My Staycation in Anchorage, Part 8, CALL THE COPS!!!

CALL THE COPS!!!

An hour after I was re-admitted to the hospital for pleural effusion following my surgery for large hiatal hernia repair, another patient was wheeled into my room. No more private room for me.

Imagine my entire stomach being above the diaphragm, interfering with my lungs and heart.   That's what my surgery was meant to correct.

“What are YOU doing back here?” asked my surgeon when he came to my new hospital room the next morning. I laughed.

“I told you so,” I replied, referring to my life-long history of non-standard reactions to meds and procedures. I like to breathe, I thought, and may or may not have said it aloud.

He then took great care to explain what was happening to me. I described the previous day’s activities: walking laps in the hotel corridor, sitting up and feeling fine all afternoon, and struggling to get enough air that night.

He picked up Diane’s partially full water bottle. When you’re sitting up, he continued, this is where the pleural fluid is. He pointed to the water in the bottom of the bottle. Then, he turned the bottle on its side, demonstrating how the fluid  now affected more of the lungs, rather than just the bottom.

It made perfect sense.

He then told me that the hospital would probably drain the other lung sac if the X-ray showed fluid build-up. As to the previous day’s liter and a third, he said they were concerned about its milky appearance tinged with blood. 

The lab is going to check it for lymph. “I am reasonably certain that the system that moves lymph was not nicked,” he said. “It’s a long way from where I was operating.”

If it were, he continued, they would install a drain and you would have to remain hospitalized for several weeks until it heals.

Oh, joy, I thought.

Again, he said, “I’m pretty sure that is not the case. “ I thanked him for coming by and off he went.

During the day, I went to the bathroom and on my way back to my bed, my roommate said loudly, “YOU! Who are you?” I said nothing, not knowing if she was dreaming or to whom she was talking.

She was a frail, elderly lady who had fallen and had some hairline fractures in her hip and back. English is her second language, and she apparently had trouble understanding why she was bedridden, where she was, and so on. I also think she had more than a touch of dementia.  Her husband stayed with her during visiting hours, explaining again and again what was happening.   

On another trip to the bathroom, I paused at an opening in the curtains to her area and said, “Hi. I’m Jeanne and I’ll be your roommate for the day.”

That broke the ice and Diane and I spoke with her husband frequently afterwards. It turned out we knew someone in common.

Diane was better able to hear what the lady was saying. She was having hallucinations and thought I was one of some intruders in her home. She wanted to call the police.

That night after her husband left, I heard her crying. Frequently a nurse would spend a long time with her, reassuring her, explaining her circumstances, and comforting her.

Nonetheless, we both had restless nights with little sleep.

Vitals, pills, checks, etc., continued on schedule. Finally, I was sleeping at 7 A.M. when a nurse brought me a cup with all my morning meds. She tried to get me to take them, but I said I would need to wake up a bit before I could.

I fell asleep again. When I awoke an hour later, the cup of meds was gone.