serving number 251!” But enough of my diatribe.

My name was finally called and I was escorted to a chair, where a nice young lady began asking questions and filling out forms. Then the “fun” really started.

But you know, it’s amazing how quickly the demeanor of an E.R. staff changes when a patient falls out of the “questionnaire chair,” grabs his stomach in pain, and violently projects his dinner into a garbage can he had the presence of mind to grab.

I mean to tell you, in a heartbeat the staff went from casual to all business. Before I was done spewing forth my last meal, SHAZAM! I was surrounded by all sorts of personnel with all kinds of equipment: barf bag, I.V., a wheelchair to carry me to an actual room with a bed, and my own doctor and nurse.

Of course the doctor had to do what all good doctors do in such circumstances…push and probe my stomach. Out of reflex I slapped his hands away. He didn’t much like that and made it known.

Well, one C.T. scan and a heavy dose of pain killers later, the doc diagnosed the problem as an obstructed intestine and informed me I would be a guest of theirs until my intestine either un-kinked on its own or was un-kinked by the doc via surgery.

Now, before I go any further, I need to make a disclaimer of sorts by reminding you about the affects of drugs on one’s mind. I’m still learning from others some of the things I said while “under the influence.”

For instance, according to youngest son, when told I’d have to stay in the hospital a few days, my response was a very loud, “Oh sh##! I can’t afford that.”

Oldest son told me that when explaining to him how I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the hospital food (once I was allowed to eat again) I said, “The only thing is if I get up to use the bathroom during my meal those dirty little [bass excrements] steal my drink!” Hey, I plead innocent on grounds the doc had me doped up like a junkie in a back ally. And of course, nobody took my sodas. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

I was finally admitted into the hospital and given a room on the 6th floor--across the nurses’ station. Do you know how noisy the nurses’ station is? And the quiet of the night seems to magnify the noise. Needless to say, with my door open all night and having my vitals taken every four hours, I didn’t get much rest, not even with the heavy-duty pain medicine they gave me around the clock.

Well, by mid Saturday morning the pain killers were working so well I decided a refreshing shower was in order. Pulling my I.V. tree along with me I headed to the shower. After turning on the water, I undressed and stepped in, leaving the curtain open just enough for my I.V. tube to squeeze through.

A few minutes later, I cut off the water and began toweling off. Now, I don’t know if House Keeping was playing some kind of a sick joke or whether the hospital just thinks we’re living in Munchkin land, but the towels they gave me wouldn’t go around the waist of an ant. At least they were kind enough to leave me a stack of those dinky little things, and as it turned out I would need every last one of them.

I was about halfway dried off when something red on the shower floor caught my attention. BLOOD, my blood! Evidently, in the process of drying off, I pulled my I.V. tube from the needle in my left forearm, allowing a steady stream of blood to flow out.

Now, I don’t consider myself a prude, but I do believe a bit of modesty is a good thing and therein laid my dilemma, should I try fixing this problem myself or pull the emergency cord in the shower, alerting the nurses’ station that I needed help--I really didn’t want the nurses, especially the one that looked like the actress Minnie Driver, to come flying in there while I was standing buck naked in the shower.

So, with blood running steadily from my arm, splattering everywhere, I debated the subject. Finally, I decided to fix the problem myself and tried plugging the flow of blood by putting my right thumb over the open end of the I.V. needle, but to no avail. The blood flow was too much for my thumb to stop.

Next, I tried several times to one handedly re-hook the I.V. tube to the needle in my arm, but that too was unsuccessful. Finally admitting defeat I pulled the emergancy cord.

As I waited for the nurse, I quickly grabbed the last non-bloody mini towel with my I.V. hand and held it strategically over “the lower 48,” while using my other hand in a continued effort to stop the blood flowing from my forearm.

“Minnie Driver” came hustling into my room and when she saw the blood on me, the towels, and the floor, she quickly called for backup. Backup sized up the situation immediately and reconnected the tube and needle. Minnie then proceeded to flush the blood out of the tube. Me? I just awkwardly stood there mumbling something about how I knew that seeing a naked man was not big deal to nurses but…I never finished the sentence, she got the drift.

The next bit of fun was the inserting of the nasogastric tube, a long narrow plastic thing hooked to some contraption on the wall that acts like a vacuum cleaner. The suction decompresses the intestines as it sucks out bile. If successful, the intestine straightens out and surgery is avoided.

You can trust me on this one. If you think you’re having a rough day just have a nasogastric tube inserted up your nose, into your throat, down your esophagus, and into your stomach. Oh, and have it left like that for a couple of days. I guarantee what ever stresses you thought were making your life miserable will pale in comparison.

My third day in the hospital I received a room mate. You know, it’s interesting how territorial human beings can be, isn’t it? When I realized I was getting a room mate my reaction was less than enthusiastic. Man, I had the place all to myself. I could get up and cross the room to pee without an audience, I could close the door to my room for piece and quiet, I could snore to my heart’s content, and I didn’t have to worry if my T.V was blasting over my room mate’s. It was a nice setup and I feared losing all those advantages.

When roomy and his wife arrived and opened their mouths my fear was confirmed. They had barely entered my room when they began bellyaching about not having a private room. Then roomy started in whining about every little discomfort of his.

“My head hurts.”
“We’ll get you something for that,” replied the nurse.
“Why is my throat raw?”
“During surgery a tube was placed down it.”
“My stomach hurts.”
“That’s normal. It’s post surgical pain.”
“No! The pain isn’t where my incision is. It’s over here.” And on and on he went.

Mrs. Roomy went to use the bathroom and she came out of it with a whine of her own.
“Eeeeuuuuuuwwww,” she said in disgust. “There’s a urinal in there [one reason for the I.V. was to pump lots of fluids into me, but the nurses needed to make sure the fluids going in were also going out. The only way to accomplish that task was by measuring my output of urine, thus the reason for the urinal]. My husband needs a private room as soon as possible.”

I was thinking, “Excuuuuuse me, but I was here first (nanner, nanner, nanner). You are an uninvited disruption to what was my peaceful existence and you have the nerve to fuss about sharing my room with me? Man, some people’s kids!”

Luckily, roomy’s stay was for only one night. My little stay ended shortly thereafter.

As I look back on this whole ordeal, the physical pain, the nasogastric hose, a rude roomy, etc., I’ve tried to focus on the humorous side of it all and it’s worked fairly well . . . that is until the medical bills started arriving. And I thought I was in severe pain before I went to the hospital.