The journey began here and continued here.
Dr. Google never went to medical school. Please visit an actual health care provider – a physician, a nurse practitioner, or a physician assistant – for any medical help.
My ICU nurse for my last day in the unit was Jennifer, who’d been assigned to the neuro floor before she transferred to the ICU, which may be why she wheeled me up to my new hospital home on Saturday. I’d liked Jennifer. She was about the age of my youngest sister and like the rest of the ICU staff talked to me like a person, not just a patient or worse, a diagnosis. ICU nurses are a special breed, and I will always be grateful for the psychosocial care they gave me on top of everything else.
When Jennifer got me settled into my new hospital room, she rested her hand on my shoulder and told me, “It has been a true pleasure taking care of you.” It had been a pleasure being her patient, and I hope she goes on to have a long and happy nursing career.
Going from ICU to neuro was a bit of a culture shock. There’s not a lot of privacy in the ICU. The fourth wall of my ICU room was glass, floor to ceiling, so that the staff could see me easily from the unit desk. When I needed to use the bedside commode, the nurses would draw the curtain so I could feel a little less humilated. But I had a nurse respond to me within seconds of being paged, and since I was one of the few patients who was conscious most of the time, I had nurses checking on me and talking to me on a regular basis, especially once they learned I was hospital people. So despite knowing that I was in a risky medical situation, I didn’t panic. I was cared for by people who were watching me very closely.
On the neuro floor, I was no longer on display and I wasn’t monitored quite so closely. I had a door that wasn’t glass. I was no longer on an IV. I wasn’t having my blood pressure monitored every 15 minutes. I had a bathroom with a shower. It was a bit like being in a hotel room. But it was still a hospital room, and the staff to patient ratio was very different from the ICU. I don’t blame the nurses; this is a way too common problem in hospitals these days. But I felt lonely, and had to work a little harder to keep myself distracted or cheered up. I missed my husband keenly, and he couldn’t stay with me as much as he wanted. I missed our cats. I missed getting to sleep in our bed. I missed being home. So when my neuro nurses asked me for a long-term patient goal, I had no trouble saying, “Going home.”
My veins were being uncooperative again, and I got to meet possibly the best phlebotomist in the hospital, a cheerful fellow who greeted me with “Hi, my name is Jojo, and I’ll be your vampire today.” While he was getting his kit out, I spotted a colorful USMC tattoo and asked him, “Are you a Marine? What was your MOS?” He answered that he was indeed, and he’d been Force Recon back when he was active duty. I explained that I had a couple of good friends who are Marines, and he said he figured that was the case, since I’d asked him are you a Marine, not were you a Marine. I joked that I was glad to hear he was Force Recon because I needed a phlebotomist who’d been trained in “one shot, one kill,” and we shared a laugh.
But as delightful as Jojo was, he couldn’t help me go home faster. The sticking point was my blood sugar. Until it dropped to 150, I was going to stay in that room. There’s not a lot you can do as a bed- and chair-bound diabetic to improve your blood glucose. As a type 2 diabetic, I could try exercising, but since I was still a fall risk, I wasn’t even allowed out of my bed without an escort. But I could take a shower, and I could spend more time in a chair, and I could keep taking my medication when the nurse brought it around several times a day.
I admit I’m not a very patient patient. There’s a reason I’m a knitter: I don’t like sitting around having nothing to do, and I was getting tired of watching programs and movies on my Kindle. I’d managed to talk to my manager and she reassured me that my customers were being taken care of by my teammates, but I fretted because I’d left behind stuff for other people to take care of.
But my luck was holding up. I was transferred from the ICU to the neuro ward on Saturday, and was finally discharged the following Tuesday. I would’ve wheeled myself out if they’d let me. I was going home. I was going to be with my husband again. I was going to see my cat Ash, who’d been throwing multiple hissy fits while I was gone without his permission. I was going home.
Of course, going home was just the start of the aftermath.
Rachel
I'm a writer, a knitter/spinner/weaver, a young stroke survivor, and a type 2 diabetic.
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