This was my view for hours yesterday while my mother was in surgery. I knew my mother was having surgery, but I didn't know when. I was told I would get a call to let me know. I got no call, so when I got up in the early morning, I decided I would shower and head to the hospital to see what was going on. What was going on was that they were getting ready to wheel my mother from her room.
"We had a cancellation, so we are taking your mother now."
It was a darn good thing I came. I walked behind the bed as it was transported down the hallway to a service elevator. We descended to the second floor.
"Since we are ready, we are taking her right to the surgical room."
As we entered a hallway, I was given a hair net. I don't look good in hair nets.
We entered the shiny, brightly lit surgical theater with a narrow stainless steel table where my mother would lie. Surgical tools, big machines. . . the place gave me the shivers. In a moment, the surgeon came out to ask my mother questions to which she couldn't respond well. The fellow was small and fit and certainly felt himself to be cock of the walk. I answered questions for my mother as best I could. He asked about her abilities before and after each of the surgeries.
"Did she have back pain before the first surgery?"
"Yes."
"This will not fix that."
It was just then that I learned she had not one but two more collapsed vertebrae. He went through the dangers of the procedure. My mother had heard them before. After that, the surgeon left the room, and I started to fear that they were going to have me stay during the procedure. Irrational panic. But the woman who had walked me down took me to the waiting room, thank goodness. She told me the operation would take about forty minutes. I told her I was going downstairs to get coffee. She said she would call me when my mother was out of surgery.
She didn't. I sat with my cup of coffee for over an hour. Then it was lunchtime and the cafe began to fill up. I was getting hungry, so I went back in and got a small, one serving, thin crusted pizza. I ate half before I felt the need to go up and see what was going on with my mother. I was worried.
She was in a recovery room. I was taken back. My mother looked up at me when I came in. She was talking gibberish. She said she was cold and I got blankets to put over her. Then I sat. A fellow came in and said that transport was busy, but when they could get someone, they would take my mother back to her room. So I sat some more. And more. A long time later, a fellow came.
Back in her room, my mother was still talking nonsense. She was in pain. She looked frail. I asked if it was normal for her to be in such pain after the surgery and was told yes, perhaps for 24 to 48 hours. The nurse gave her a shot of morphine. It was two o'clock. That was my cue. My mother would be out for the rest of the afternoon.
I came back to the hospital a few hours later. A physical therapist and the nurse were getting my mother out of bed. They wanted her to walk with the walker. She moaned. She was groggy, but she did what they said, step left, again, step right etc. Then they had her walk to the bathroom so she could pee. Her gown was falling off and I was getting a little pissed. But they got her back into the bed, and I said that was good, that she couldn't have done all that yesterday.
Her dinner came. Baked ziti and broccoli. A brownie and coffee. My mother was still in LaLa land, so I fed her bite by bite. She'd open her mouth like a baby bird. She did pretty well with the ziti and the broccoli, and she ate the whole brownie with her coffee. When she was finished, I sat down next to her. She said I should take the rest of her food down to her neighbor friend, Marlene.
"Which room is Marlene in?"
She looked at me with unseeing eyes.
"She makes too much food," she said.
She kept looking beside me at the lounger in her room, over and over again.
"Who is sitting there?" she asked.
"Nobody."
"Who is it?"
"Do you know where you are?" I asked her.
She didn't.
It was time for her next shot of morphine, so I kissed her goodbye and said I'd see her tomorrow. She closed her eyes and was gone.
Today will be another adventure. I don't know anything about where they are going to send her for rehab, nor when. Nobody has talked to me about it and nobody seems to know. If they try to release her today, I am set to pitch a fit. I've had no time to make decisions about where she will go. I have many questions about her care. Two, three weeks at rehab. . . then what? Medicare pays for only 100 days of care outside the hospital. After that, you are on your own dime. I've looked up some pricing. Assisted living costs just under $100,000/year. Online sites that help you navigate such things recommend using reverse mortgages on the house to pay.
I watched Bernie Sanders last night talking about the crime of American healthcare. He gave statistics on how many people go bankrupt because of medical expenses.
"Is it right that someone should go bankrupt because they got cancer or some other illness or disease?" he asked the crowd. "That's what happens every day in America, the wealthiest country in the world. And it shouldn't."
How can people not feel The Bern?
Today will be a catch as catch can day. I have a million things to do and no schedule. The carpenter is done at my house, but the thing is still a wreck. I have to pressure wash and paint the side of the house and the deck. Facing the street, the place looks like a bunch of West Virginia hillbillies moved in.
O.K. Ohio.
That is where C.C. is right now. He took his father to breakfast. He sent me this.
No comments:
Post a Comment