Six Jabs to Sunday

As I write, I’m at the head end of my first overnight stay in a hospital ever. Not bad for being 59 years old.

I got the call from surgery scheduling at 12 noon: we were a “go” for arriving at the hospital for 4:00 p.m., for a late-day radial head replacement operation. Lisa drove us down from the shore—it’s a beautiful sunny day.

After some confusion at admitting—they had no record of me—and more confusion at Unit 1, where I was sent—they had overheard that I was there for a hip replacement—I got shown to my room, vitals taken, settled in for a wait.

To prep for surgery, I needed an IV port inserted on the left. This proved spectacularly difficult to pull off: two nurses, six jabs. But they did it. My veins, I learned, are tricky.

And then we waited.

After a couple of hours, an unusually-casually-dressed Dr. Wotherspoon appeared in the doorway, contrite, apologetic: they’d come close, but lost the surgical suite to general surgery at the last minute; my radial head replacement would need to wait until Sunday.

I was given the option of heading home and returning Sunday, or staying the night.

To my surprise, I choose to stay. I was exhausted, hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours, and, as I told Lisa, “if you’ve been waiting in line for Springsteen tickets all day, and reach the head of the line just as the wicket closes for the night, you don’t give up and go home.”

Besides, I’m kind of fascinated by my roommates: three older women, all, it seems, recent recipients of new hips.

“Gertrude,” I just overheard the nurse say to my neighbour (name changed), “I’m going to give you some Senokot, to help you poop.” 

All hail clarity.

My roommates are tended to by visiting  children and grandchildren. There is much love, much care, and tremendous patience all-round.

By comparison, at least right now, I’m a very low-needs patient.

Lisa went out to pick up supper for us at Sam’s (I’m allowed to eat again until bedtime). I managed to wolf down a chicken shawarma and fries with one arm out of commission, and the other encumbered by my IV port (left in overnight: we’re not going through that again!). We dined al fresco in my bed.

Right now, at 8:30 p.m., the nursing shift has just changed and evening ablutions are underway: there’s a lot up to and fro and in and out (my bed abuts the sink-and-gloves station, so I’m in on all the action).

Lisa headed back to the shore to get a good night’s sleep; she is a loving caregiver, and watching her in that role gives me new perspective on my own time in that chair.

I’ll tuck in for the night soon, hopeful that my position in the surgery queue holds for the morning.