I never really went in depth about my time in the hospital, for a lot of reasons. The biggest is that I was pretty drugged up and couldn’t do much, with or without drugs. And those times I did give you a look inside, I don’t remember it (see previous sentence about drugs). Another reason is it’s pretty difficult to look back on an event 2 & a half years ago and have people listen to you.
For the most part my stint in the big house was pleasant (I’ve said that before haven’t I?).
Towards the end of my stay I was sent to a new room. As I was wheeled down the hall I kept my eyes on the ceiling to lessen the effects of the tilt-a-whirl I had been riding for days (just the idea of being in a rolling bed wasn’t cool never mind it happening). I had no idea where I was going. I just hoped we got there fast!
It took me a few minutes to register what had just happened. I was in a bigger room but I felt squeezed in. I was still by the window, there wasn’t much of a view but it helped me focus on life after discharge.
Then I heard a voice, “Yeah, I don’t have my own room anymore. I said I don’t have my own room anymore.”
Crap I’m in Bed B.
In college I interned at a local hospital. After my first day I called my mother. I needed more of an education than I had been given. I didn’t want to talk to the wrong patient, and make a fool of myself.
“Bed A is by the door. Bed B is by the wall or window. Always. If there’s one bed in the room it’s still considered Bed A. If there are 2 beds in the room & one patient & they’re by the window they’re in Bed B.”
Once I had that straight, which took a while thanks to my nerves, I came to the conclusion that Bed B was probably the lesser of the two beds. I figured people forgot you were there. Nurses probably made mistakes more than they should and gave one patient 2 dinners while one got none.
Now I was the patient in Bed B.
Before I knew it someone was standing a few feet from the foot of my bed. It was my new roommate. “Did you have spinal surgery too?”
I actually had to think about how I wanted to answer this. The long answer was yes. The shorter, and reason why I was actually here was no. I settled on, “No.”
“Lucky you. Wait until your doctor makes you get up & walk, it really sucks.”
If I had the energy I think I would’ve said something. My mother later said I should’ve pulled back my blankets & given my roommate an eyeful, which included but I’m not sure was limited to an “A Pillow” a regular pillow to hold my PCA within arms reach, an almighty controller, a bucket, a teddy bear my grandma insisted I have, a Ven0dyne boot, an epidural & all that must come with it, in addition to a very bright yellow cast. Forget the technological comforts, there was enough essential technology. It was a full bed, but at least I had the window.
What’s worse was that the bathroom was closer to Bed B. The Girl in Bed A was ambulatory. I was far from it. I had to watch her walk to the bathroom multiple times a day bitching & moaning all the way. Even worse than that, she walked around with the back of her gown open 98% of the time.
I was pretty sure I was in for some of the longest days of my life. And I was trapped in bed with no way out, at least until they removed the epidural, and I wheeled myself down the hall at the earliest opportunity.
The next morning I sent my mother to find my day nurse from the day before. The previous 12 hours were less than pleasant; I wanted something/someone pleasant. Once a familiar face peered around the curtain the experience got better.
PT came for us every day, twice a day. I stayed in the room while she took a “stroll” around the unit. She did more work than I did by default & did make it known. There was very little to be jealous of but I found myself jealous of her anyway.
She could walk around. She could sit up without help. I was dying to “test drive” the hours of manual labor & modern engineering that went into me, especially after regaining sensation that I had lost sometime in the late 80s. Sometimes I didn’t care if I’d collapse as a result. I wanted to try, if only I could get out of bed. She complained before she even got out of bed and ate odor filled meals. Have I mentioned she had the back of her gown open a lot?
Eventually I found humor in the whole thing. A good thing about being in Bed B? You’re behind a curtain so you can laugh (and roll your eyes) to your heart’s content, as long as you can bury your face far enough in your pillow to muffle the noise & no one’s the wiser.
I’d like to tell you that we became best friends and that I talk to her almost every day. The reality is I asked daily (if not more often) if I could be moved to another room, any other room. If I wasn’t doing that I was hoping that she’d get discharged before me so I could have 10 minutes out of her orbit before someone else moved in.
As much as my time with “The Girl In Bed A” could fall into the unpleasant column of life experiences I wonder about her; if her post-op recovery was a success, if she’s O.K, if she grew up (at least a little) more from the experience.
