View from the Cottage

Image by Freepik

Somehow Monday morning I found myself, accompanied by Jordan, in the ER at Harris Methodist Hospital Downtown. A long stretch in the ER told us that my inability to swallow all my meds had messed up my Afib so I was on a drip to fix that and had a CT scan which confirmed a growth on my epiglottis. All of this was handled professionally and courteously by really pleasant people, and I felt I was in good hands. Naturally, I was a bit letdown when they said I had to stay overnight to stabilize my heart rate. Turned out to be a good thing. Jordan, bless her, stayed with me and was treated to sleep broken by interruptions—vital signs, an IV that pulled loose and had to be reinserted—a long and painful process.

I think in the past, in my novels, someone has been in the hospital. Irene, for instance, was hospitalized after she was kidnapped (Irene in Danger) and you never know when she or another character will end there, so it was good for me to have a refresher learning experience. Hospitals have changed since the last time I was in one.

When you go cold into the ER (I went with a referral from my family doctor who immediately left the picture), you suddenly have a whole new bunch of doctors—two hospitalists, a cardiologist, a radiologist, the ER admitting doctor, the consulting head and neck surgeon. It’s sort of a case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing and who’s on first. Thank goodness for the nurses, particularly one named Becky, (fourth floor, Heart Center) who coordinated everything.

When you go to the ER, you try to look your best—at least I do: hair shampooed, attractive yet comfortable outfit, clean underwear, etc. I saw some in robes, pajamas, and slippers, but that’s not my style. I wanted to look presentable. At the end of the long day, I had given up that vanity and did not care how I looked. I ended up in a hospital gown, rumpled pj bottoms from home, and hospital footlets. I did manage to brush my teeth that evening but gave it up the next morning, thinking I’d go home any moment. Jordan had to comb my hair because I sailed into the day without a thought about it. By the time I went home, about three o’clock in the afternoon, I didn’t give a fig how I looked. At least I had street clothes back on, with the pj bottoms.

Being in the hospital ages you ten years but thank goodness it’s reversible. Probably because I felt so bad, I became helpless. I asked Jordan for every little thing—“hand me this,” “where’s the remote?” “Can you get me that?” I kept missing meals (not that I could eat much) so she was my emissary to the cafeteria where she got yogurt and to ask the nurse for cups of steaming hot broth. I found I would get scrunched down in bed, and need help pulling myself up. And go to the bathroom alone? Don’t even think about it. It’s against the rules. So I worried about going home, but once in the cottage I fell right back into the routine of taking care of myself. An amazing reversible, though I did worry as I snuggled down for the night about what would happen if I couldn’t get out of bed. I could—a gentle, cold, and wet nose on my elbow this morning convinced me to get out of bed and let Benji out. He had been tremendously patient while I overslept.

So this morning I am back at work at my desk. I kept up, mostly with emails, in the hospital but still have much to deal with, some of it medical. How do you get to be my age and still be so involved in the world? I am not knocking it. I think it’s a good thing.

Tomorrow I have (I think) a biopsy to determine why I can’t swallow. Prayers are appreciated, and thanks for following my adventures in and out of the medical world.