For the most part, I was only dimly aware of what was going on outside of my room. The nurses occasionally told me about particularly unfortunate cases, or whether the day was especially busy or placid, but I never ventured far beyond my own door. This was due in major part to the fact that I looked like a monster. Without haircuts or shampoo, my hair had grown and blossomed without restraint into a massive red tuft. The sutures and pipe insertion points on my throat were red and bulging; I looked like I'd be stitched together from spare parts, like an Irish version of Frankenstein's monster.
Every night, Page would visit me for a few hours to watch a few episode of a television show. Although I rarely watch television on my own, Page and I have a long tradition of spending evenings in and watching (and commenting on) a few select shows. While hospitalized, Page and I have been working our way through Lost and Dexter. At her recommendation, I'm also watching Firefly, which is apparently a hybrid sci-fi/western series that only lasted a single season.
For my upcoming birthday, Page and I had two major events planned: a trip to San Francisco, and dinner at Minibar. Unfortunately, I've had to cancel both, as I've been unsure of when I'll be released, and when I'll be able to eat solid food again. As I type this, Page is in SF now, and I miss the company. It's a real pleasure to sit in comfortable silence in the dark and watch a compelling show, especially when you have all of the back episodes on DVD and don't need to wait week-to-week for the next installment.
I'm also getting some reading done. I expected to read more fiction, but I haven't been able to muster interest in anything beyond Stanislaw Lem's The Futurological Congress. Lem is one of my favorite authors, one whose work is praiseworthy for many more reasons than simply being well-crafted 'science fiction'. This particular book is a vicious satire of government and professional conferences; I've had to put it down, though, since its hallucinatory themes are a little too close to comfort, considering my medical situation.
My mother, who is working on a Master's degree in the sciences (I forget what field, specifically), shipped me several of her textbooks, all of which are nonfiction. I'm finding science topics more compelling than fiction, lately. I'm currently reading Plagues and People, by William H. McNeill. I haven't got very far in it, but so far it seems like a cogent attempt to explain aspects of civilization's development through the impact of diseases.
The hospital does not provide free wi-fi, so my heart goes out to anyone imprisoned in this place with a laptop and no source of an Internet connection. Fortunately, I have a cellular card for my laptop that gives me a wireless connection, so I can update this blog, check my email, and so forth. Unfortunately, it's not fast enough to listen to many Shoutcast internet radio stations, so I've had to download podcasts and listen to my existing stock of music if I want a soundtrack for my days besides the incessant clicking and wheezing of the IV machine. For Podcasts, I tend to listen to a lot of science-themed shows, as well as talk radio and a few music-themed shows. I tend to switch my lineup around weekly, listening to just about anything that touches on a topic of interest to me. My current lineup includes:
- The Skeptic's Guide to the Universe
- E.V.R. - Minimal-Elektronik Plus
- Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me!
- NPR: Religion
- this WEEK in TECH
- Capitol Hill Baptist Church Audio Podcast
- WNYC's Radio Lab
(Yes, I listen to a lot of Projekt Records alumni.) Because I'm a nice guy, I posted a collection of a few tracks I've been listening to lately. It's available here (note: you need to enter the requested text and wait a minute before the download starts.)
Once I moved to the fourth floor, I began to settle into a more predictable routine as my condition stabilized. I could look forward to a nurse taking my vital signs at 4AM and 7AM, just before shift change, and then every hour or two until about midnight. If the day wasn't too hectic, I'd try to talk to the nurses about their work, and how the other patients were doing, or ask them to explain how various pieces of medical technology worked. That last activity turned out to be supremely important.
When I first moved to the fourth floor, I had no understanding of how the IV machines or the stomach pump worked. All I knew is that I was tethered to a heavy machine on both sides of my body, and if I needed to get up for any reason, or if a machine should start beeping loudly in complaint, I'd have to the page the nurse's station and request assistance. Sometimes a nurse or tech would show up in five minutes, more often within half an hour - and on one or two occasions, never. So, over time, I learned to operate the machines. I could start, stop, reset and troubleshoot a finicky IV (and they were all temperamental machines), and disconnect it from the wall so I could amble about freely. I learned how to disconnect the stomach pump and seal off the tubes (verrrrry important) as well. Being able to complete these activities meant that for the first time in over a week, I could get out of bed of my own volition and use the restroom, or walk to the window to look at the world below.
After the second Tuesday scan, the decision was made to provide me with some kind of nutrition. There had been some faint hope that I'd be out within the first week, but after a week and half, it became clear that my stay would be an extended one. By the start of April, I had to receive the following substances intravenously:
- Fluids
- Various antibiotics (Vancomycin, Unasyn)
- Total Parenteral Nutrition (my feed bag)
- Dilaudid (a.k.a., Hydromorphone)
The installation process took about 45 minutes. Essentially, the technician had to thread two IV lines through a series of veins until the tips of the lines arrive at the heart. One line is used exclusively for food delivery, and the other for everything else. Once that was installed, it became a much simpler process for the nurses to inject things, and it became easier for me since I didn't have to worry about a constantly changing IV site and having to receive needle injections for one-off applications of medicine.
Once the PICC line was installed, I got a new toy: a drip feed for the Dilaudid. Not only did I receive a constant trickle of pain medication, but I could summon more of it using a 'clicker' every 10 minutes. After the first week, I came to rely upon the Dilaudid to relieve the discomfort of having various tubes in my throat and chest, and an abraded, dry throat which I could only partly wet with the ice cubes I was permitted to chew on.
When I had the opportunity, I spoke with the nurses about their lives at the hospital. I wasn't interested in knowing details about other patients, nor would I think appropriate to ask, but I did hear stories about patients from other floors. Knowing that there was a young lady covered in stab wounds to her torso, or that there was someone my age suffering in the Oncology ward did a lot to quiet me if I was feeling frustrated about my situation. Mostly, though, I'd ask the nurses what they enjoyed about nursing, and how the job treated them. The responses were unanimous: Each nurse stayed with the job because of the satisfaction of being able to help someone in a direct, physical way, and because it made them happy to see a patient recover and leave the hospital. At the same time, the nurses all agreed that this particular hospital was an extremely challenging environment, perhaps too challenging.
I spent an afternoon reading about the nursing profession (since I had encountered some male nurses during my stay), and contemplating whether it would be something I would be interested in as a career change. I've set the idea aside for now, though - as Page pointed out, I've never tolerated human foibles very well. I'm not sure I completely agree with that assessment, but I don't know if I'm made of the stuff needed to be a patient, successful nurse.
The days pass in a homogeneous fashion as I settle into a rhythm of tolerance for the constant medical evaluations, questions, and the stretches of solitude. The days themselves are broken up by intervals of pain medication. For the most part, the only quality to distinguish one day from another is its relation in the calendar week to Tuesday. I've been at the nadir of my spirits Tuesday afternoons, as I found out the wound hadn't sufficiently healed and that I would need to remain an additional week. Gradually, an arc of anticipation builds up, until the next scan is performed the following Tuesday. And then the cycle repeats, and continues to repeat.
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