Peek a Boo!
During a recent visit to a large hospital for a scan test, I was directed to a large waiting room filled with other patients, most of whom were quite elderly - (yeah, like I should be talking about being elderly:-).
There were two ladies who, shall we say, were of an even older vintage than myself. One of the ladies had a very concerned look about her and was clearly quite stressed about the procedure she was about to undergo. I noticed that her friend was trying her best to keep her calm, apparently with little success by the look on her face.
As I’m sure you know, many medical procedures performed in a hospital require that you remove all of your clothing and don a medical gown, that can best be described as a very thin, light blue table cloth with a couple of thin tie straps. One strap goes around the neck, and the other is used to secure the gown from the rear, and is only long enough for someone with a body shaped like a pencil. Personally, my body looks more like a pineapple than a pencil. This left my gown wide open on the back side and makes it look like I’m smuggling two off-white cauliflowers back there.
When I was called for my scan, I got up and walked directly in front of the two ladies. As I passed, I quickly turned to the one who was most anxious and said, “Now don’t you be peaking at my bare bum”, to which, without missing a beat, she said, “Well I wasn’t going to look, but now that you mention it…” as a huge smile came across her face and I thought, yes, my job here is done!
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Clean Up On Aisle Three
I had been in a coma for eight days and when I finally awoke, my right arm was in a sling, after receiving a steel plate and what appears to be eight large wood screws that keeps my shattered arm from falling off. Interestingly the bone that was shattered is called the humerus, which I find odd because there is absolutely nothing funny about it at all if you ask me.
For my entire life, I have always been very dependent on the use of my right arm for just about every activity including writing, throwing, catching and of course even eating.
My lazy left arm on the other hand, (no pun intended:-) is the result of 70 years of neglect and is best used for lesser tasks such as helping to pull up my pants, scratching the left side of my butt, and as an integral member of the official shoelace tying team.
So, it should be obvious that my left hand is of no use to me where fine motor skills and dexterity is required.
As I laid in my hospital bed the day after having my arm reconstructed, I spent my time trying to get used to the notion of only having one useful hand for the next three months. It didn’t really dawn on me how much I rely on my right hand every day. I won’t get into the details of the nasty personal hygiene tasks that are assigned to my dominant right arm, but suffice it to say they are critical!
About this time, an orderly interrupted my train of thought by entering the room and delivering my supper on a tray which he placed on the table that straddled my bed. I stared at tonight’s offering of a pork chop, mashed potatoes and a medley of vegetables like a starving wild animal ready to pounce on his prey. I then came face to face with the reality of new physical limitations. How am I supposed to cut this bloomin’ pork chop with just one hand?
My first attempt wasn’t very successful with the pork chop flying off the plate, bouncing on the tray, sliding across the table and finally landing on my lap. Clearly this was going to take more thought on my part.
I somehow managed to retrieve said chop off of my lap and did what every carnivore has done since the beginning of time. I held the meat in my left hand, and tore pieces off it with my teeth. Not pretty, but it did the job. Of course, as soon as I finished inhaling the pork chop, a second orderly walked into the room and said, “Can I cut your meat up for you…… Oh, I see you managed it yourself…”
Feeling quite proud of my new found ability to feed myself with only my shaky left hand, I focused on the lesser elements on my plate. The mashed potatoes were no match for me because they stuck to the fork and most of it made it all the way to my mouth. A little sloppy, but hey, I was on a roll!
Finally, it was time to tackle the steamed vegetables. The broccoli was no problem, because I just stabbed it with my fork. However, my biggest challenge came next as I attacked the pile of sweet green peas. Those little green balls are slippery little buggers, especially if they’re not cooked long enough and hard as a rock. Try to spear them with a fork and they just bounce right off the end like you’re trying to stab a ball bearing.
A moment later a nurse came into my room to drop off my meds for the evening. I could sense by the look on her face that she was having a difficult time and I knew her shift was just about over for the day.
I looked her straight in the eyes, and with my best sad face puppy dog eyes, I said, “I’m very sorry, but I’ve had a bit of an accident”.
She looked at me as if to say, oh great, something else to top off my day. She kind of grumbled and asked, “What happened?”
“I’ve peed on the bed and onto the floor.”
A very perturbed look came over her face and she said, “I’ll send someone in to get you cleaned up.”
“I said, oh there’s no need for that. But I’d really appreciate it if you could do me a big favor and pick up the peas off the end of the bed, and there’s some on the floor. Be careful, I don’t want you to step on them and slip.”
With that she looked on the bed sheet and floor and burst out laughing!
I said, “I’ll bet you won’t forget that one for a while, will you?”
As she turned to leave, I saw her wipe a small tear out of the corner of her eye, and she just said, ”Thank you, I needed that!”
I knew my task for the day was complete.
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My Date With The Angel of Death
Anyone who has ever had the unfortunate experience of an extended hospital stay may be able to relate to this.
I was admitted to hospital for a number of emergency operations after a serious trip and fall accident which resulted in a crushed bladder and shattered shoulder. I laid in a coma for eight days. Of course I was completely unaware of anything going on around me.
My first recollection upon waking was the sound of multiple songbirds and what sounded just like Luciano Pavarotti belting it out from the room next door. My first thought was, “Have I died?”
I soon learned that the bird calls and excellent operatic performances were the work of a single patient in the room beside mine, who was a very talented, albeit eccentric young man to say the least. He would lie on his bed, buck naked, singing his heart out while making beautiful bird calls, as he held onto his Willie like a microphone as if performing at the Metropolitan Opera House. Show times always started on schedule every night at 7 o’clock sharp and continued until the wee hours of the morning.
All hospital staff, patients and visitors were automatically invited to this command performance whether they liked it or not, simply by being within earshot, or walking by his open door. I ultimately tagged him as the “BirdMan of the Opera.”
During this impromptu concert, I was trying to figure out what had happened to me, while a nurse kept trying to rouse me from my half conscious stupor by poking, jabbing and tickling the soles of my feet. Apparently she became so flummoxed after multiple attempts to revive me, she called my wife and asked if I had ever been known to not want to wake up. I believe my wife told her, “Yes, pretty much every weekend.”
Eventually, when I started to get closer to full consciousness, the nurse asked me a battery of basic questions such as did I know my own name? Apparently I struggled with that one. Did I know where I was? Of course not. What year is it? I had no idea.
Whatever drugs they had given me during and after my operations were playing havoc with what little understanding of my surroundings that I did have.
It was later discovered that I had a severe allergic reaction to the opioid based painkillers they had been pumping into me, which resulted in a lot of very scary and realistic hallucinations. My opioid induced delusions were so powerful that one night I crawled under the bedsheets in my hospital bed and somehow managed to phone my wife at 5:00 AM in the morning in a total panic. I told her she had to call the police to come and get me.
When she asked me where I thought I was, I had to admit I had no idea but I was certain the hospital staff were going to kill me.
On another night, I was sure that I was in a secret army base in the jungles of Vietnam with a patient named Mike who was in another hospital room down the hall. The only thing I knew about Mike was that he used to be a math teacher and he was constantly screaming like a mad man for more pain meds even though the nurses all said there was nothing physically wrong with him.
So yes, between BirdMan, Mad Mike and my own opioid induced paranoia, I was in a very bad state of mind. Clearly, I was not firing on all cylinders.
As someone who always considered myself to be pretty level headed, I was terrified that I was going off a mental cliff. I honestly don’t know how anyone could be attracted to drug use.
It was late one night during this point in my confused state of mind, that The Angel of Death came to call.
I have never had any interest in the occult, voodoo, or otherwise been fascinated with the topic of death, but when the Grim Reaper entered my hospital room that night, I became interested in death - - really fast!
It was around midnight and the night nurse had just left after leaving a glass of water and my pills on my night stand before closing the door. The room was pitch black except for a crack of light leaking through the bottom of the door from the hospital corridor.
All of a sudden the blackness in the room was replaced with bright light from the hallway after my door was pushed wide open. Jolted awake, I turned my head to see a very short and thin figure looking into my room. At first all I could make out of the silhouetted being in the doorway was very scraggly shoulder length hair and wearing some type of gown or cloak.
At this point I couldn’t tell if the figure was male or female. My first inclination of whoever, or whatever was standing there, was they were probably a patient from another ward.
After a moment, I came to the realization that the figure was a woman, and apparently a very old one. I said, “Hello, can I help you?” but there was no reply. She just stood there not moving, staring straight ahead at me.
I continued, “Are you looking for someone?” thinking she had wandered into the wrong room by mistake, and this was while my half drugged brain was trying to make sense of what was going on. She just continued to stare at me for a minute or so, and then raised her right arm and pointed it directly at me.
I’m thinking, oh crap, I’m completely bedridden, I can’t even sit up in bed, I have my shattered right arm in a sling and I have no idea what this woman wants. I was quite aware of some of the other patients around me who were clearly suffering from various degrees of mental illness. It didn’t take long for me to realize there was no way I could protect myself if I had to. I wondered, does she have a weapon? What does she want, and why isn’t she saying anything?
Now the paranoia is really starting to kick in. This feels like a Stephen King movie. Is she here to kill me!” Is this how it's all going to end?
Now she begins moving slowly into my room, getting closer and closer. She continues to move towards me with her right arm still outstretched and pointing directly at me. Isn’t that what the grim reaper does, touch someone when it’s time to take them? My mind is going wild. Now I’m out of options and resigned to the fact that I’m toast, so let’s just get this over with….
Just as her outstretched hand was inches away from me, I knew I had to try one last thing to ward her off so I said, “Back off creepy. You're in the wrong room. It's Mad Mike and Tweety Bird next door you want. Take both of them together and that’ll save you another trip up the elevator again!”
Just then I heard a man’s voice come from behind her, “Mary, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing here? Come on dear, we have to go back.”
Go back? Go back where? To Purgatory? To the Gates of Hell? To the land of Fire and Brimstone? Go back to where? Maybe she had filled her quota of souls for the night and had to go back to wherever she came from.
As soon as the man who was speaking to Mary entered the room, I recognized him as one of the interns on the ward floor.
He reached over and gently held her left hand and began to turn her towards the doorway. In a soft comforting voice he said, “It's okay Mary, let’s go find your room. Would that be okay?”
As they started to leave my room, I saw him take the glass of water she was holding in her right hand and said, “Let’s get you a nice glass of water of your own. This one belongs to this nice man.”
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It’s a Guy Thing
During a routine visit to my doctor, he started scrolling through my extensive medical records that are longer than a Google search for chicken soup recipes. He said “I don’t see any record of you ever having a PSA test and at your age, you really should. It's just a simple blood test.” Oh joy, another bonus for living longer.
A few weeks later I trotted off to my appointment to have my very first PSA test at the age of 67.
Three days later he calls with my results and he is not pleased!
Next, he arranges for me to have a prostate exam. My wife insisted on coming to the appointment, however I’m not sure she really understood what was about to take place any more than I did. When the Doctor explained the procedure, he asked if she wanted to remain in the room during the exam. My wife replies, “thanks for asking but I think I’ll just wait in the hall” and bolts out the door like a shot.
So a few minutes later I’m alone with a guy I’ve never seen before, my pants are down around my ankles, I don’t see any medical diplomas on the wall, and neither of us are even attempting to make eye contact.
Suddenly I heard the snap of a rubber glove followed by a squishy sound of lube squirting out of a tube, and I know what’s coming next.
Doctor Sausage Fingers back there hits the bullseye and I’m squealing like a ten year old girl at a Taylor Swift concert. I’m up on my tippy toes and feeling like a sock puppet.
A few minutes after the probing of my deep space, I pull my pants back up, not once daring to take my eyes off the floor. He says that he detected something he doesn’t like and wants me to have a prostate biopsy. Something he didn’t like? Let me tell you about something I didn’t like!
A couple of weeks later, I’m booked in for a prostate biopsy. If the prostate exam was a giggle, the biopsy ought to be an all out comedy fest!
Prior to leaving home on the morning of the biopsy I was instructed to completely empty my bowels because, how else are they going to get to my prostate?
It took just a few minutes to realize why they insisted I do this at home, safely away from any innocent patients and the underpaid hospital cleaning staff!
Apparently, letting nature take its course is not reliable enough to do the job completely. They want to be sure that I evacuate everything I have ever consumed since the Nixon administration.
The procedure is very simple. I was supplied with some type of witch’s potion that has the blasting power of dynamite. I mixed the lethal brew together and poured it into a large syringe about the size of the thingy my wife uses to decorate birthday cakes for the grandkids. I then had to insert the king sized end of the syringe into my tiny sized business end that meant folding my body into a position that only an 80 pound Eastern European gymnast could master.
After giving a quick nod to the gods, I slowly massaged the syringe home and pushed the plunger in. A couple minutes later there’s a fire fight deep inside my guts as the gates of Hell opened up. I immediately experienced the world’s quickest weight loss program, dropping two pant sizes within minutes!
Upon arriving at the hospital for the feature event of the day I was instructed to remove all my clothes and put on what could pass as a queen sized bed sheet with the back side fully open, providing an unobstructed view of my lily white buttocks to the viewing public.
As I bent forward over the examination bed, the doctor stood directly behind me, focused on his assigned task. His assistant and trainee, an attractive young lady, sat beside him carefully noting his every move and running commentary.
I tried to maintain my calm, cool composure by thinking about this doctor’s career choices, but my mind drifted away for a moment. I started to wonder if this doctor somehow lost a bet and dashed his chances to become a dentist repairing cavities instead of staring at my cavity.
My attention returned to what was going on behind me and what sounded and felt a lot like the staple gun I use at home for tacking up plastic sheeting around the windows in the winter.
As the doctor continued extracting twelve small pieces of my prostate for analysis, the faint sound of “click-pop-click-pop” kept me into a state of minor terror. I really wish I had remembered to ask him how many times I would be hearing that click-pop-click-pop sound before he was finished because I was starting to sense an awful feeling building in my guts.
All I could think about was did I actually follow the directions correctly for mixing the human Draino or is my wife right when she says I never ask for directions or follow instructions?
Just as I was about to waive the white flag in surrender, Dr. Ben Dover gives me the all clear signal which was such a relief because if he’d been much longer, I’m afraid his attractive young assistant seated beside him might have decided to change careers right there on the spot!
In the end (no pun intended) I got through the ordeal, but as much as I respect the professionals who worked on me, I really hope I never meet any of them ever again! But if I do see them somewhere public like a grocery store, you can bet my eyes will be firmly focused on the floor at all times!
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Cardiac Arrest
As I drive up to my local bank branch I notice there’s a whole bunch of people lined up at the ATM machines inside.
As soon as I walk inside, a few of the people in line immediately walk towards the door and quickly leave. A moment later a few more make a hasty retreat to the door. What’s going on?…..
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Okay, I better back up a bit to the previous week…..
I am about to pass the 70 mile marker on my highway of life, and as one might assume, I have a few medical issues to deal with. Well okay, more than a few.
I had recently been to my GP doctor and while I was there he determined that I needed a few ultrasounds to see what is causing some swelling in my lower legs.
A few days later I received a call from a local healthcare lab telling me they have set up appointments for the scans.
The next day, I get a call from a cardiologist whom I have never heard of before. In fact, for all my many ailments, this is the first heart doctor I have ever had. Hmmm… why is he calling me?
He asks me a whole battery of questions, such as my weight (high), my overall health (well, I’m still on the right side of the grass, Does that count?) and whether or not I have ever smoked (Funny, that reminded of the old joke where the girl asks the guy if he smokes after sex, and he replies, “I don’t know, I’ve never looked”) I decided this was not the time for jokes and admitted that I used to smoke but quit 25 years ago.
After the interrogation, he said he would be setting up more tests including an EKG, Echocardiogram, a stress test and also have me wear a Holter heart monitor for three days. Yikes, I had no idea what he was thinking, but it didn’t sound good.
Most of my medical tests don’t happen right away. It is usually a few weeks before I am scheduled to go in for what I now call the “inspections, detections, injections and corrections”.
Not this time. I received a call the very next day from the cardiologist's assistant to set up the bank of tests he wanted me to take. Now I’m not a fatalist, but when I heard they wanted me to come in the next day, I’m thinking either I’m getting the royal treatment, or they know something that I don’t!
Next day at the testing facility, I’m wearing one of those fashionable paper thin light blue medical gowns with the shoestring length strap that only comes in one way which I call the “This don’t shut and I see your butt” size.
Next I’m lying on my side as a gorilla of a man is foundling my man boobs and rubbing lubricant all over my chest. Oh great, he’s copping a feel.
Gorilla man is now moving some sort of magic wand around my chest as I hear the sound of squish-pa, squish-pa, squish-pa, squish-pa letting me know that I do in fact have a working heart.
After a thorough molesting, I am told to get on the treadmill. Maybe you picked up on my comment about my man boobs, that exercise is not exactly my forte.
Gorilla man passes me over to his assistant who is in charge of the treadmill part of today’s testing. He starts the machine up and fiddles around with something on his computer screen. Is he paying attention, or answering his emails I wonder? He tells me we can stop anytime that I’m not feeling comfortable. Well you could have told me that ten minutes ago when your partner was working me over!
If I wanted to quit, all I had to do was just say so, and he would push a button on the computer to shut the treadmill off.
So I’m walking along at a comfortable pace and feeling fine so far. Then he lets me know he’s going to raise the slope a bit. I guess raising it “a bit” means going from a leisurely walk on the beach, to climbing up Mount Everest, because as soon as he raised the slope, the machine sped up. Now I’m running like someone is chasing me to collect a gambling debt. I’m leaning forward with my head down to keep up with the slope and avoid falling on my face, and getting tired, really really tired.
Huff, puff, huff, puff, okay there dungeon master, that’s enough! As he pushed the button, I forgot the golden rule of treadmills, NEVER LET GO OF THE HANDRAILS WHILE IT IS STILL IN MOTION!
As soon as I loosened my grip, I immediately went flying backwards. I’m sure I can’t be the only person this has ever happened to, but they should have at least have soft mattresses to break my fall, but nooooo!
I get up, dust myself off and sit on the examination table as Gorilla Man attaches a bunch of colored wires to my chest with sticky tabs and hangs a Holter heart monitor around my neck. I walk out of the office looking like I’m smuggling a package of Kraft cheese slices under my shirt.
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Meanwhile, back to the bank….
Oh yes, I was telling you about the bank….
If you recall, there was that line of people waiting to use the ATM machines. One lady in line looks at me and I see a very odd, almost shocking look come across her face. I checked to make sure I was wearing pants, and fortunately, yes I was. I wish I could say that this was always the case.
Then a man in line looks at me and dashes out the door. What the heck is going on? I look outside and I see the man is now waving his arms in the air, talking on his phone and pointing in my general direction. All of a sudden, more folks dash right past me and run outside. Okay, this is getting scary!
I figured I better join them and ran out the bank door and moved over to where they had all gathered away from the bank. As soon as I joined them, the whole group all moved as far away from me as possible, and now I’m hearing sirens heading towards our general direction.
Was someone trying to rob the bank?
Next thing I know, I’m on my knees with my hands clasped behind my head as two burly police officers point their guns at me and start yelling, but I’m so scared and confused, I don’t know what they're saying. My heart is pounding so fast, it feels like it's going to come right out of my chest!
Both cops seem to be screaming something different at the same time, and I have no idea what they want. Finally, I hear “If you make one move towards the bomb, we’ll shoot. DO NOT MOVE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Bomb? What bomb? I don’t know anything about a bomb!”
“In your shirt! We can see the wires and the bulge of explosives”
Looking down at the neck of my shirt I said, “Officers, the wires and the bulge in my shirt is a Holter monitor. It monitors my heart rate and I can tell you right now, it's going off the charts.”
In the end, they let me go. Now how do I explain this to my cardiologist?
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Nurse Training Day
My lawn mower wouldn't start the other day. No matter how hard I pulled on that cord, it just wouldn't start! I pulled and pulled and pulled that cord so many times I thought my right-arm would fly off any minute.
I actually considered taking the lawnmower over to my Community Care medical office where I go to have my catheter removed and replaced every 30 days.
I reckon they train the nurses on how to remove the catheters by giving them gas lawn mowers to practice on. "Okay girls, now all you need to do is grab hold of the patient's willie with one hand and use your other hand to hold onto the catheter. Now imagine you are starting that lawnmower, and give that catheter a real fast pull."
