Part 61 Let me just bitch and feel lousy for a while


The next morning begins another weekend in this place. Weekends in hospitals are worse than any other time. I actually have come to miss the hustle of the weekdays around here. There is little activity on Saturdays and Sundays, and when a staff member enters the room it is the weekend, on-call physicians, and that means more strangers asking the same questions. Why are you here? Do you have any allergies? What is your level of pain today on a scale of one to ten?...I mumble something like “it’s all in the folder”, or, when I’m feeling less polite, “don’t you guys ever read my chart?”. When Becah is here, she more pleasantly responds to their questions and actually engages in some reciprocal interaction with the staff. She wants the specifics of my condition, or maybe she is just hoping someone wise enough will have palatable answers to our questions. I am growing more pessimistic in my view of doctors and “experts” and hospitals in general. I am angry that I responded to one life crisis only to be met with both limb paralysis and swallowing difficulties in its aftermath. Becah will arrive later today, but for now I am on my own with this.

I am also bothered by the fact that regardless of progress I will not be discharged over the weekend. It will be during the weekdays, when the primary care providers will all be here to consult about my condition and readiness for discharge.

Late in the morning Linda, one of the physical therapists, takes me outside of the hospital to observe my gait, perceptual orientation, physical strength and endurance. I try my best, since this will be the final obstacle to my discharge. Fortunately I don’t stumble or pass out, and she thinks I have made real progress. Becah and the children come by in the early afternoon. The kids talk a few minutes, then ask to visit the snack bar or cafeteria before taking a ride on the train that runs through downtown. To them the hospital is a fun place, brimming with attractive choices. In the afternoon I have physical therapy again, and the therapists are pleased. Occupational therapy with Kathy follows, and with it continued improvement in my left arm. I feel much better making such strides in both of these areas.

The sun shines upon the next morning. Becah and the children will not be coming today. Although I long to see them and miss their company, I feel that Becah needs a break from all this. The drive from our house is an hour, and then there is the parking. When she is here, she is either just sitting or, if I am, sleeping, or is wrestling over some medical uncertainty with the staff. At lunch I chew cautiously on the meal, then choke unexpectedly and vomit. The remainder of the day is taken up by visits, first from my parents and later by Mike. I look forward to Monday, one step closer to discharge.