The Hospital Experience

First let me say that I am happy to be alive. I am quite sure I would not be if I had not had a lot of skilled care in the hospital. I am very grateful to the nurses and doctors who gave me intensive care and kept me from leaving the world at that particular time. I have tried to express my appreciation to them for their concern and professional service. I will not forget the nurse who spent all of New Year's night giving me two units of blood or the little Filipino nurse who was frightened by my reaction to an injection she gave me. Having said that, I feel a need to vent a little about all the things that happened to me that left me feeling I was really being punished.

I entered the hospital on Christmas Eve with gastrointestinal hemorrhaging. This had gone on for three days, so by that time I was very anemic. The first thing that happened, of course, was blood testing and the start of an IV. Both of those procedures called for my being stuck in various spots in veins which didn't cooperate very well. Throughout my stay in the hospital, vampires punctured me morning and night, with the first stabbing occurring at 6am each day. Until the very last day when I left the hospital, I had intravenous fluids of one kind or another with their ports often needing to be replaced because of leakage. Both of my arms were covered with black and blue streaks.

The first of various tests I had was a scan. For this I lay on my back on a slab which was so narrow that the nurse brought two small tables and put one on each side of me so there would be a place for my arms to rest. She took a blood sample and added something radioactive to it and returned it to my veins. A camera was positioned over my body and I lay there for what seemed like a long time while it took pictures.

That test showed that the bleeding was not in the stomach area so it was decided that a colonoscopy was needed. In preparation for this, a tube was threaded through my nose and down into my stomach. The delicious Golightly solution was poured into the tube in my nose. Before long my stomach rebelled, and I lost the solution faster than the nurse was pouring it in. At that time she decided enough was enough. The scope was not unpleasant, as I was not conscious while that was being done.

Since I was very anemic when I entered the hospital, transfusions were begun immediately. By the time I had had five units, a surgeon came in and talked about the possibility of surgery to remove a section of the colon. The doctors were not in a hurry about this and were waiting to see if my blood count would stabilize, but after I had had five units of blood and the count was still low they were quite sure that I would need an operation. Since this did not appeal to me, I wanted to wait as long as possible before making a decision on that. The doctors approved of continuing the transfusions a little while longer and, after the all-night session when I was given two units of blood, making a total of seven, my blood count did come up, and stay up, and it was decided that surgery was not necessary. My children and I were relieved that I was able to avoid surgery.

Since I was not able to take much nourishment when I entered the hospital, I was given intravenous nutrients including lipids and electrolytes in addition to the transfusions. Alas, something didn't agree with me. One evening I began itching violently and noticed that I had a red rash all over my body. I asked that the IV be discontinued, but the nurses did not feel they could do that, so I endured that itching all night until the doctor came in the morning and removed the IV tube. During the night a couple of aides slathered lotion all over me and relieved the itching to some extent. The doctor told me that I might be allergic to something in the IV feed, or that I might be reacting to an additive to prevent blood clotting.

Along with an application of lotion, I was given Benadryl in an effort to control the itching. At first this was given intravenously, and after awhile I began to notice strange designs on the ceiling. There were intricate, pretty patterns similar to what one sees in quilt blocks. They fit nicely within the edges of the ceiling tiles and were interesting to see. Looking down at the floor, I saw a beautiful white lace tablecloth rippling in a breeze. The edges of it were turned up, and though I realized I was hallucinating, it looked so real that I tried to put my toe under the edge of it. Another phenomenon was a large ball of what looked like spider web material. This floated around the room and came toward me, but nothing was there when I tried to snatch it.

I was still being given Benadryl and the next dose was injected directly into the port. This immediately sent me into La-La Land, and frightened the little Filipino nurse who administered it. She urged me to lie still and be quiet and then left, never to return. This was such a weird sensation with the room spinning and a feeling of unreality that I thought, "This is the end. I'm dead."

I have also had issues with pills. A nurse brought in six different pills, which I told her I would not be able to take, as I do not tolerate oral medications. She wanted me to try anyway, and the inevitable happened and that was the end of oral medication. During a previous hospitalization, a nurse came to my room at night and told me it was time for my 11 o'clock pills. They were four large pills, which were different from any medications I had had before. I questioned her about them and asked who had prescribed them. She consulted the chart and said, "Oh, I'm in the wrong room."

Many nice things happened while I was in the hospital. Though I ruined Christmas and New Year's celebrations for my family, nobody complained about that, and all of my children and grandchildren and a number of friends and relatives visited me and sent or brought cards, flowers, and other gifts. I do very much appreciate all the concern shown on my behalf. Many of the nurses and aides were very caring people.

I left the hospital after 10 days and went to rehab for five days. The young therapists there were very competent, but I wondered if they know how weak and tired an 89-year-old feels. I decided they were either going to make an athlete out of me or kill me trying. I know it was beneficial and I was in quite good condition when I returned home. But there were times when lying in bed appealed to me much more than rising up and doing exercises every morning and afternoon. And I had mixed feelings about the occupational therapy of baking cookies, which some of us did. I also found it embarrassing when young boys assisted me with personal hygiene.

However, I do want to say again how much I admire the people who do this kind of work. I am reminded of the story of Dr. Milliken, a famous physicist, whose maid was asked about his education and she said he was a doctor, but not the kind who did anybody any good. We all know that nurses and doctors do lots of good for lots of people.

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