I know that I’ve been dragging this out forever.
What the hell’s taking so long, you ask?
Simply put, I had a crappy first few days in the hospital, and I’ve been reluctant to relive them. I’m frustrated with my recovery (it’s going fine, it just takes forever), and I just want the whole thing to be over- recalling this crappy day in painful detail just hasn’t been high on my to-do list.
May 26 – Best! Day! Ever! (continued)
Little did I realize that actually getting a potty would be so damn difficult. There was no way in hell I was making it all the way to the real bathroom, so the nurse said she’d bring in a bedside commode…45 minutes later, it still hadn’t arrived. My bladder was quickly approaching critical mass; my gas-filled stomach wasn’t helping things.
My mother went out into the hall to track somebody down to bring one in; she found nothing but tumbleweeds. I rang the nurse call (which I was quickly finding out was pointless), and asked, “will someone please bring a commode in here?” A random nurse walked in, and tried to get me onto a bedpan by rolling me onto my operated hip. On the verge of tears, again, I told her to stop, and get me a friggin commode. In the middle of all this, a hapless hospital administrator walks in, and says she’s “here to ask a few questions about how everything is going.” Mom, in her finest Mother Bear voice replies, “it’s not going very well right now!” She told the lady our plight, to which she replied, “oh,” mumbled something about finding someone to help, and then scurried off into the hall. Never saw her again.
Somebody finally brought in a commode. Then began the complete loss of the rest of my dignity for the day. For the first time in 30+ years, I had to have my mother wipe my behind, because I couldn’t support myself to do it…myself. Someone walked in on me with my butt in the air, and said, “oh! I’m so sorry.” I bet. It seemed that every time I got on the damn commode, somebody would walk in.
When the rehab doctor came in to find me on the pot, he became extremely embarrassed, and said he’d come back. When he did return, he asked if I’d saved what was in there. Ew. No. He told me they were planning on getting me transferred over to Their Side, meaning the rehab wing. You could actually hear the capitalization every time he said it.
The day got worse before it got better. My stomach had swelled up large enough that I could almost rest a glass on it. The nurse said I had to move my bowels. They’re very concerned about your pooping schedule in the hospital, I’ve found. She brought in the dreaded secret weapon…suppositories. The worst part was having to roll over; it was extremely painful- cue another round of tears.
Did I mention that my mother and my husband were in the room for all of this? And for the aftermath of the suppositories? See above, “RE: complete loss of dignity.” ManThing said we’d never speak of it again- yet he is the one who insisted I finish this story.
Things calmed down a bit after the suppository adventure. The doctor said I was still anemic, so they were going to have to give me another two units of blood before I could transfer to rehab. They were very reluctant to give me blood, even though my anemia wasn’t improving. I was of the opinion, “just give me the damn blood already!” My IV had to be changed to another location (apparently, veins “expire” after a few days) before they could do the transfusion. I lost my nice, neat surgical IV, and traded it in for a nasty, painful IV that turned my arm into a purple and red tie-dyed nightmare from the moment it was in.
By the time the transfusion was over, it was 10:30 at night. I figured I’d be staying put, but hospitals work on a different schedule- they transferred me to rehab.
Thus ended the hellish part of my stay.