Follow the Senior Hummingbird

Once admitted to the hospital for a night of heart monitoring even though my heart had shown no indications of a problem, I became a virtual prisoner on my bed. Because of the possibility of cardiac patients falling, the bed is set to give off an alarm whenever anyone gets off the bed. For previously highly independent people like me, that was a big adjustment. And, since fluid was flowing into me, I was required to summon aid several times to de-program the alarm on my bed and allow me to walk to the bathroom pushing the intravenous contraption with me.
There were many questions during the intake procedure, including two women who somewhat apologetically said they were supposed to check new patients for signs of elder abuse. I showed them the rough and still very red mark around my left arm where the tourniquet had been forgotten and left for hours. They even took pictures of the mark and the nurse came by several times that night to check how my arm was recovering. Since I’d missed dinner time, and in fact hadn’t eaten all day, the nurse scrounged up one last cottage cheese and fruit salad plate. Then started the long, long night.
I wasn’t yet at all sure what had happened to me and why I was there. I was extraordinarily grateful to find some chapstick in my purse because the oxygen the paramedics had given me had really dried out my lips. I played around with the bed possibilities since I’d never been in a bed that could move around.
I shared the room with an elderly lady, but it was late and I wasn’t sure how much she’d welcome conversation. I was envious of her periodic snoring since my usual night owl ways made sleep impossible for me. If I had to pick the single most disturbing aspect of being in a hospital, it would be the sounds — crying, pain, misery, calling out for help. I wished for my earplugs and slowly waited for the dawn in between frequent trips to the bathroom. At least my kidneys were functioning okay.
Conversely, the vampires arrived with the dawn to draw the morning’s round of blood. Eventually, a huge breakfast arrived — at least three times what I’d normally eat. But I’d had an early snack of graham crackers and milk and wasn’t hungry.
And then the technician arrived to do an echocardiogram of my heart. This was exciting!! I knew I had a heart, but I had never seen it before. And I’d never heard it beating away with such a sound. I was fascinated watching my heart on the screen as it bumped and wiggled its life dance. It looked wonderful to me. I hoped it would to the people who can “read” such things.
Dr. D., whom I’d never seen before but who was apparently in charge of the decision whether or not to let me go home, popped in for quite literally a second, and said he’d release me after my echocardiogram report. I waited and waited.
Since privacy is impossible in those cubby hole rooms, I heard my roommate’s conversation with a nurse. The “M” words threw me into a panic. I am medication-phobic and am always horrified to learn how many daily medications people my age are taking. The staff at the hospital had registered surprise when they asked what drugs I regularly take and I told them “fish oil” and “calcium.” So, it was clear that drug interactions were not a factor in my case. My roommate, who had had a heart attack, was prescribed a very loooong list of daily medication that I lost count of. In addition, she was also taking several very strong medications for other conditions. The worry started creeping in that the doctors would try to force medication upon me.
The kind nurse, who looked like a friend of mine which I found comforting, finally told me that Dr. D. had arranged for my release after lunch. Apparently, I had passed my night of heart monitoring without turning up anything of concern although no doctor bothered to tell me anything directly.
I was ecstatically happy to return to my home which had been patiently waiting for me. But my joy at being home was to be very short-lived.
To Be Continued