The Day I Ate Lunch During My Nap
I had an interesting experience and plan to tell it all in full, so I have placed it behind the cut for people who are skimming their friends pages to see that everyone's okay. I'm not okay, in the general sense of the word, but I am progressing in that direction now.
"Hey, roomie, would you like to read the paper?"
The woman on the other side of the curtain spoke to me for the first and only time during a lull in the conversation with her husband. I discovered later that she had been having gall bladder attacks, the poor dear. The cheer in her voice belied the suffering, the thing which, in its many forms, had brought us all to the ER today. At least, I think it did; I was so disoriented at that point, there seems to be no way to discern my experience from a dream except for the bracelet I'm still wearing and the gauze taped onto the top of my hand where the intravenous contraption had been inserted.
I met more nurses and physician's assistants than I can count today. Eleven actually treated or collected information from me, and three times as many actually entered an exited the room I was in. The first one, after the triage nurse, just wanted urine. (An unfortunate thing to have to ask people for, if you ask me.) The second drew blood, leaving behind the little plastic receptor that would hook up to any syringe or intravenous tube they wanted. She kept asking me to explain what was wrong with me as I was inwardly bracing for the stab of the needle. I told her, "I can't concentrate while you're doing that." She replied, "just keep talking." The unrestrained part of my psyche wished to reach out and strangle her at that point. Feeling as awful as I did, I involuntarily napped for heavens-knows-how-long and was finally awakened by a sharp, bright-eyed young physician's assistant whose silent, bespectacled gaze fixed me until I was completely finished giving her information about my condition. She was a lovely contrast to my physician, who had written me off as dehydrated and dismissed me from his office. She went off to call my doctor, and apparently sent in a stream of people to begin figuring out what was wrong. Two weeks of waxing and waning dizziness, weakness, disorientation and clammy fever didn't point directly to my proper and final diagnosis, so it took seven hours.
I was soon visited by a gentleman who explained he needed to do an EKG. He wheeled in a small machine and explained where he needed to put stickers on my skin in order to detect whether everything was beating in time with my heart. I was a little worried when he told me they needed to go onto my chest and stomach, but a little untying of the hospital gown I was sporting allowed me to draw the neckline down a bit, and the sheet over my lap made pulling up my gown less worrisome. Little clips attached to the stickers to measure my pulse in these places, including my arms and legs, and it was quickly done. My next visitor took my blood pressure three times; once as I was laying down, once as I sat up, and again when I stood. It went up significantly when I stood, to which he uttered a soft, "woah!"
By this time, my mother had wandered out to get lunch, and had come back, and came back to see where I was, because she was getting worried. I was surprised to see a nurse come to the door and give me a look of address but say nothing, until I saw my mother standing behind this person. I cannot quite express what it was that made me feel better and worse all at the same time; it was soothing just to see her, but it indicated that this was taking a long time and caused me to wonder how bad my situation was, if I was still there. (Never mind, of course, that everything in an emergency room moves in slow-motion unless you're spurting blood out of a major artery.) No sooner had my mother settled into the chair at the foot of my bed than someone else came by to take me for a cat scan. After a little wheelchair ride and having my head inserted into the center of a gigantic white donut-shaped machine, I returned to my room and had some time to knit before the next event. I found myself repeating my symptoms and assuring them I wasn't pregnant over and over all afternoon, because an x-ray followed. Odd, I thought, that they would need to see what my bones looked like. It was sheer ignorance on my part, however, since it was that very test which detected the pneumonia.
As I stood before the little plate, across from the x-ray machine and holding up the heavy apron they had draped about my waist, I started feeling like I might fall over, and for the first time since the onset of my illness, the person across the room noticed and asked me to go ahead and sit down. We were done, anyway. I was wheeled back to my room, still feeling dizzy, but increasingly impressed by the hospital staff; their professionalism and their good humor were probably essential to helping people to feel better. At that point, I suppose I needed to talk about work and other things for the sake of warm conversation to break up the time spent curled up in stiff white sheets wondering if the person on the other side of the room was going to be okay. The first woman had been taken to another part of the hospital by this point, and her successor had severe inflammation in the region of her ribs and her left arm. I believe it had something to do with lifting a large animal, and I think she was a dog breeder, from the bits of conversation I heard from the other side of the curtain. She ended up being discharged exactly when I was, with medication and instructions, but little hope for physical comfort in the next three to six weeks. I, on the other hand, would leave feeling much, much better.
The physician's assistant I had liked so much came back after my x-ray to explain to me with an air of gentle concern that I might not be able to make the trip to string camp this weekend, and only if I am feeling better on Monday, when I see my doctor, will I be able to decide if I can possibly go down to Ithaca. I have been planning this for a year. Technically, one could say I've been planning it for five, since I had every intention of returning every summer to be a counselor once I had tried it the first time. I adore the children, even when they defy me, run off without telling me where they're going, get head lice, and even throw lawn chairs off balconies. Add to that the factor of stringed instruments, which inspires me to immerse myself in the experience with all my energy and passion. My younger sister doesn't share my love of strings to the degree that I feel it, but she may be the head counselor in my stead this summer, as I was able to convince her to join me by year three, and she is now the next most experienced female counselor. Monday's appointment will determine for her exactly how long she can expect to hold this post.
A nurse with a flowered shirt had come in earlier to tell me that my bloodwork showed low blood sugar, and that I should have eaten buttered toast with my cereal, because I needed protein and a little fat in the morning. I wanted to laugh and her at first, and ask her if she seriously thought that the five hours without food would find my blood sugar in a normal state. I didn't, because the part about the content of my meal does merit consideration. She now returned and was in and out of the room with an array of fascinating objects. A bag of fluids was suspended from something behind me and the tube snapped onto my little plastic hand fixture with no discomfort. It had initially taken a long time for me to stop feeling the tiny sting of the needle in my hand, but it had been well worth it by this point. I was also given an injection to clear up the dizziness and a dose of my new medication all through this little plastic fixture. Having one bandage is far better than having four. (I calculate four, since blood had been drawn earlier.)
I had taken two tablets that were going to make me drowsy along with whatever function they were serving. (It sounded good to me at the time, but what precisely she told me escapes me now.) Being that I was basically doomed to a nap, I relinquished my knitting to my mother and curled up, drifting in and out amid the sound of my roommate moaning in pain and crying from frustration and pain. The fluids were clearly enough to ease my growling stomach, and I commented to my mother, "who'd have thought that you could eat lunch while you're napping?" My mother had basically stayed with me all day, driving me in, driving me home, and other than lunch and an appointment, just sat, sometimes chatting, and reading her book when the conversation ran out. After an hour of simultaneous lunch and nap, I was disconnected from all my accessories and one last nurse came in to take my blood pressure. I don't remember the numbers the machine displayed, and I don't remember what healthy numbers are, so I just asked him if mine were okay. (They were.) He was cheerful enough, and as I was leaving, called after me, "I hope you feel better!" I peered around the doorway with a smile and replied, "I already do."
"Hey, roomie, would you like to read the paper?"
The woman on the other side of the curtain spoke to me for the first and only time during a lull in the conversation with her husband. I discovered later that she had been having gall bladder attacks, the poor dear. The cheer in her voice belied the suffering, the thing which, in its many forms, had brought us all to the ER today. At least, I think it did; I was so disoriented at that point, there seems to be no way to discern my experience from a dream except for the bracelet I'm still wearing and the gauze taped onto the top of my hand where the intravenous contraption had been inserted.
I met more nurses and physician's assistants than I can count today. Eleven actually treated or collected information from me, and three times as many actually entered an exited the room I was in. The first one, after the triage nurse, just wanted urine. (An unfortunate thing to have to ask people for, if you ask me.) The second drew blood, leaving behind the little plastic receptor that would hook up to any syringe or intravenous tube they wanted. She kept asking me to explain what was wrong with me as I was inwardly bracing for the stab of the needle. I told her, "I can't concentrate while you're doing that." She replied, "just keep talking." The unrestrained part of my psyche wished to reach out and strangle her at that point. Feeling as awful as I did, I involuntarily napped for heavens-knows-how-long and was finally awakened by a sharp, bright-eyed young physician's assistant whose silent, bespectacled gaze fixed me until I was completely finished giving her information about my condition. She was a lovely contrast to my physician, who had written me off as dehydrated and dismissed me from his office. She went off to call my doctor, and apparently sent in a stream of people to begin figuring out what was wrong. Two weeks of waxing and waning dizziness, weakness, disorientation and clammy fever didn't point directly to my proper and final diagnosis, so it took seven hours.
I was soon visited by a gentleman who explained he needed to do an EKG. He wheeled in a small machine and explained where he needed to put stickers on my skin in order to detect whether everything was beating in time with my heart. I was a little worried when he told me they needed to go onto my chest and stomach, but a little untying of the hospital gown I was sporting allowed me to draw the neckline down a bit, and the sheet over my lap made pulling up my gown less worrisome. Little clips attached to the stickers to measure my pulse in these places, including my arms and legs, and it was quickly done. My next visitor took my blood pressure three times; once as I was laying down, once as I sat up, and again when I stood. It went up significantly when I stood, to which he uttered a soft, "woah!"
By this time, my mother had wandered out to get lunch, and had come back, and came back to see where I was, because she was getting worried. I was surprised to see a nurse come to the door and give me a look of address but say nothing, until I saw my mother standing behind this person. I cannot quite express what it was that made me feel better and worse all at the same time; it was soothing just to see her, but it indicated that this was taking a long time and caused me to wonder how bad my situation was, if I was still there. (Never mind, of course, that everything in an emergency room moves in slow-motion unless you're spurting blood out of a major artery.) No sooner had my mother settled into the chair at the foot of my bed than someone else came by to take me for a cat scan. After a little wheelchair ride and having my head inserted into the center of a gigantic white donut-shaped machine, I returned to my room and had some time to knit before the next event. I found myself repeating my symptoms and assuring them I wasn't pregnant over and over all afternoon, because an x-ray followed. Odd, I thought, that they would need to see what my bones looked like. It was sheer ignorance on my part, however, since it was that very test which detected the pneumonia.
As I stood before the little plate, across from the x-ray machine and holding up the heavy apron they had draped about my waist, I started feeling like I might fall over, and for the first time since the onset of my illness, the person across the room noticed and asked me to go ahead and sit down. We were done, anyway. I was wheeled back to my room, still feeling dizzy, but increasingly impressed by the hospital staff; their professionalism and their good humor were probably essential to helping people to feel better. At that point, I suppose I needed to talk about work and other things for the sake of warm conversation to break up the time spent curled up in stiff white sheets wondering if the person on the other side of the room was going to be okay. The first woman had been taken to another part of the hospital by this point, and her successor had severe inflammation in the region of her ribs and her left arm. I believe it had something to do with lifting a large animal, and I think she was a dog breeder, from the bits of conversation I heard from the other side of the curtain. She ended up being discharged exactly when I was, with medication and instructions, but little hope for physical comfort in the next three to six weeks. I, on the other hand, would leave feeling much, much better.
The physician's assistant I had liked so much came back after my x-ray to explain to me with an air of gentle concern that I might not be able to make the trip to string camp this weekend, and only if I am feeling better on Monday, when I see my doctor, will I be able to decide if I can possibly go down to Ithaca. I have been planning this for a year. Technically, one could say I've been planning it for five, since I had every intention of returning every summer to be a counselor once I had tried it the first time. I adore the children, even when they defy me, run off without telling me where they're going, get head lice, and even throw lawn chairs off balconies. Add to that the factor of stringed instruments, which inspires me to immerse myself in the experience with all my energy and passion. My younger sister doesn't share my love of strings to the degree that I feel it, but she may be the head counselor in my stead this summer, as I was able to convince her to join me by year three, and she is now the next most experienced female counselor. Monday's appointment will determine for her exactly how long she can expect to hold this post.
A nurse with a flowered shirt had come in earlier to tell me that my bloodwork showed low blood sugar, and that I should have eaten buttered toast with my cereal, because I needed protein and a little fat in the morning. I wanted to laugh and her at first, and ask her if she seriously thought that the five hours without food would find my blood sugar in a normal state. I didn't, because the part about the content of my meal does merit consideration. She now returned and was in and out of the room with an array of fascinating objects. A bag of fluids was suspended from something behind me and the tube snapped onto my little plastic hand fixture with no discomfort. It had initially taken a long time for me to stop feeling the tiny sting of the needle in my hand, but it had been well worth it by this point. I was also given an injection to clear up the dizziness and a dose of my new medication all through this little plastic fixture. Having one bandage is far better than having four. (I calculate four, since blood had been drawn earlier.)
I had taken two tablets that were going to make me drowsy along with whatever function they were serving. (It sounded good to me at the time, but what precisely she told me escapes me now.) Being that I was basically doomed to a nap, I relinquished my knitting to my mother and curled up, drifting in and out amid the sound of my roommate moaning in pain and crying from frustration and pain. The fluids were clearly enough to ease my growling stomach, and I commented to my mother, "who'd have thought that you could eat lunch while you're napping?" My mother had basically stayed with me all day, driving me in, driving me home, and other than lunch and an appointment, just sat, sometimes chatting, and reading her book when the conversation ran out. After an hour of simultaneous lunch and nap, I was disconnected from all my accessories and one last nurse came in to take my blood pressure. I don't remember the numbers the machine displayed, and I don't remember what healthy numbers are, so I just asked him if mine were okay. (They were.) He was cheerful enough, and as I was leaving, called after me, "I hope you feel better!" I peered around the doorway with a smile and replied, "I already do."