After scarfing my dinner back in my suite after it was all said and done, and had talked to Corrie and sent a few other texts, my evening slowed down.
Corrie visited and eventually went home, and I learned that I might be able to leave the next day, on Tuesday. It all pretty much centered on my pain levels. Since the nerve block had stopped around the time I woke up after the surgery, there wasn't a shoe waiting to drop that I was waiting for, so it was really about me. Maybe I'm hasty about the nerve block, but the most it hurt after surgery was right when I woke up, and it kept around there for a good while, even with the morphine.
I had been having trouble with the urinal apparatus, and once the doctor said that because of the soft cast, moving around and letting gravity affect the wound was beneficial, so I decided to get up and use the bathroom when it came time to pee. But now I needed help getting down and then back up into bed. With the splint, I had mastered the art of extracting myself from the bed and replacing myself there, if not with "ease", then with a semblance of confidence.
I learned pretty quick that having my dangling foot bounce with each hop was one of the most painful things I've gotten into, and then peeing itself--balancing on my quivering right foot and holding my gown above my head, trying to stand above the bowl enough to leave my left hand free to balance on a crutch--quickly became the most painful.
Until...well, I'll hold on to some of the mystery...
But that first night, after Corrie left, they gave me two pills ("Anything you need for pain meds, we got you," I was told) and settled in for a nice sleep. I woke up,had to pee, and so called for the medic to help me out of bed. It turned out it wasn't midnight yet, and I'd slept for maybe seventy minutes. Shit.
The nurse came in and I had to explain what I was asking for, because getting out of bed was along the same lines it seemed to them as hammering my skull. Now, every single time I rang for help during this evening, it was a completely different nurse, and each new person I had to explain my situation to. It got old, but maybe not as old as my desire to get out of bed and pee.
Once I returned I asked for some more meds, and the nurse brought me a shot of morphine. Sweet, I thought. Now I should be able to get some sleep.
Soon enough, I was awake, sweaty, and needed to pee. This time it was 1:13. Maybe I lasted another seventy minutes. After getting out and back and a new set of meds, I was given another pair of pills, and headed off to slumber.
Apparently during surgery they flood your body with fluids, because again I was up, only this time it was after 4:30, so maybe this time I got through a cycle. Only this time there was excitement a brewin'.
I could hear a deep voice in the hallway absolutely hollering, "I'M IN PAIN! I KNOW MY RIGHTS AS A PATIENT! YOU NEED TO GIVE ME MEDICINE!" I imagined a burly biker guy with long stringy hair for some reason. He was making a damn scene. "GIVE ME MEDICINE! YOU'RE REQUIRED TO GIVE ME MED..." He was going on and on, and eventually he came to throwing stuff off of counters and onto the floor, and then you could hear, "I DEMAND TO BE SENT TO A DIFFERENT FUCKING HOSPITAL!" Then you could hear somebody engaging him in dialogue and it sounded like a muffled reasonable person, to which he responded, "OH FUCK YOU MENTAL HEALTH STATUS! I JUST NEED MEDICINE! YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO TREAT A PATIENT!" Honestly, that kinda cracked me up.
Over the intercom you could also hear the repetitive "Code 3, 4-E. Code 3, 4-E. Code 3, 4-E," which must have been some kind of distress call.
Eventually he was subdued and a nurse showed up and helped me out, and I was excited to get some pills instead of the shot, because they sure seemed to work better. He brought me the shot. "I was hoping for pills," I plaintively said, to which he responded, "Nah, the rotation's on the morphine now." Worse things could be the case I figured.
This time, though, the shot of morphine I could feel wash over my arm and chest to my other arm, and then percolate to the rest of my body. I became short of breath and high as a fucking kite. Sleep was what I wanted, but that was almost out of the question. I had to take stock of each of the cells in my body, and then my brain ran through an entire story about a meatball that showed the ineptitude of every facet of the overworked and underpaid staff for a hospital for-the-uninsured (I call it Floored!, (coming soon)), and then I maybe drifted off, when I could hear myself breathing.
I may have made it until dawn, or daybreak, but again I was up. Man, they must have jammed me full of fluids...
That entire night was a blur of struggling to get to the toilet, that yelling guy, meatballs, morphine and narco pills. The next evening I was heading home. Now I was free to struggle naked if I wanted. Now I could watch something or nothing, and I wouldn't have to listen to the other folks' stupid channels. Now I was free to be alone and on my own terms, to gauge the recovery as I see fit (or, rather, as Corrie sees fit).
Even if I can't get around so well, I like it being on my terms, or me and Corrie's terms, instead of the hospital's. That place...I just couldn't hang out there anymore. Once what they could offer could be offered at home, I knew it was time to split.
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