Hurdles

Coming back to normal from a triple bypass surgery is a series of hurdles. The first is obvious, to survive the surgery. The next is to outlast any pain that occurs. Then there are the days of learning to walk. All of those obstacles were handled before I was discharged. Returning home, I was followed by an entourage of heath care workers. The first was to evaluate my home; to be sure I could still function in a familiar home setting. Hers was a single visit.

Next was my rehabilitation nurse. She removed my throw rugs to prevent a tripping hazard and laid out an exercise plan for me, coming two to three times each week and expanded the number of repetitions of each exercise and the amount of time for me to walk. Each visit the number of laps through my downstairs increased. My last boring excursion with her close on my heels was thirty minutes. I’ve seen that view for thirty years and very little has changed. I shared with her that my walks increased in length while outside. I always matched the time she assigned or surpassed it. She emphasized my need to walk on the level, but the two side roads I use have slight inclines. I don’t want to walk on the Macadam road. It’s flat, but too many people believe it’s a speedway.

When I mentioned that I was walking up and down slight inclines, she reiterated that I should be walking on flat ground. I chuckled to myself. “This is southwestern Pennsylvania. It’s hard enough to find a straight road, let alone a flat place to walk.” Yesterday on my jaunt, I saw a groundhog and the neighbor’s chickens on my morning tour and another neighbor’s dogs in the afternoon.

I’ve graduated from eight minute walks three times per day to thirty minutes twice each day. I hope she doesn’t expect me to do a marathon. I’ve led a rather sedentary life to this point which has probably affected my coronary arteries and the need for bypass surgery. Her visits will be only twice a week. I’ve exceeded her expectations.

Yesterday I was also visited by my home health nurse. After vital signs, she listened to my lungs, heart, and finally checked my chest wounds. She was pleased and has no plans to return unless I need her. My Foley catheter came out yesterday and she made sure I was voiding.

I managed to put several hurdles behind me. A few more doctors’ visits and the return of my driving privileges are my last hurdles.

 

Bottoms Up

While working as a nursing supervisor at H. C. Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, I had many strange occurrences, BUTT this one was unique. The uniforms for nurses were changing over the years and the fabric became Rayon and nylon. The uniforms became thinner and the fashion of women’s underwear became infused with bright colors and designs as well. The two just didn’t mix well.

A problem arose for management. They wrote a rule that women could no longer wear flowered or brightly patterned underwear that could be visible beneath the white uniforms. Those who did were reminded in none too friendly terms that it was against the rules. They were reprimanded and advised not to do it again.

This policy continued as many uniforms evolved into scrubs. Colored scrubs often disguised the underwear beneath the cloth, but the white ones were a little like Shahade’s veil, muting the colors and patterns rather than covering them. There was a again a push to enforce the old established policy. Most nurses adhered to the policy, but on occasion, in a rush to dress someone would forget and needed to be reminded.

All was well until a male nurse was hired. For several months, through the orientation process and his assignment on a med/surg ward, there were no voiced concerns. Then one evening I was approached by several nurses with a complaint. He wasn’t violating the brightly hued or design of the underwear policy. He just wasn’t wearing any underwear. They wanted me to remind him of the policy and tell him he needed to wear underwear beneath his white scrubs.

I waited for him to come out to the nursing station to be sure. His scrub top was long enough that it hid all of the complaints, but when he bent over to reach for something, it was obvious that he wasn’t wearing drawers. More than a silhouette of his bottom was visible. The length of his top covered his family jewels, so he didn’t present anything obscene.

I was in a quandary. He wasn’t violating the underwear policy, because he wasn’t wearing underwear. I wasn’t sure what I needed to do. I took the chicken’s way out. I told the complaining nurses that I couldn’t enforce the policy, because he wasn’t violating the underwear policy. They needed to voice a complaint to their unit manager who worked the daylight shift where she could approach the upper tier administrators for a ruling.

I never heard whether the nurses passed on the complaint or what decision management made, but the young man moved to another hospital. That was the bottom line and I don’t know if they were faced with the same problem or not.

 

Weather or Not

About a week ago, I was bundled up in a winter coat and wearing gloves, but Wednesday and Thursday I was out walking for fifteen minutes three times each day to keep my rehab nurse happy. Walking outside is much better than walking in circles for eleven minutes through my downstairs. The scenery there hasn’t really changed inside my home in thirty years. New carpet of beige was the most exciting happening in the last few years.

My rehab nurse collected my scattered throw rugs from my path through the family room and kitchen. She was afraid that they would be a trip hazard and had to be collected, even though they’d been in the same spots for nearly twelve years. As you can tell, I’m not particularly fond of change or bright colors although I still on occasion will draw and paint with colored pencils and paints.

I told her that I’d cheated. I was tired of being inside and going in circles three times a day. I went into the great outdoors. I know that my kids think I might overdo, but I pace myself. I’m not used to being “coddled.” I’m not an egg, but I have to limit what I do.  I’ve lived by myself independently for over five years. Willow my cat has been my only companion.

The only other time my ability to move with restrictions was in 2015 when I slipped on the ice in my driveway. I fell hard on my back and hit the back of my head, causing two bleeds in my brain. The doctors restricted me from driving for a month. That restriction and the one I have now chafes me terribly.   I am used to climbing into my car and going whenever and wherever I need. I’ve even chauffeured some of my friends who needed rides for groceries or meetings.

It is frustrating not to join friends for luncheons or to join my friends at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society every Wednesday morning I’m still able to work on the newsletter from home, but the camaraderie is lost.

But back to my strolls, the weather Wednesday and Thursday was short sleeve shirt weather and the walks were so pleasant. Crocuses, daffodils, and coltsfoot flowers are blooming in my yard and others along the roads are almost out. The sights and smells beckon me to walk a bit more each trip and for the most part I allow myself to be seduced. It’s raining today and I’m not sure of an outside excursion. We’ll see.

 

 

Going for Groceries

When people mention grocery shopping in the Connellsville area, most of us mature folk remember the old Pechin’s Market. It was located in Dunbar, Pennsylvania and the collection of rambling add-on buildings spanned generations and a small creek. It was a place where shoppers never knew where a certain product would on display to be sold and the meat was fresh and reasonably priced. It was so reasonably priced that it was mentioned in the Wall Street Journal. People often followed the meat cart on hands and knees as it emerged. Usually two people shopped together as one grabbed the packages of meat, the other person caught it when the package flew through the air, tossed and placed it in the shopping cart where it was guarded. Yes, I said guarded as were many other products. If a person stepped away from their cart and someone saw something they needed, they would take it out and put it in their own cart instead of looking for it. The hubbub over the meat cart was similar to vultures picking clean the bones of some sort of animal, occurring many times before the meat supply reached the display cases. It was a place where it was necessary to shop in pairs. One had to be on the alert at all times riding shotgun on the cart to prevent others from removing things in your cart.

Pechin’s parking lot was just shy of a war zone. The potholes looked like a battlefield with mortar holes holding hands. Cars parked wherever they thought they could squeeze in, often without rhyme or reason. Most often two rows allowed easier access and egress, but sometimes a third row was started trapping some cars. It happened to me. It was summer and I didn’t want what I Bought to thaw or spoil I paced at my car, fuming. When the guy who had started the correct row came out and got in his car, I knew I could escape. I reached into one of my bags and shared a bottle of ketchup with the person who made the third row…on his windshield. I smiled and drove away.

I also wanted to talk about another market, the one that sat across the street from Guiermo Reyes’ barber shop and the Showboat Lounge. The store was called the Market Basket. My mom and dad used to shop there when I was very young, I can hardly remember anything about in other than the outside and the parking lot. I can’t remember going inside even once. It may have been Mom shopped inside while Dad and I remained in the car.

 

 

Heroes, All of You

I didn’t want to overwhelm people with too many stories from my recent hospitalization, so I resurrected an event that happened while working as a supervisor at Frick Hospital. What I want to share today is the fact that I appreciate each and every one of the talented and gracious people involved in any way during my stay for open heart, triple bypass surgery at Excela Health, Westmorland Hospital. As a nurse for over 34 years and being in the health care field for 38 years and 4 years to gain my Bachelor in Science Nursing, I understand the dedication needed to care for the sick and injured. I take off my hat to you all.

I applaud the techs, transport, aides, dietary, respiratory, housekeeping, doctors and their assistants as well as the nursing staff for maintaining my comfort. Although many of those who cared for me denied that I was imposing and taking time away from their assignments necessary for the care for the other clients, I knew better. When I was that one person and tied up staff members for an hour or two, the rest of their duties would pile up and others have to cover their charges.

I really haven’t remembered any more names than I recognized before, but I must share that even if you weren’t mentioned by name, my care would have suffered and I would not have recovered so quickly. Eyes and masks didn’t allow me to recognize many of you and unless I find myself in a harem where you’re sequestered under the watchful eye of a giant eunuch guard, I probably won’t recognize you again. Besides I was still very groggy from drugs with strange black silhouettes spearing in my dreams.

Enough of my humor and making light of my surgery, you all were truly tremendous. I hope my impression on each of you will as memorable as your presence and care was for me.

Take care and God bless you all. I cannot say enough about my care and especially of the people who made my stay at your hospital a memory that will not quickly forgotten, even in the encroaching fog of my old age.

Recently, I was pleasantly surprised when an old friend and reader sent an email saying that he was sorry to hear about my surgery. He’d read my account of my triple bypass surgery saying that he enjoyed reading stories from my blog.