A bit longer post today. I revived  a memory from the time I was employed as a nursing supervisor at Frick Hospital, Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania.

Three Bears

During the month of December, three people who would walk to Frick hospital, come inside, and buy food at the cafeteria. They would carry their meals down into the main lobby. They would sit in one corner, eat their food, and watch the television for several hours, a father, son, and girlfriend of the father.

The father was a lean, short man who had a crusty patch on the left side of his forehead. He didn’t cover it with a bandage and the red angry looking wound was open for all to see. Because it was so unpleasant to see, it was rumored that he’d been banned from many of our local restaurants.

His girlfriend and son were on the large size. They were all less than clean. It had become a habit for them to “camp out” in the lobby, eat, and watch television. The area where they sat began to look shabby, worn, and had developed an odor. Although housekeeping would clean the seats, the constant wear began to take its toll. Housekeeping would rotate the chairs to lessen the impact.

I sent e-mails for several weeks, concerned about their presence. I explained that this had become a daily occurrence. I needed an answer what administration wanted me to do. Not only were they wearing out the furniture, but the hospital would have been liable had they become injured while they were “camped” in the lobby.

Near the end of December, I got the okay to ask them to They were not to be in the hospital unless they were there on hospital business. Their visits were always on the afternoon shift. Other management members had already gone and I was assigned the task.

The next evening, they bought food, and claimed “their” corner. They finished their meal, planning to watch television. I called one of our security officers when I approached them. Any time there could be a possible confrontation, I wanted back up as well as a witness as to what was said.

The guard arrived with a maintenance man in tow. I explained what I was going to do. We approached them and I said, “Excuse me. Are you here on hospital business?”

The girlfriend answered, “We’re visiting one of his friends.” and pointed to the son.

The son got the look of a deer caught in the headlights and stopped with a piece of a dinner roll halfway to his mouth.

“Who are you visiting?” I had the census sheets for the patients in the hospital and started to open it up.

When she couldn’t give me a name, she finally admitted, “We came here to eat.”

"I am to tell you that you cannot be here unless you are here on hospital business or visiting someone.”

“Where will we eat?” the woman complained.

“I don’t know. But it can’t be here. You’ll need to find somewhere else to eat.”

The security officer was at my side recording the conversation in a small notepad. When the woman caught sight of him she charged over to him, shaking her finger under his nose and demanded, “What are you writing?”

It caught him off guard and he stuttered, “ J-j-just the time and who was h-h-here.”

She turned back to me and repeated, “Where are we going to eat?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where you are going to eat, but you can’t come back here just to eat. If you return and aren’t here on hospital business, you will be asked to leave. If you refuse, I have the authorization to call the police and have you escorted off the property.”

All the wind went out of her sails with the mention of the police. She turned and gathered her things. She put on her coat, grabbed her purse, then left the hospital;.

“Let’s get out of here,” she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

I carried their empty trays back to the cafeteria.

We had our lobby back. Mama bear, poppa bear, and baby bear had left the building.

She wasn’t happy that she’d lost her eating place and wrote a letter to administration that we’d been mean to her. Of course we hadn’t, but she was being vindictive. The guard had his written report. I sent an e-mail of the details of the incident and the maintenance man added his report. All three accounts corroborated, disputing the statements the woman made.

 

 

 

Independence Day

Being cooped up and forced to remain at home is almost torture, although some days like Monday, it’s not boring. My cardiac surgeon, my nurses, and all my therapists have said, “No driving.” I tried to cheat saying I could still mow my yard on my rider, but my sharp-eyed daughter found in one of my discharge instructions, “No mowing the lawn.” SIGH.

Monday began the entourage of home visits. My occupational therapist was the first. After collecting the obligatory vital signs, temperature, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation, she followed me through my house, upstairs and down, warning me of trip hazards. I had to show her I’d made a way to shower. She had me get into bed and back out. I know several off color remarks about that, but no. Her evaluation was that I was fine. I’d remarked when she arrived and was an occupational therapist, “I’m retired. Does that mean you have a place in Florida for me?” She laughed and said, “She could probably find a golf course who  could use me to mow.”

Arriving on her heels was my therapist for cardiac rehabilitation, again my vital signs, questions, and an evaluation. She chased me through my house for nearly five minutes until she had my heart racing. I don’t know what would have happened if she’d have caught me. She seemed to be pleased with my stamina, my ability, and progress since surgery.

My younger daughter Anna Prinkey arrived in the midst of this to make lunch for me. The last to arrive was my visiting nurse. My vital signs first, then I explained as I did with each preceding visitor how a casual remark about chest tightness ended up in a triple bypass surgery. All quiet on the home front; lunch and a nap.

Phone message from my Pastor wanting to visit around 1:30 and I agreed. His remark that he thought I may need a visitor caused me to smile. When I shared my morning, he laughed.

Now comes the part where my limited independence raises its head. It’s all about the reliance on others and their schedules to find someone able to make the run for me. That’s why I can hardly wait until I am permitted to drive again and another personal independence day. I may just celebrate with potato salad, a hot dog, and fireworks.

A Dream I Think Not

Much of my triple bypass surgery and the events leading up to it is very much dreamlike. Faces, names, and who did what seem to blur, covered in a cloudy cloth. I want to remember the names of those responsible for my care, but I’m afraid I will forget some. It’s not that you were you were less important, it’s because I was so surprised with the turn of the many happenings and are a blur that may never come back into focus.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I have a cough-hug-cardiac pillow. It’s the only proof I have of those who cared for me. Their small note of encouragement connected with their names is the record of those who cared for me, but alas, none of the nurses responded to my request to also leave their phone numbers. Before you say I am a dirty old man, let me say the nurses were as beautiful on the outside as they were on the inside. It was a privilege to have met them during my hospital stay.

Faces blur as they prepared me for surgery, one stands out. She manscaped me. It was the first body shave I ever had. Cheri buzzed my body front and back in preparation for my surgery. I was almost as bald as the day I was born. I was introduced to many others before I was sent upstairs to the operating room. I remember Jen from dietary because she stopped to see me just before I was discharged. Housekeeping, transport, laboratory, and techs all were pleasant and courteous, except Martin from respiratory. He was firm almost gruff, but he had to push me to breathe properly. He and John from transport were kindhearted curmudgeons.

The first nurse who signed my pillow was Baylee with her note of “Keep up the good work.” Some names I remember because I saw them written on the day board. Masks often made it nearly impossible to recognize the caring person behind the medical veil. Another signature was Heather.

The two names I mostly recall were James W. and Abbie. They were involved in a major night time project. My Foley catheter had been removed. I was voiding, but it became like a fountain that wouldn’t stop. A bladder scan said I had 2,000 ccs in my bladder. That is like a 2 liter bottle of fluid tucked in my gut. The urine was overflowing and being forced out.

My night nurse James made several attempts to reinsert a Foley catheter without success and made calls to my urologist. The doctor came in and when the doctor couldn’t replace my Foley, They did a cystoscopy in y room. A nurse named Abbie joined them to assist with the procedure. Neither James nor Abbie had ever helped with a cysto before, but they were troopers. With the catheter replaced, the problem was alleviated.

 

 

God’s Timing is Always Perfect

I just returned home after having a triple bypass surgery on my heart. I know there are those who say, “If God is so good, how could He allow you to be so ill to have a major surgery?” Let me tell you about the string of events that led to the surgery. Some may say it’s a string of coincidences, but often God places events one after another so you are compelled to do whet needs done, painful or not.

After my admission at Frick for low potassium and urinary infection, I was doing a follow-up with my PCP. I casually mentioned that I could haul in firewood and shovel show for half an hour and nothing, but if I walked the 35- 40 yards to my mailbox, I developed chest tightness, Like taking a deep breath of cold air, She said that it time for another stress test.

I failed the test miserably, only walking for 3 minutes and 40 seconds. That aimed me to have a cardiac cath and possible stent insertion. Friday, my cath physician said the I had 3 vessels, including a major one the the artery the call “The widow maker.” He told me that he could go ahead and place six to eight stents, but the possibility of them re-occluding was great and would eventually happen. As I tried to gather my thoughts and evaluate what I should do, he said, “I cannot with good conscience allow you to go home.” The blockages were 80% + blocked. The good part is that my heart was healthy without disease or heart attack. Now was the time to take care of my heart before I had a heart attack and a damaged heart.

I was admitted immediately to await the knife. Not a pleasant thought, but it looked like the only feasible option. There was no arguing. It needed done. I was lined up to have further testing and to get ready for Monday, the big day. There was no fear. I was pressed against an immovable barrier of the impending surgery.

I woke up still entubated and in pain. I couldn’t complain, but lost the pain in a blur of drugs. I was half asleep for several days, relearning how to breathe deeply again. The nursing care and the attentiveness of physical and respiratory therapy was always courteous and on time

The one thing that didn’t happen was when the nurses signed my cough-heart pillow, I asked them to leave their phone number. I didn’t have any takers. I’m home now and learning my new medications. I will update later. I’m feeling kind of washed out.

 

Easter Candy

I want to share a collection of Easter time memories of candy that still rattle around in my head. The first is a story told to me, my wife Cindy, and to my kids by Cindy’s father Elmer “Bud” Morrison. When he was a child at Easter, he would break off the ears of his sisters chocolate rabbits and eat them. He would do it before going to church on Easter morning. To protect his bunny from any retaliatory strikes by his sisters he would hide his chocolate rabbit. One year he decided to hide his candy rabbit on a window sill behind the curtains. He felt that his chocolate treasure would be safe there. When he returned home and decided to fetch it, he found that it had disappeared with only several brown streaks that dripped from the window sill and ran down the wall. The sun had come out, shined in the window, and melted Bud’s poor little rabbit.

My aunt Violet Miner Bottomley would make chocolate covered Easter eggs every year for Easter. She made several flavors in several sizes. She would give me and my brother Ken a smaller one. I can’t remember if my sister Kathy was old enough or even born yet. The flavors she made were maple nut, fruit and nut, and coconut. My favorite was the coconut egg with its mild, sweet flavor wrapped in chocolate. The fruit and nut egg had a strong sherry flavor and reminded me of a fruit cake. The maple nut egg was overly sweet and tasted too strongly of maple.

When our church maintained a Christian school, the women of the church would make and sell peanut butter eggs as a fund raiser. They would blend together a concoction of margarine, powdered sugar, and peanut butter. The thickened mixture was shaped into elongated oval balls and cooled in large coolers. Later those balls were hand dipped and coated in melted chocolate and again refrigerated. Once the chocolate had hardened, the eggs were wrapped in pastel-colored squares of aluminum foil and sold. Most times the preorders for the tasty eggs kept us busy making them by the hundreds. They also made chocolate covered pretzel rods.

Cindy and I would buy smaller amounts of candy for the Easter baskets, preferring to add a book or some toy item. We did buy some of the peanut butter eggs, but rationed them out. The kids didn’t need all the sugar to wind them up at once and they could enjoy the book or toy after the candy was gone.