January 12, 2018
Dear Everyone:
Some of you may have noticed that there was no Letter last week.
That’s because I was in the hospital.
Relax. I’m feeling much
better now.
Last Thursday, I wasn’t feeling so well, with severe pain in my back and
abdomen, along with some nausea.
I thought about driving down to the drugstore for some
Pepto
Bismal, in hopes that it would help.
But I quickly realized that something was seriously wrong.
I said to myself, “Self,” said I, “this is not right.
Don’t be a hero. This
is why you pay for health care
insurance.
Call 911.”
But first, I made sure the computers were shut down, the furnace was
off, all the lights other than the living room and kitchen were off.
Then I packed my medication box and a few other things in a tote
bag. And unlocked the front
door.
I called 911 and reported my address and general difficulty.
In less than five minutes, a full half-dozen
EMTs
were swarming into my living room.
I didn’t even have time to call the gate and let them know the
ambulance was expected.
(Apparently, when an ambulance rolls up, lights flashing and siren
blaring, the “privacy officer” just waves it through.)
In no time they had hooked me up to a portable
EKG and
determined that I was NOT having a heart attack.
Then they bundled me onto the
gurney and wheeled
me out to the
ambulance. My neighbor,
“Phoebe”, showed up and offered to lock up my condo.
I called “Jeannie” from the ambulance, as it was easier than
trying to give “Phoebe” the phone number to call for me.
Then it was off to the
hospital, which is probably about a mile away.
This is the same hospital I landed in back in 2010 when I really
did have a heart attack.
What followed was about 30 hours’ worth of tests.
They took blood every three hours.
A technician wheeled in a
blood pressure
monitor and
crushed my upper arm regularly.
I was allowed absolutely no food, not even water.
Instead they hooked me up to an
intravenous
(IV) drip and gave m a “bouquet” of little sticks with foam sponge ends
that I could dip into a small glass of some liquid to “moisten” my mouth
when it got dry.
Lots and lots of questions.
Lots and lots of scans.
On the Plus Side, they did shoot some kind of pain reliever into the IV
and that helped quite a bit.
In fact, by the next morning, after a totally sleepless night, the pain
was completely gone.
Nevertheless, more questions, more tests, more scans.
Eventually a doctor came in to report that there appeared to be nothing
wrong with my
gallbladder, which was their first concern.
The Good News: There was
nothing wrong with me. The
Bad News: There was nothing
to blame for the pain that started the whole thing.
By mid-afternoon on Friday, they let “Jeannie” take me home.
A week later, I’m still not feeling 100%, but maybe up to about
80%.
The whole time that I was there, I kept reminding myself:
In a hospital situation, the Patient is NOT the Customer.
The Patient is the Product.
As far as the hospital is concerned, any patient that leaves
alive is a Good Product. The
purpose of a hospital is to intake Broken People (be it sick, injured or
whatever) and output Repaired People.
Everything from the IV, to that tiny shoebox they call a “bed”, to all
the monitors, to stabbing me for blood every three hours, to the various
scans, to that hideous “cotton gown”, is in place to make their work
more effective. If you doubt
that, ask yourself this:
When was the last time anyone at
Frito-Lay stopped
to ask if the potato
chip on the conveyor belt was having a good time?
Seriously, I am feeling better than a potato chip.
Love, as always,
Pete
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