Village Squire, 1976-07, Page 17Hospitals -
Long may
they avoid the axe
BY IRENE McBRIDE
I hobbled into emergency expecting a
miracle of modern medicine and found myself
catapulted into a wheel chair; slapped down
onto an. x-ray table; tied into a reef knot and
given Hobson's choice - either be admitted
into hospital of my own free will or - be
admitted into hospital anyway!
With my knee encased in bandages, and
feeling like a fugitive from a Leafs -
Philadelphia game, I found myself to be an
impatient patient as I headed for the fourth
floor.
"At some later date we may have to stiffen
the knee," my orthopedic surgeon had
announced, "But, meantime, we will remove
both cartilages in the morning." While I was
digesting this information, along with a
. tasteless hospital lunch, a horrible thought
crossed my mind, a later date could mean any
day after today - perhaps even tomorrow,
operation day!
The following morning, after a sleepless
night that was crowded with mounting
suspicion, I was determined that he must be
stopped. My campaign was started by
beseeching everyone who came within my
orbit and who might come within shouting
distance of the surgeon, "Please be sure to
ask him not to make my leg stiff." Even after
the pre-op needle, and while I was being
wheeled into the chamber of horrors, I was
still carrying on like a politician working for
votes. The orderly, the operating room,
nurses and, as a last hope, the anesthetist
were all enlisted in my, 'Don't stiffen the
leg,' campaign. Well, I'd done my best and,
with the needle posed over my arm, I had no
option but to rest by case!
When I groggily gathered my wits, after
the operation, I was honoured with a visit
from the recipient of all my messages. He
greeted me with the words, "Well, you didn't
have to worry, we haven't stiffened your
leg." The grin that followed told me that the
whole operating room staff must have
decended on him, en masse, and delivered
my message.
During the next few days I became
convinced that I had contracted a cold; my
sense of taste was completely gone. I was
about to bellow loud and long for medication
but, as the words welled in my throat, I was
soothed by .the confidential information that
there was nothing wrong with my taste buds.
All hospitals, I was told, painstakingly
remove all vestiges of flavour from food
before it is heated, cooled, allowed to stand
an hour and then seved!
When I fancied lying down my bed was
always wound to the sitting position and when
I wanted to sit up I was always wound flat on
my back. It didn't seem fair to bother the
busy nurses, who had their hands full
tattooing patient's hips and removing flavour
from food, so I devised a way to help the
helpless - me!
I found I could toss the covers back, put
good leg under bandaged leg and swivel
myself round like the hands on a clock. With
my head at six o'clock and my feet on the
pillow I could lean over the end of the bed,
yank at the metal handle and turn the thing
whichever way I wanted. Another clockwise
move and I would be back at twelve o'clock.
It was while I was hanging over the bottom
of the bed one day that I discovered three
slots for names; mine inserted and two
empty. I was intrigued at the possibilities
conjoured up by the three name plates. It
proved than the hospitals were ahead of the
politicans. Let them cut down hospital costs,
if they must, the institutions of mercy were
ready, willing and, no doubt, able to stash
three patients in each bed if necessary.
Now, that's when the interesting mental
pictures hove into view. There would be a
better than ever chance that, at least, one
member of the closely knit group would be
ambulatory, thus providing a pair of legs to
hunt up missing doctors and nurses.
Hospital gossip could be picked up and
relayed back to four waiting ears and, if three
visitors arrived at once, they need not be
bored; the bottom of the communal bed would
do nicely for a three handed game of poker!
There was a nice elderly gentleman in the
room across the ha!!. He could, and did, let
loose rip roaring snores that would have put a
bull moose to shame.
When I lay sleepless at night I o?fered him
my silent thanks for keeping my mind
occupied with diabolical plans for the removal
of his snoring apparatus. It was a change
from worrying about the plight of my leg.
I had a bowl of beautiful red cherries beside
my bed and spent quite a bit of time
wondering if my leg would hold me up long
enough to creep across the hall and pop them
one by one into his open mouth.
Lying in bed I was the target for all the flies
who wanted to practice dive bombing tactics.
A friend came to my rescue with a rolled up
book and inadvertently treated me to a fine
exhibition of ballet as she pranced around the
room waving her arms and slaying the villains
one by one.
Finally the day came when the physio
therapist announced he was here to get me up
on crutches. Oh, the fun! I wiggled and
wobbled my way down the hall; slowly
moving towards the doors marked INTEN-
SIVE CARE. I felt that we were heading in
the right direction; if I made it to those doors
intensive care was going to be my top
priority!
As we turned and started on our treck back
there was a loud crach and the doors behind
us were swung back to reveal two nurses
barrelling along the corridor` pushing a man
on a bed, heading towards me at breakneck
pace. I experienced an immediate sensation
of panic at theihought of hipperty-hopping
full speed ahead in a vain effort to avoid being
caught up on the front end of the wagon train
and carried along with them; legs waving in
the air and crutches flying! I was saved by the
physio therapist, who leaned on me and
pushed me into the wall.
On one of my solo safaris I found myself
confronting the operating room and was
surprised to see a huge word printed on the
floor about three feet from the swing doors -
STERILE.
I. imagined stepping across the line and,
suddenly, twin jets of steam shooting from
both sides; rendering every germ, from my
epidermis to marrow, stiff and helpless. Then
the swing doors would open and a huge pair
of forceps would reach out and lift me
inside...something like a hot dog being
hauled from the pan with kitchen tongs.
I was overcome with delight when the
doctor said, "You can go home tomorrow."
But my delight quickly evaporated when he
added, "You must come to the hospital every
day for a month and have physio therapy."
The only other place 1 have seen so many
instruments of torture is the Tower of
London!
I finally went home but found that the one
part of the body needing loving care, on
discharge from the hospital, is the skin.
While at the mercy of staff it is subjected to
rubbings and scrubbings; stitches and itches;
injections and infections. In fact, when we are
dismissed as cured then, and only then, can
the skin start on the road to recovery!
Luckily for hospitals not all their patients
are like me but, despite the obvious handicap
of having me in their care, everyone was kind,
patient and helpful. Three cheers for
hospitals - Long may they avoid the axe!
VILLAGE SQUIRE/JULY 1976, 15