Crotchety Old Men

It was the spring of 2003, during the SARS outbreak, and my father had to undergo an angioplasty at a hospital here in Toronto. He was 71, and not exactly a specimen of good health. He was a lifelong smoker who had only recently quit his bad habit. He was overweight and suffered from high cholesterol, and would a year later be diagnosed with diabetes. Even under the best of circumstances, things weren't looking all that positive.

There were a lot of concerns about my father's health, but I now realize that in addition to worrying about my father, I should have been worried about his nurses. My father, you see, is what is more commonly known as a crotchety old man.

The first night after his operation passed without incident. But when I visited him on the second night, he suddenly grabbed my forearm. In a very serious tone, switching the topic of our conversation on a dime, he pointed to the nurse looking after the patient in the other bed and said, "She's not too bright." On the third night, he grabbed my arm again, but this time spoke about the nurse who was in the process of changing his dressings. "She's the new one," he said to me, ignoring her. "And I don't think she even understands English."

After that, despite the superficial pleasantries, there was a not-so-subtle chill in the exchanges that took place between him and his caregivers. Whenever a nurse walked into the room, it was like a scene out of an old spaghetti western. Like two gunslingers, they would size each other up. Someone would have to make the first move. It was high noon at the O.K. Corral…

Should I have warned the nurses about my father? If not, how can they know that they are coming up against a crotchety old man? Well, look at my father as a classic example: he doesn't like the food in the hospital; he doesn't want to take his medicine; he's rude to hospital staff; he'll make life a living hell for anyone faced with changing his dressings or bedding; he is of advanced age (which is, of course, crucial); he has the ability to be right all the time (which is also crucial); he has the desire to tell family, friends, and anyone who will listen that everyone else is stupid; he has a predilection for CNN and news programs in general; he has a hatred of politicians that borders on pathology; he has a fondness for conspiracy theories, which usually centers on those "damned multi-colored pills they're giving me."

Could the situation have been averted if the nurses had known or been warned about my father's other condition beforehand? Not really. The theory of one of my coworkers (based on the example of her own father and several other crotchety old men) is that their general contrariness is exacerbated in the hospital setting because they refuse to admit that they're in pain or – heaven forbid – afraid. As a result, no healthcare professional is likely to meet a crotchety old man's standards. If a nurse spoke very well, she'd probably be accused of being uppity. A male nurse would be accused of being unmanly. A doctor could be accused of being a stuck-up, over-paid know-it-all. Etcetera, etcetera …

In the end, the funny thing about the whole situation is that it provided me with a much better appreciation for the people who look after crotchety old men – the nurses, orderlies, and doctors – the ones who are willing to take the abuse leveled at them. Even in the face of a crisis like SARS.

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