Image: Healthspablog.org
Someone write me a letter
I need to know that I’m still alive
Someone give me a telephone call
I need to hear a human sound
Someone open up a door
And let me out of this place
I’ve been caged up for oh so long
I don’t know if I’m living or dying
~ Strength Songwriter: The Alarm
My view to the world was restricted by how far I could roll my head. Having an open abdominal wound prevented me from sitting up like most people can. Although the bed itself could be manipulated to lower or rise, the large contraption affixed to my abdomen to protect the damaged organs beneath it barred much of my movement.
Further more, the tubing attached to the ventilator, bringing my oxygen supply to the trachea, popped off easily if jostled. Silly me, I like to breathe, so I was conscious of what the limits were to my being “mobile”.
My peripheral vision was limited, mostly just dark areas containing mysterious machines that the nurses would occasionally attend to. Looking forward would provide my best ability to observe the going-ons. Anything behind me was always upside down. I could tell that there were outlets for oxygen, ports for suction, and even the electrical sockets distinguished in red to show that they are tied into an uninterruptible power source. An inspection of the ceiling only resulted in the high powered spotlights used to bring glaring attention during a doctor’s poking and prodding of my wounds. Even the overhead incandescent lights brought no particularly interesting sights to dwell upon.
Compounding the issue was that I had been admitted without my contacts or glasses. With the number of surgeries and procedures I was scheduled for, wearing contacts was obviously out of the question. I would have to wait weeks before Kristi brought in a pair of my glasses – last used back when I was in high school. The prescription was fine, but the scratches inflicted on this tortoise-shell decorated eyewear from football’s Hell Week made for a blurry vision.
If the door to my room was propped open, then the sounds and conversations of SICU could entertain me for hours. I quickly learned to distinguish the sound of a gurney verses a wheel chair. It was like watching a snippet of the ’70s television show Emergency! When someone was wheeled by, I could pick up parts of a conversation, even learn to some extent how bad off their condition was. If the Paramedic or EMT pushed the patient to my right, that meant they were my new neighbor. If it was a hospital transporter heading left, then the patient was either heading to a procedure, or if more fortunate, moving to a lower level support – meaning that they are getting better. To some degree, I hoped that someday soon, I would find Nurse Dixie McCall standing at my doorway with an awaiting wheelchair. I’d hop on and be lead out to the left, and just keep going (roll the credits).
If the door was closed, the only sounds were those of the machines, or those made by my dozen or so fistulas (tears in the intestines) erupting like volcanoes. In a closed room, the PA system would be much clearer when the audible “Code Blue” alert was made. I developed a reaction to “Code Blue”, I would quickly scan my monitors – determining that all looked well, would mutter to myself “nope, it is not me.” Next I would proceed to say a short prayer for whoever the alert was intended for (needless to say I prayed a lot at UCIMC).
The lack of sound in the room was occasionally a welcomed relief. But most often it was a bummer because it interfered with one of the means by which I kept myself entertained.
Did I get depressed? No.
Did I feel like I would go crazy? No (although my Family thinks I already am).
How could I deal with being confined for that period of time? First I am a stubborn person; next I relied upon daily interaction of medical staff, family and friends, then faith (I admit that faith was something I was only paying occasional attention to at this stage of my hospitalization).
The medications, plus the various procedures did play havoc on me as well. Kristi and I had an encounter where she had just walked into the room. While she was unpacking her items into the small chair, the noise she was making irritated me.
“Shhh, please be quiet.” I said.
“Huh?” came back Kristi.
“I’m trying to listen in on the conference call IBM has in negotiating the contract with Fluor!” I barked out, turning back towards the source of the sound beyond the head of the hospital bed.
“Uh you realize Jeff that you are at UCI?” she stated.
There were times when I thought I could listen in on the lunchtime poker game a few of the nurses and CNAs would hold. Always the sounds originated somewhere back behind me, just out of sight.
If the unit was quiet in the early night, I could hear the percussion of the fireworks launched at nearby Disneyland. I actually thought I was hallucinating nightly until a nurse mentioned in passing that the sparkles and flash from the fireworks were especially brilliant that night.
More often the sights and sounds came to me through my doorway. No doubt as to the validity of the source, nor any question that I was allowing my imagination to run wild.
Scurries of people were heading right –wheeling in a new neighbor, followed by more uniformed Police than I had seen before. The patient was at the other end of a Police involved shooting. Apparently this guy (a suspected gang member) shot and wounded a Police officer. The “guy” received a shot to his head for his effort, resulting in brain damage.
The Police, huddled around the SICU medical staff, were barking out vulgarities concerning the “guy”. It was made very clear how the Police felt about my new neighbor. They never showed this type of intensity on Emergency! let alone the swearing. This was reality TV right in front of me.
Doctors and UCI Security personnel intervened and were successful in bringing decorum back to the unit. Once the situation had calmed, my nurse was able to return to checking my IV bags, and administering my routine medications. During our chat, she filled me in on what had caused the noise and disruption to the unit – the Police presence. She voiced her frustration over the Police reaction, saying that even criminals are entitled to proper medical care. She may not agree with the actions “guy” made, but she intended to treat him like any other patient.
Turns out her words came to fruition; she was assigned to care for “guy”.
“Guy’s” critical condition, complicated by the Blue Line, was the basis for the nurse to spend a lot of time dedicated to him. It was late in the night when a loud commotion erupted. While the nurse was tending to “guy”, he lunged forward and bit the nurse on her breast. Doctors and other nurses quickly came to her side and treated her, while the few remaining Police officers entered “guy’s” room and shut the door.
I don’t know if it was a pleasant chat “guy” received or otherwise. I do know that it caused me to realize that reality can be awful in a hospital. A few days later the nurse returned to her shift, she told me that she did not blame “guy”, it was just one of the hazards (both physical and emotional) encountered in her job. My respect for the professionalism demonstrated by this and other nurses was growing.
One of my favorite adventures, and best opportunity to check out something other than my room, were the trips down to surgery through the bowels of the building.
Transportation made the trip a bumpy, exciting journey. The scenic route went through the basement, that consisted mainly of chain-linked storage areas; full of dusty furniture and old hospital gear. The area was dark; it reminded me of a perfect set for a demented horror movie. A section of the route involved a steep ramp, always an E-ticket ride. The transporters would almost always struggle with the gurney, controlling it from breaking loose and crashing into the walls at the base of the ramp. I wished just once that I’d be on a runaway like those in a Keystone Kops comedy.
I personally feel that the interruptions of daily life in SICU were what kept me from feeling like I was cooped up in solitary confinement in the jail facility next to UCIMC. I survived by absorbing as much “stimulus” as I could, supplemented by the naptimes resulting from my numerous surgeries. It was not until much later in my hospitalization did I have to deal with the sense of going “stir crazy” – that is a story for later.
To be continued…
The posts on this blog are provided ‘as is’ with no warranties and confer no rights. The opinions expressed on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent those of my employer. © 2011, Jeff Brunn
