Note: Part II, 6/11/13; Part III, 6/13; Part IV, 6/14.
Now
that I’m about 75% or so back toward normal after my recent health crisis, I
realize looking back that several particularly memorable experiences stand out
from the rest.
The
crisis began with my going to sleep (under anesthesia) for a simple outpatient
procedure and waking up with two tubes down my throat, oxygen being blown up my
nose, lying flat on my back of course, and finding both hands bound to the sides of my
hospital bed. Thank goodness A----- was
there to explain that something had gone wrong in the “simple” procedure, and I
had stopped breathing. The tubes went
down my throat into my lungs.
*
Quite a lot of solicitous people were around, looking after me when I awoke in my Intensive Care room, and the whole emergency was described to me clearly enough. I’d already had several transfusions by then and was still receiving blood through one of my many I. V. lines. (Altogether, I eventually got 14 pints of blood plus some plasma.)
Hovering
over me during the crisis itself had been the doctor who’d done the procedure I
went in for – which, I was assured, was a success – as well as my regular Cardiologist,
my Physical Care Physician (I still want to say “G. P.”), my regular Pulmonologist,
and a gastro-enterologist whom they’d called in when all the blood was found in
my lungs.
Maybe
this all sounds alarming. What my own
mind was focused on was that I could not talk, could barely make any sounds at
all. I couldn’t make gestures since my
hands were tied down. Obviously I
couldn’t write. I lay there as
peacefully as I could. Eventually it was
just A----- and a nurse with me. But I
still had no way to communicate with them.
With my right hand, I was able
to control the lights above the bed, the t.v. at the ceiling across the room,
and the Call button if I needed something.
And
this was how I remained for the better part of three days.
*
I
couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t be sedated,
with the breathing problems I’d had. I
could see the clock across the room, which did seem to be moving…
On the
second morning, when A----- returned, I gestured as best I could that I wanted
to write something. The very worst part
of this torture was still that I could not communicate. I thought no one realized how awful this
situation was for me. Maybe just a tiny
change or two would help, at least a little; and besides, any change at all would
have been something for me to think
about…
A----- got the nurses to provide a marking pen and a big laminated sheet that was big enough to stretch from my one bound hand to the other, and – without being able to see what I was doing – I tried to write something like, “I am being well cared for, but this is still a pretty bad situation. Perhaps the nurses can think of a little change here and there that might make it more comfortable, do you think?”
After I
had moved my pen over the page a few seconds, A----- started trying her best to
make out my words. The process wasn’t
working at all.
After
several minutes of trying and failing to be understood, I knew I had to start
using large print and to simplify my message.
Simplify. To this day, A-----
remembers the one word she could make out clearly in what I wrote then:
“A-g-o-n-y.”
***
