TWO DAYS OF HOSPITAL-ITY

 

Courtesy of Family First Magazine

 

     Her complexion is pale and pasty. Her hospital gown is the height of elegance: a slate-gray background relieved only by a smattering of white gadflies. The cubicle is half the size of my walk-in closet. I contemplate for only a moment whether the ugly maroon curtain surrounding it has ever been washed or sanitized.

     “Hi!” (Fake cheery voice from me.)

     “Hi-i-i-i, Ma.” (Moan.)

     “Oy! You poor thing! Let’s get you out of here

 

     “Huh?”

     “You don’t think I’m gonna let Dr. No-Name in a hospital the size of you high school operate on you, do you?”

     My 20-something year old daughter, who is in the medical field, patiently explains to me that she is: running a fever, hooked up to morphine, and in danger of having a ruptured appendix if the surgery is delayed.

     Just then, Dr. No-Name sails in. he comes off as a down-to-earth, warm, caring individual. I’m not fooled for a minute.

     In the time-honored tradition of hysterical Yiddishe Mammes throughout the ages, I begin interrogating him. I demand details of his education, experience, and track record. Dr. No-Name charmingly explains that he has performed over 500 appendectomies to date and it’s no big deal.

     “How many have survived?” my daughter asks, in all seriousness.

     “It’s nothing,” he proclaims, smiling broadly. “Three little cuts. It’s done laparoscopically.”

     Math was never my thing, but wouldn’t three little cuts equal one big one?

     He turns to my daughter. “When was the last time you ate?”

     “Six thirty this morning.”

     “Are you allergic to anything?”

     “No,” she replies.

 

     Dr. No-Name thanks her and glides off to charm the next patient while I take out my Tehillim. The next moment, a technician calls out something that sounds like “Cud!”

     An ER doctor runs over and ascertains that another patient has no pulse. A flurry of activity follows as a crash cart is wheeled over and CPR begins.

     I draw the curtain to give the patient more privacy and continue my Tehillim with a little extra kavanah. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my daughter kind of rising from her bed, trying to learn a bit more to add to her medical training.

     “Lie down and act sick!” I command.

     All nonessential personnel, including my husband and I, are ushered out of the ER for a couple of minutes until the patient is Baruch Hashem resuscitated. Then we are allowed back in. The elderly woman, just drawn from the jaws of death, looks around and seems disappointed to still find herself in the same dinky emergency room instead of surrounded by angels with fluffy wings.

     Out next visitor is a courtly Hungarian gentleman, his cloth chapeau tilted at a rakish angle. He’s from Anesthesia. I’m from Monsey. How do you do?

     “So, young lady, what time did you last eat?”

     “Six thirty a.m.”

     “Are you allergic to anything?”

     “No.”

     My daughter begins peppering the gentleman with questions:

     “Will I be under local or general anesthesia?”

     “How will you know that I’m under?”

     “Will I have oxygen during the operation?”

     “Can I raise my hand if I wake up in the middle?”

     “Can you take off this beauty mark while you’re at it?”

     The poor man backs away rather quickly, his palms stretched forward defensively. In a moment, he disappears. Pretty agile for a man his age.

     The ER doctor makes a stop at my daughter’s bed. “Did I ask you when you last ate?”

     “Not sure, but don’t be left out.”

     “Well?” demands the doctor.

     “Six thirty a.m., and I’m starving. And I’m in pain.”

     “Are you allergic to anything?”

     Too wrung out to respond verbally, my daughter shakes her head.

     Before long, an orderly comes over and checks the patients wristband to verify her name.

     “Six thirty and no,” she asserts

     He looks at me questioningly.

     “It’s the morphine,” I explain with an apologetic smile.

     He wheels her out of the ER as she demands to know where she’s going and why we can’t first discuss the whole thing. I speak to her in soothing tones, assuring her that I am right there beside her. This seems to have only a minimal effect on her state of mind.

     This is what is running through my brain

     Oh no. Oh my gosh. What am I doing? I’ve never heard of this hospital or this surgeon, and what kind of facility is this anyway? From the outside it looks more like a dormitory than a hospital. The security guard let us into the emergency room without even asking for ID. I could have been hiding and Uzi in my pocketbook! We could be disgruntled former employees!

     “Are you okay, sweetie?” I coo, remembering my maternal duties. “Don’t worry; I’ll be saying Tehillim for you.”

     Why is this gurney so narrow? She could fall right off it. How do I know this orderly actually works for the hospital? Maybe he’s a terrorist taking us who-knows-where?

     We finally arrive at the operating room area. A nurse approaches and checks the patient’s wristband.

     “So, what time did you eat last?”

   Why don’t they write this stuff down?

     “Are you allergic to anything?”

     Yes. We are allergic to those two questions. But we are open to other queries, like, “Why did you choose this dinky hospital?” and “What will Tanta Feitcha say when she hears that the patient was not removed to a Name Brand facility in New York City?”

     My daughter starts hurling her own questions at the nurse. Subjects include, but are not limited to:

     Can I go home now and think this over?

     Can I have a nicer hospital gown when I come out of the OR? (This is really not my color.)

     Do you want to switch places with me? Just for an hour or two? Pleeeeease?

     Enter: New character in green scrubs. The anesthesiologist, who looks suspiciously like the security guard at the entrance. Budget cuts, I guess.

     My daughter tells him that she wants his job. (It’s her long-term goal to become a nurse anesthetist). He laughs. I change the subject before she starts inquiring about his salary and benefits package.

     “I’m sure you’re a wonderful anesthesiologist, but… are you board-certified?” (Flashback to my Lamaze classes.)

     He’s not.

     Gulp. I’m looking for the nearest exit. Fearless Female Offspring asks the obvious: “Why?”

     He says he “has not made it a priority.” Uh-huh. Ya.

     He assures us that the procedure should take no more than 30 minutes, and then he disappears behind the swinging doors of the OR.

     Before I can panic, my little girl is wheeled through those very doors, and my husband and I are ushered out into the waiting area. This is a room the actual size of my walk-in closet, with hard wooden chard placed around the perimeter, and an obnoxious TV show blasting from the corner.

     I say Tehillim again, trying to ignore the constant babble from the “tumah-vision” and the people filing in and out.

     An hour has passed. What could they possibly be doing?

     My husband attempts to calm me, but his efforts are futile. Finally, a guy in a drab beige suit shows up at the door. Out of surgical attire, he looks more like a government employee. But it’s him – Dr. No-Name. He reports that the procedure went well and I should be able to see my daughter in half an hour or so.

     Baruch Hashem!! We thank him profusely as he makes a beeline for the elevator.

     At this point my husband departs to go home and take care of our young son and I take up the vigil.

     Tick. Tick. Tick.

     Five minutes. Fifteen. Thirty.

     Nothing. Forty-five minutes. One hour.

     Did they misplace her or something?

     I briefly consider attacking one of the orderlies and stealing his ID card to gain entry to the recovery area, but dismiss the idea quickly. My karate days are over.

     As I try to peer in, smashing my face against one of the small square windows in the door, I encounter a frightened-looking worker. I realize that I present a pretty grotesque appearance just now, with my nose squashed against the pane and my lips stretched and flattened into a gruesome, slanted leer.

     The worker opens the door and attempts to bolt from the scene.

     “Wait!”

     I plead with him to find out where my daughter is and when I can see her.

     He agrees to look for her, goes back into the secure area, and after a few moments, allows me in, gesturing to a door on the right. A grumpy-looking nurse is caring for my daughter, who appears to be out cold. A young black woman lies on a gurney across the way, drumming her fingers impatiently.

     I gaze at the sight of my dear child, an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth, while tubes and wires protrude from under the sheets, leading to beeping, blinking machines.

     My poor baby.

     “You can’t stay long!” the nurse advises harshly in a clipped Oriental cadence.

     Just then my daughter’s eyes open a slit. She appears to be saying something, but it’s hard to make out. With her last strength she hisses:

     “I HATE her!”

    Luckily, despite being pretty heavily sedated, she has the brains to say that in Hebrew.

     My eyes flicker back to the nurse and I smile with all the sincerity of a snake. My daughter continues to make accusatory statements in Hebrew, while I shrug, clearly indicating a case of delirium.

     “You are going to have to leave!” the farbissineh admonishes, “You are making her upset!”

     Me?!!

     The RN leans over the patient’s bed to adjust a machine. My daughter looks alarmed; I notice the IV tubing is stretched taut by the careless woman’s body. Attempting to call this to her attention gets me banished back to the waiting room. After thanking her profusely and flattering her lavishly (I want to make sure she treats my girl right), I reluctantly leave. She promises I will see my daughter when she gets wheeled out to the elevator en route to her room. Fifteen more minutes, she assures me.

    Fifteen minutes come and go. So do fifty (in case I heard wrong). By this time, I have finished Sefer Tehillim several times (or so it feels) and I’m starting to study the meforshim. I finally spot my daughter being wheeled to the elevator. I grab my things and join her, panting a prayer of thanks to Hashem for the fact that she looks pretty good.

     After a squishy elevator ride, she is wheeled into a room already inhabited by an elderly woman surrounded by loud, gregarious relatives. I’m happy for this lady, truly I am, but I fear my little girl will not get the crucial rest that she needs in these postoperative hours. I am not wrong.

     While the medical staff largely ignores my poor child, we are treated to a soap-opera-worthy history of the Lyudiewenisky family, courtesy of the loud relatives. We soon learned which among them are not to be trusted, who is only after Grandma’s money, and which daughter-in-law has no problem flying to Aruba when her poor, sick mother-in-law is in such a state. And, of course, there’s Cousin Maddie, who lives only a block away from the hospital but can’t bestir herself to come visit.

     I try some gentle shushing, accompanied my and apologetic smile. The voices grow louder.

     Suddenly, someone in white appears. It’s only the care partner looking for the blood pressure machine to use on some other patient. Time ticks. My little girl is not feeling well. No one has the time to care.

     Finally a nurse appears and flits in and out of the room, taking the patient’s temperature, adjusting IV lines, and clicking away on a mobile computer. Five minutes later, she’s gone.

     Soon, visiting hours are over. Sadly, the overbearing relatives are forced to leave. I settle down in the hard wood-and-vinyl chair, say a few more prakim of Tehillim, and try to catch a few Z’s while sitting bolt upright. My sweet child tries to insist that I go home, but she falls asleep in midsentence.

     This is not going to work. I am going to be up all night.

     I am wrong. I do doze off, only to be awakened by my own sudden jerking movement as I almost lean myself right off that seat and onto the germy floor, head-first.

     Suddenly, “Eliyahu HaNavi” appears. But his usual guise of an old man is dropped in favor of a new, updated look. He materializes in the generous form of a black woman of indeterminable age, a bright bandana knotted at the top of her head. In soft Caribbean tones, she asks me if… I’d like a recliner!

     I am dumbstruck. Utterly. I mean, I have bedded down in a hospital recliner before, but always as a result of much pleading, cajoling, bribery, and the occasional sleight of hand. Never was I offered this luxury!

     But wait! There’s more! The woman busies herself making room for the chair next to the hospital bed, wheels the chair in, and offers me a full set of linen, including a pancake-flat pillow! She even returns with real clean linen when I suggest that perhaps this set has been used.

     I settle into the chair with a sigh and attempt to push it into the laying-down position. It won’t budge. Twisting, pulling pushing, gasping; nothing helps. My daughter wakes briefly and asks if she should summon the emergency team for me. I reassure her that I am okay and get up to survey the chair from a neutral standpoint. I lift the leg rest with one hand while pushing the seat back with the other. Voilà! A reclining recliner!

     Satisfied, I climb back into it, only to have it fold itself up with a resounding whump! Undeterred, I repeat the procedure, getting out of the chair, forcing it into the desired position, climbing back in, and having it fold back up on me. Humph!

     Tomorrow’s headlines: Hospital Mom Disappears; Last Seen in Recliner. Stay Tuned as this Story Unfolds.

     Need rest. Hallucinating.

     But I am determined to make this chair work! I have raised four female toddlers, lived through four awkward ages, four sets of teenaged angst, and almost ten years of reeducation in raising a male creature. I will not be defeated by a piece of furniture.

     I coax the chair back into the lying position. Then I back away, take a deep breath, break into a run, and take a flying leap into the seat. Success! I say Shema and am fast asleep quicker than you can say “The IV pump is beeping.”

     But it is. And it happens again pretty much every half hour. At each interval I catapult myself out of the “Kisei Shel Eliyahu” and wander the halls until I spot the nurse who, after several other stops, enters our room, presses a few buttons, glares suspiciously at me, and leaves.

     This process repeats itself throughout the night. Early morning, my daughter and I are harshly awakened by the obnoxious blabbing of voices sharing some hilarious joke right outside our door. It’s the cleaning staff. I suppose they are entitled to their fun, even if it is 5 a.m.

     I keep myself busy for the next 24 hours trying to track down the RN, obsequiously requesting pain medicine that is way overdue, demanding consults with doctors, and asking that “Respiratory” be summoned.

     I think they hate me. I like that.

     The rest of our stay is a blur of nurses, blood tests, meds, blood pressure readings, calls from concerned relatives, and occasional tins of greasy food from local eateries.

     That night, after a two-and-a-half-hour trip, my frazzled husband shows up with a bag of vital stuff I requested (corn chips are vital), and a displeased child in tow. But he can’t stay because visiting hours are over. I wave goodbye as the visitors leave, and wisely tuck myself in early, when the silence is violently shattered by bloodcurdling screams and the report of a machine gun.

     This is not what you think. Remember, this is a family magazine.

     It’s our elderly roommate’s TV, pumped up to the highest possible volume. And she obviously enjoys horror and violence. She also has her phone ringer volume set at so-loud-you-can-turn-your-hearing-aid-off. And she like to play hard-to-get by not picking up until the sixth ring.

     Meanwhile, my poor darling daughter is suffering from a sound-sensitive migraine on top of her surgical pain. I know that things are going to get ugly.

     Eventually, a nasty exchange takes place between some of us. I am not saying who exactly, and you can’t force me to. Luckily, the dispute is quelled before the actual pillow-and-body-lotion fight gets into full swing.

     The surgeon offers to discharge my daughter. It’s Thursday. I’m tempted. But one look at that kid, clutching her painful head and her stomach, moaning, incapable of rising without help, and I have to face facts. This is not the time.

     “What time could we leave tomorrow if we stay overnight?” I ask, worried about getting from Brooklyn to Monsey in time for Shabbos.

     “Checkout is at 11 a.m.,” he quips. I am satisfied.

     Morning dawns and I am waiting for the discharge papers. And waiting. And waiting. (Does anybody see a theme here?) My daughter still looks awful. The nurse is too busy to help me and nobody else has the time to give a hoot.

     I rage. I complain. I whine. I think they still hate me. I like that. Maybe that will motivate them to eject us quickly.

     Some kind soul at the nurse’s station explains the problem. The doctor never signed the patient out. And now he’s in the OR. Complicated surgery; could last for hours. And the surgical PA is off today. And so what if you are a little bit late for your Sabbath? I mean, it’s not like you’re going to miss it or anything. Isn’t it like a whole day long? Can’t the rabbi just bless you a little later?

     I plot, strategize, and say some more Tehillim. I try to figure out how I am going to bust out of this joint with a closet full of bundles, a car parked blocks and blocks away, and a patient who can barely stand. Plus, we can’t leave AMA (against medical advice) because we need her prescriptions.

    Just then, through tear-filled eyes, I make out the blurry form of a frum woman in a white lab coat. An obvious mirage. But I play along, running towards her, waving my Tehillim and blithering incoherently about licht benchen, shkiyah, and cholent.

   I soon discover that she is real – a real nursing supervisor. With my new ally, things start moving and the next thing I know, we are getting into the car, prescriptions in hand.

     We still have one more enemy to vanquish: the traffic. Driving down unfamiliar streets, trying to ignore phone calls from friends and family demanding to know if we are safely home yet, I dial a friend with driving smarts and learn a new route to try.

     I cut off other cars left and right, weave in and out of lanes, and pray that the cops are home showering and setting up their hot water urns.

     I will spare you the details, other than to say that I have discovered that it is possible to do all of the following things in the ten minutes before Shabbos and still light candles on time:

     Make the cleaning lady lunch.

     Shower.

     Lay out Shabbos clothes for you child.

     Pay the cleaning lady.

     Set your patient up in her infirmary room with whatever she needs.

     Apply makeup. I didn’t say “expertly”.

     Straighten up.

     Ba’ah Shabbos, ba’ah menuchah.

     Shabbos hi milizok, Refuah krovah lavo.