Usually when a nurse spoke to me, it was either to give an instruction (sit up, swallow these, lift your arm) to administer care, or to go through a series of rote and uninteresting questions (what's your birthday, what is today's date, where are you) to gauge my mental state.
On July 3rd, my usual nurse - about whom I have no complaints whatsoever - was taking a much-deserved day off. Let's call her replacement Sally.
Sally was young and pretty, and while she sounded a bit like a "Valley Girl" she was obviously intelligent and performed her duties - including getting me ready for dismissal - with skill and efficiency. She also seemed to actually care who I was. Hers were not the usual questions about the setting of my own personal drama. Instead she asked me what I did for a living. My title is long and far more impressive than it ought to be (to be honest I could never remember it without reading it off my own business card), and caught her interest, so she asked me to explain my work (I write reports analyzing market opportunities in the aerospace and defense industry, and no, I'm 100% civilian with no security clearance of any form). She complimented my hair, which at the time made me look like an extra from Mad Max: still as long as ever but rather messy, save the part they shaved for the surgery and the resulting incision, which was sutured with 45 metallic staples. She asked me where I lived. If I had a girlfriend.
It was the first time in days anyone had really acknowledged that I was not a disease, and that I did have a life beyond the hospital, one to which I would return. Two weeks prior to that moment, I had no idea I had cancer. I had hopes and dreams for my future. Not ambitious ones but you take what you can get. A 401k. I thank Sally, deeply and sincerely, for remembering that, and I admire the tremendous amount of strength it must require.
Unfortunately not all of my nurses were quite so courteous that day. They didn't want to dismiss me until they got a clear blood test, and as I've mentioned my platelets have a tendency to clump. They drew my blood four times, even after my doctor confirmed that yes, my blood does that, and no, you don't have to keep jabbing the patient. Each nurse assumed the previous one had done it wrong, or missed, or didn't get proper suction on the vial. One in particular scolded me for having "bad veins," yanked my bed away from the wall, and stabbed the butterfly directly into my left wrist without the slightest warning. I had never had blood taken from my wrist, and he did it with such little regard that it hurt more and healed slower than any of the IVs.
The next nurse apologized for his co-worker's behavior, and sadly said that yes, sometimes nurses do forget that their patients are people.
Then he drew my blood again.
They finally did release me from the hospital. They didn't even give me a wheelchair. Three days where I couldn't even stand up without a nurse present, then they just give me a pat on the back and send me on my way. They also gave me a scrip for oxycontin, which was nice of them I suppose but I really didn't need it and never filled it.
As a side note, the hospital did send me a survey about my stay. My response included an additional three type-written pages, including all of the complaints I've recounted here along with a handful of others too minor or mundane to make for a good story. A few weeks later I received a letter in return, the address hand-written. In response to my experience, a patient care advocate had launched an official investigation. I'm still waiting on the results.
As I put my clothes back on, they felt strange. So different from the hospital gown, and I had to be so very cautious putting them on. I needed help with my shirt as I couldn't see my sutures. Socks were an ordeal since I was forbidden to bend over; too much pressure could have caused a brain hemorrhage. Fastening my belt felt like an odd triumph, like a buckle was somehow the clearest of all indicators that yes, I was wearing real people clothes again, and yes, if I had the uniform of a real person I could go be a real person.
Even with my new-found freedom, I had to move slowly and intentionally. I was still weak, and while I never felt unstable I was acutely aware of what might happen if I fell and hit my head.
As we started the drive home we had to contend with the usual traffic, exceptionally dense and moving at a fair clip. Minutes from the hospital, my mother decided to change lanes early to make sure she got in the proper lane for an upcoming exit. Seconds later, there was a six-car accident in the lane we had just occupied, the lead car slamming on his breaks to avoid hitting some debris, the cars behind him left with no room to stop. I saw it happen right outside my window. There was no doubt in my mind that had we been in that accident, I would have ended up right back in the hospital or just plain dead.
My parents and I had decided it would be best were I to stay with them until I was confident I could live on my own again. Never before had a bed looked so inviting.
Showing posts with label american cancer society. Show all posts
Showing posts with label american cancer society. Show all posts
Friday, October 14, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Semi-Private
My parents arrived around 10AM, and when they heard of the previous night's delights they again insisted I be moved. This time they demanded an empty room.
It's a selfish thing to demand since actual private rooms (as opposed to semi-private) cost far more, and we couldn't expect them to just toss out another patient so I could sleep better. Except they didn't have to. They never had to. Half of the floor was totally empty; they'd paired us up so the nurses had to check fewer rooms on rounds. Finally I was brought to an unoccupied room, and the staff said they would attempt to keep the other side empty, but they couldn't promise anything. Reasonable enough, as another patient may need that bed more than I needed my rest.
Just as I started to fall asleep, I got a new roommate. An old woman had fainted, and though she seemed to have recovered they still brought her into a patient room where she and her family loudly discussed what they would have for lunch. Most of her family was already in the building, as she was Mr. Liver's mother. She had refused to be put in the same room as her son because she "didn't want him to see her like that." At that point I'd been at the hospital for over two days (three if you count the day of the surgery) and had managed about three hours of actual sleep. I think they decided on ice cream.
After two hours or so she left, and her side of the room remained vacant for the rest of my stay.
Dr. Brain came to see me that day, and was pleased at how well I was doing, though he was surprised to see that I still had my drain. It had long run dry and should have been removed the previous night, but it seems no one ever got around to it. One of his assistants would later finally remove the tube, though the incision required additional stitches. Two, to be precise. He told me I could either take it without anesthetic and feel two pokes, or I could take it with anesthetic, but that would require two injections directly at the site of the incision (in other words, feel two pokes). I opted to go without the drugs, and my scalp was numb enough that I barely felt it anyway.
I received some more detailed neurological tests. First I was asked to memorize three words, which I had to repeat at the end of the test. I copied a simple symbol on a page, drew a clock from memory, and wrote a fake check (at least I really hope it was fake). I could still write, though my normally messy scrawl was even less legible, my hand weak. I was asked to do some basic math and count backwards from 100 by 7s. They asked me how many boroughs were in New York City, which I got right despite having only been to the city about four times in my life. Their evaluation was heartening to say the least: no physical or mental deficits. They wanted to monitor me for one more night, but felt confident that I would be able to leave around noon the next day. That meant a total of three in the hospital; they'd originally anticipated up to five.
My parents had brought me my laptop, which helped me to pass the time immensely. Up to that point I'd had nothing to do at all, as they hadn't anticipated I'd recover quickly enough to be able to use a computer (or even to simply be bored, I suppose). Netflix streaming video is a wonderful thing, as is Steam.
I'd told myself to hold off on communication. Between the drugs and the surgery, I knew I couldn't trust myself to maintain proper conversational etiquette and decorum. It was not only possible but probable that I'd say something depressing, or offensive, or embarrassingly nonsensical. To those of you who may be faced with a similar situation in your future, this is really good advice, and your friends will totally understand if they see you online but you don't say "hi."
So I pretty much ignored my good advice and sent out a few e-mails, sent a few private messages, etc. I did not completely abandon my plan and kept my conversations very short and basic, simple reassurances that things had gone well and hey, check me out, I'm totally still literate, and so I did manage to avoid later embarrassment.
I actually managed to sleep that night. Sure, it was less than perfect. A nurse still woke me up every hour to give me some medication, or check my blood pressure. I called a nurse so I could go to the bathroom and no one ever showed up (I was helped half an hour later by one who came with a nice cup of pills for me). They left the lights on and I had to sneak out of bed to turn them off myself. Four separate nurses cheerfully said that of course they would close my door, and then immediately failed to do so. Even so, I managed to fall asleep quickly after each interruption. Compared to the previous night, it was quite restful.
I slept about eight hours that night, enough that when morning came I felt rested. The steroids they gave me were partially to thank (or blame) for that.
I also felt very ready to leave. I was tired of being treated like a slab of meat. No nurse offered me any opportunity to bathe, at any point during my stay. Not even so much as a toothbrush. I felt greasy and sticky. I stank. My hair was filled with dried blood and gel.
You can imagine my surprise when a nurse started an actual conversation with me.
It's a selfish thing to demand since actual private rooms (as opposed to semi-private) cost far more, and we couldn't expect them to just toss out another patient so I could sleep better. Except they didn't have to. They never had to. Half of the floor was totally empty; they'd paired us up so the nurses had to check fewer rooms on rounds. Finally I was brought to an unoccupied room, and the staff said they would attempt to keep the other side empty, but they couldn't promise anything. Reasonable enough, as another patient may need that bed more than I needed my rest.
Just as I started to fall asleep, I got a new roommate. An old woman had fainted, and though she seemed to have recovered they still brought her into a patient room where she and her family loudly discussed what they would have for lunch. Most of her family was already in the building, as she was Mr. Liver's mother. She had refused to be put in the same room as her son because she "didn't want him to see her like that." At that point I'd been at the hospital for over two days (three if you count the day of the surgery) and had managed about three hours of actual sleep. I think they decided on ice cream.
After two hours or so she left, and her side of the room remained vacant for the rest of my stay.
Dr. Brain came to see me that day, and was pleased at how well I was doing, though he was surprised to see that I still had my drain. It had long run dry and should have been removed the previous night, but it seems no one ever got around to it. One of his assistants would later finally remove the tube, though the incision required additional stitches. Two, to be precise. He told me I could either take it without anesthetic and feel two pokes, or I could take it with anesthetic, but that would require two injections directly at the site of the incision (in other words, feel two pokes). I opted to go without the drugs, and my scalp was numb enough that I barely felt it anyway.
I received some more detailed neurological tests. First I was asked to memorize three words, which I had to repeat at the end of the test. I copied a simple symbol on a page, drew a clock from memory, and wrote a fake check (at least I really hope it was fake). I could still write, though my normally messy scrawl was even less legible, my hand weak. I was asked to do some basic math and count backwards from 100 by 7s. They asked me how many boroughs were in New York City, which I got right despite having only been to the city about four times in my life. Their evaluation was heartening to say the least: no physical or mental deficits. They wanted to monitor me for one more night, but felt confident that I would be able to leave around noon the next day. That meant a total of three in the hospital; they'd originally anticipated up to five.
My parents had brought me my laptop, which helped me to pass the time immensely. Up to that point I'd had nothing to do at all, as they hadn't anticipated I'd recover quickly enough to be able to use a computer (or even to simply be bored, I suppose). Netflix streaming video is a wonderful thing, as is Steam.
I'd told myself to hold off on communication. Between the drugs and the surgery, I knew I couldn't trust myself to maintain proper conversational etiquette and decorum. It was not only possible but probable that I'd say something depressing, or offensive, or embarrassingly nonsensical. To those of you who may be faced with a similar situation in your future, this is really good advice, and your friends will totally understand if they see you online but you don't say "hi."
So I pretty much ignored my good advice and sent out a few e-mails, sent a few private messages, etc. I did not completely abandon my plan and kept my conversations very short and basic, simple reassurances that things had gone well and hey, check me out, I'm totally still literate, and so I did manage to avoid later embarrassment.
I actually managed to sleep that night. Sure, it was less than perfect. A nurse still woke me up every hour to give me some medication, or check my blood pressure. I called a nurse so I could go to the bathroom and no one ever showed up (I was helped half an hour later by one who came with a nice cup of pills for me). They left the lights on and I had to sneak out of bed to turn them off myself. Four separate nurses cheerfully said that of course they would close my door, and then immediately failed to do so. Even so, I managed to fall asleep quickly after each interruption. Compared to the previous night, it was quite restful.
I slept about eight hours that night, enough that when morning came I felt rested. The steroids they gave me were partially to thank (or blame) for that.
I also felt very ready to leave. I was tired of being treated like a slab of meat. No nurse offered me any opportunity to bathe, at any point during my stay. Not even so much as a toothbrush. I felt greasy and sticky. I stank. My hair was filled with dried blood and gel.
You can imagine my surprise when a nurse started an actual conversation with me.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
American Cancer Society possibly malignant
Greg Laden posted this interesting and eye-opening analysis of the American Cancer Society, an organization with a rather benign-sounding name and one - you would think - focused primarily on funding cancer research through charitable donations.
Not so, according to Laden and the Charity Navigator. Laden goes into great detail on the matter and links to even more information - along with alternative, more principled charities - so go check out his excellent post over on his blog if you're interested. The short version is that only about $0.25 per dollar is used for actual cancer research, though it's likely more than that it spent on other support programs. Even so, the executives are extremely well-compensated.
One thing I noticed was ACS's accountability and transparency rating, which is ranked 4 out of 4 stars. In other words, they're lining their pockets with money donated to cancer research in good faith, and they aren't even trying to hide it. Takes a special kind of sociopath to do something like that. The same sort who wouldn't take candy from a baby because it's more effective to kill a baby to lower demand in the candy market.
On a more personal note, one of their reviews on Charity Navigator accuses the ACS of refusing donations from non-theist organizations. Laden links an article that shows in depth the lengths to which the ACS went trying to not take half a million dollars from secular donors. I guess they don't mind taking money away from cancer research, as long as it's none of that filthy godless money. Meanwhile apologists are quick to play the "competitiveness" card, saying that high executive salaries are justified by proportionately more talented individuals. Seems to me that if that were the case they'd be able to channel more money toward actual cancer research. That is their stated goal, is it not?
Not so, according to Laden and the Charity Navigator. Laden goes into great detail on the matter and links to even more information - along with alternative, more principled charities - so go check out his excellent post over on his blog if you're interested. The short version is that only about $0.25 per dollar is used for actual cancer research, though it's likely more than that it spent on other support programs. Even so, the executives are extremely well-compensated.
One thing I noticed was ACS's accountability and transparency rating, which is ranked 4 out of 4 stars. In other words, they're lining their pockets with money donated to cancer research in good faith, and they aren't even trying to hide it. Takes a special kind of sociopath to do something like that. The same sort who wouldn't take candy from a baby because it's more effective to kill a baby to lower demand in the candy market.
On a more personal note, one of their reviews on Charity Navigator accuses the ACS of refusing donations from non-theist organizations. Laden links an article that shows in depth the lengths to which the ACS went trying to not take half a million dollars from secular donors. I guess they don't mind taking money away from cancer research, as long as it's none of that filthy godless money. Meanwhile apologists are quick to play the "competitiveness" card, saying that high executive salaries are justified by proportionately more talented individuals. Seems to me that if that were the case they'd be able to channel more money toward actual cancer research. That is their stated goal, is it not?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)