Story of Herb’s Surgery
So. On Wednesday, Herb hadn’t drank, smoked or eaten since about 11 the night before. At around 10 AM, we got the call that he would be operated on that day. We grabbed his overnight bag, his crutches, and called a cab. At the hospital, we were received by a small army of security persons armed with jars of that stuff used to disinfect hands without rinsing them out after — stuff I hate on principle and on feeling — because of the gastro “epidemic”. I was to clean my hands thus every time I went out and back in for the next two days. We went to the Admission, filled papers, and were sent up, to, it turns out, that day-surgery room we spent an entire day in last spring. We shoved everything — including our bulky winter jackets — into two small lockers, put his crutches in front and went to wait, he in a hospital gown on a comfy lazy-boyish chair and I on an uncumfortable stool. A nurse came to see us — she intended to draw blood from Herb but he avoided that, having been at the hospital the previous morning for that precise reason. So we were told to wait. The room was almost empty, quite a change from the previous surgery when all the beds were full. We read for a bit, then I massaged Herb and he fell asleep for a while. At 1:15, the nurse said it was time to go, so we walked to the pre-op room. There Herb gave me his tshirt and underwear and slippers and lied down on a gurney, a stupid hat on his head, and we waited some more. It was nothing like last time — no pain, only nervousness. A little while later I was asked to kindly bugger off and I did. The operation itself was to last about one and a half hour. They were to cut up his tibia and make a synthetic graft to realign the bone. The surgeon recommended only anaesthetizing Herb from the waist down, but he didn’t want to hear everyone discussing the breaking of his bone, nor the actual breaking itself, so they put him under.
I went back to get our stuff from the lockers, and it was all I could do to hold everything. With the backpack, the jackets and the crutches, I had to wait for four elevators before I found one where I could fit. I had been given Herb’s room number — he was to be kept there between 24 and 72 hours — and assumed I could wait for him there. When I did find the room, it was full of people. I asked for help (and a spot to put down my load) and a nurse found me an empty closet in the very occupied room. I was shown which bed would be Herb’s when the patient left it eventually. Soon, I was told. So I went to try and eat. I forced down a bit of salad and a lot of coffee. I read in the cafeteria, I walked around. After almost two hours, I went back to the room. The man in Herb’s bed was still there. Very soon, I was told. I went to the little lounge for the ward and read and waited. I got to hear all the stories of the other loungers (great). Eventually I made myself known to the people on duty so they could let me know if they heard anything about Herb. The light was going down outside and nobody was turning the lights on in the lounge (the switches are locked in). By that point I was getting nervous and I just wanted it all to be over. Finally the bed-occupant left and I went to wait next to what would become Herb’s bed. The cleaning staff had been called, I was told, to clean his bed and room corner.
I waited. The room contained three other patients, in various states of consciousness and with no privacy whatsoever. The noises. The sights. I knew within ten minutes that Herb would freak and beg to be sent home. Still, no news of him. And no cleaner. I tried to keep reading but by that point I had been waiting for six hours, once in a while calling home to give updates to my mom who had come over to look after the Kid. The cleaners were called again. Then eventually a nurse found me and told me Herb was awake and fine and had asked them to find me to let me know he was okay. He was in the wake-up room and had been for quite some time. We’re just waiting for the cleaners… The cleaning lady came in eventually, when Herb had been out and awake — but away from me — for three hours. We chatted. She had been called on three emergencies at once, the only one of which was an actual emergency being Herb’s room — but she couldn’t know that. It takes fifteen minutes to sanitize a quarter of a romm, a bed, etc., and the nurse in charge said she’d have to let all that dry and she would call to send Herb up in twenty minutes. Right. Twenty minutes later she replied that the bed had to be made now. *sigh* There was only one orderly on the ward and I’d been seeing and hearing patients calling for help with this and that who saw their requests go unanswered for hours because the ward was so understaffed. Eventually the bed was made. I couldn’t stand still anymore. I paced the ward, watching out for the elevators.
Of course, eventually, way later, Herb came out of there on a gurney. He smiled when he saw me and my anguish melted somewhat. They transferred him to his bed and a swarm of nurses arrived, asking questions, taking in vital signs and doing nursey things. All was well - I had my man. He was hooked up to self-titrated morphine and to an iv drip. He was doing well, he was famished and wanted coffee (which I had on his nightstand). The nurses wanted him to go slow, to have a sip of water and see, but he’d been having water for HOURS and just needed comfort. Of course the cafeteria was closed and all they could find for him was a crappy lunch bag of crap food, but I also had a sandwich for him and it was all okay. We talked, he was somwhat high but not in much pain, and I left long after the visits were over. I knew he wouldn’t sleep much with the noises from his neighbors, from the com system, from the hallway. I hadn’t had dinner. That night I had trouble sleeping. I missed Herb’s presence and just wanted him home. It was a physical need and I was tense and worried.
On Thursday morning he called me to say he was okay. Then he called back around 10 to say he could go. I took a cab and rushed to his side. Of course it wasn’t that easy. He needed to be taken off the morphine drip — which requires a prescription and hence a doctor and nurse visit, prior to the removal — and then to, get this, wait until he felt pain, so that he could be given morphine orally to see if he had any side-effects. Once the drip was out we got him dressed. Then a physiotherapist came to see if he was okay with his crutches (we almost laughed). Because I was there I was able to make things happen a little faster, to say the right things and make the right requests. Then there was the question of his next appointment — it took a while to have that scheduled. Then a nurse came in to explain that he would need to give himself shots in the belly for a month. That was just too much. Herb was fine with getting his leg broken, but shots? No. We decided I would be doing it, and once he calmed down (add pain, morphine, fear and exhaustion and you get a not-too-smily guy) it was okay. But… we then needed to wait for the at-home nurse to come by and make an appointment with us — a nurse would come by at home to make sure we were okay. Once we had all the required papers, Herb realised his time off from work looked like it said “2009″. I went and got that fixed. Then I walked through the hospital back to the entrance to get a wheelchair with a right-side leg holder and walked back to the ward with it (no problem, I know the Maisonneuve wing of HMR very well by now!).
By the time I got back, Herb was high as a kite (because they let the morphine drip disappear from his system and then gave him the pill…) and afraid he’d fall asleep and be forced to stay. He got in the chair. Then I put the backpack on, he grabbed the jackets and crutches and we started down… and through the other side of the hospital to the phramacy. To get there, with the long wheelchair, hurt leg in front, and loaded like a sherpa, I had to cross the e.r. (charming) and then get into a tiny elevator. I got his morphine, his anti-constipation pills and his belly injections (an anti-coagulant to prevent blood cloths)… for a whooping $355. Shite. (Thank the Universe for insurance, but still…). I called a cab. By that point Herb wanted to smoke a cigarette quite badly, having gone 48 hours since. And he wanted to be home quite badly. I said “a large car” and they sent a small sedan. With a leg that can’t bend, Herb could not get it. We got back inside the hospital and I proceeded to lose my wits with the taxi phone person. They eventually sent a minivan and the driver helped and all went well, if very slowly.
Once home… I dropped all the bags in the snow. But guess what? You can’t quite go up stairs with a leg that won’t bend. Herb had to do it backwards, raising himself using his arms. He got inside exhausted. He laid on the couch and was quite happy to be home, but the pain quickly started. And went up, up, up… He was feverish, he couldn’t eat, he moaned, he was just miserable. I’m actually sparing you many grisly details here, but the day went on and the evening was incredibly difficult on all of us. The Kid was crying of fear and pain at seeing his pillar of a dad in uncontrollable pain and required much reassurance. That night was horrendous. Herb was so feverish that he radiated heat and I was sweating so much I had to peal my clothes off. We both slept in fits. At some point I got up to boot the computer to make sure he could mix ibuprofen with morphine. That saved us — he could, and within two hours the swelling had lessened enough for him to be relieved. He woke me up in the night to tell me he was okay, which was pretty much like giving me muscle relaxants. I woke up to a smiling Herb. He’d figured how to dose out his meds, and he had started to recover. It was a hellish 48 hours all in all, but everything since has been going smoothly. Now I have to turn to work and such things, if you’ll briefly excuse me…!
