Last Wednesday night I was admitted to the hospital through the Emergency Room for treatment of pneumonia in my left lung. When the diagnosis came it was a relief, it was only pneumonia. Yes life is measured in degrees, and it has come to the point where pneumonia is the lesser of several potential evils.
I had noticed over several days, if not weeks, that my body temperature would change dramatically in the early evening. It gradually got higher with each passing day. Last Wednesday night it hit 101.5 degrees. Now, I’m no doctor but even I could figure that was too high. Phone calls were made and within minutes I was on my way to my least favorite destination. I say that because over the years I have arrived at that way station way too many times. So often in fact that we keep a bag packed just for that special purpose, the “Away Bag”. It has $5 in quarters, $10-$20 in singles, a few pairs of warm socks, a comfy sweater for my wife, a couple of novels she hasn’t read, a list of phone numbers of relatives and friends and anything else we can think of that takes the aggravation off a lingering situation where you are waiting for a diagnosis or stitches or bones to be set or whatever. My record time in and out of the emergency room is 20 minutes for three stitches. We stopped in on the way to a party and arrived as if nothing had happened.
Wednesday night there was no such delay; the xrays came back and I had pneumonia. I was going to be admitted. They got a bed for me and I was rolled up to it by 10:30 pm. Very expedient when compared top previous experience. All settled in and as comfy as I was going to be I sent my wife home and went to sleep. Those of you familiar with hospitals are rolling at that little joke. You are not allowed to sleep in a hospital. The staff has a game going, no patient is allowed to sleep at night. There are vital signs to be taken, there is blood to be taken, if for no other reason than to annoy the patient. There are prick your finger blood samples taken for blood sugar levels and then the syringe of insulin because your blood sugars are naughty and never comply so patient needs a shot. Then there are the infamous IV machines that absolutely must alarm at least every hour. I had two of them, one for my power port one for the IV in my left arm. Both of them dispensing the latest varieties of antibiotics with strange sounding names. The machines tag teamed me when nothing else was going on. One for no apparent reason and the other for some other no apparent reason. By Thursday morning I was sick and tired. My eyes were all baggy, I felt like I had been up all night and I had. The idea is, I think, to aggravate you to the point of mental instability and then use that against you. I was too clever for them. I also knew that like vampires, the nurses disappear during the day. You can actually sleep then. I don’t know why, you have to go to nursey school to learn why. So I slept all day Thursday.
Friday was a repeat of Thursday, down to the alarming tag team IV machines. By then I was properly inculcated, I let the alarm sound for quite some time. After an hour some member of staff came in for more blood and noticed it and turned it off. I had actually gotten accustomed to it like a neglectful mother to her wailing infant victim. During the day I noticed that the hospital had the bare minimum of television channels, half of which were full of religious fundamental fanatics, some channels were Spanish language, and none of them at all very interesting. I spent some time pondering what the purveyor of the television channel selection had in mind when the order was placed. I got a little scared when I realized the picture it all painted. They expected dullards and immigrants as patients, not much of anybody with a brain.
While this very amusing scenario played with me I noticed my doctors, my primary care physician and the communicable disease doctors, were ordering tests on me. They went from the very specific, CT of the chest and stomach, to the fairly vague KUB (Kidney, Urinary tract, and Bladder) test. That told me they were looking for something that would explain something that had raised questions. They had a liver panel on me from one of the blood samples they had taken and it was contradictory or at the very least worrying. So they probed and listened and tested to see why my liver seemed out of whack.
Finally Saturday morning they gave up and let me go home. Whatever vexed them Friday vexed them no more. I dressed and escaped. I had been dosed with every antibiotic deemed even remotely necessary and they knew they couldn’t break me without making it obvious they were trying. So Saturday afternoon I slept and caught up on feeling like an adult, you know, getting out of bed without wrestling the IV tubes and leaving my room as opposed to being confined to my room and all.
Sunday was hot and humid. I tolerated that for hours, sitting on the deck, talking with poor wifey. Then I broke down and had a beer. Then I went crazy and started working on my hot tub. I replaced 2 dozen jets and washed it and drained it and refilled it. All clean, water properly adjusted for PH but not heated. Out here it ain’t a hot tub as much as it is a cool tub with jets to massage you gently. So I sat in there for an hour or more letting the jets massage my back while I let the reality of the past few days wash off.
I was called by my doctor’s office Monday telling me to come in as some test results had come back. This is unusual. I showed up at the appointed hour and was taken in immediately to the exam room. Doctor came in, said the liver panels were all normal, I was fine and I was released. Now only someone who has visited the edge can appreciate the feelings you get when your doctor calls you in for test results. And similarly only someone of that background can appreciate a speedy tour of the office and news of absolutely no importance. The best news you can get.
I am left to finish my oral antibiotics and rest until they wear off. Apparently your body has some reaction to expensive oral antibiotics. Something along the lines of having your metabolism messed with. But my wife is happy that I am home and all the questions are answered and she won’t be mad when the kitchen isn’t cleaned up like I promised. You get some slack when you have lived through medical hell for a year.
Bill Gillmore
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