October 4th, 2021
Lift
Compared to my most recent carry down the stairs (in June), the results were far more favorable this time. Why was that? All options were exhausted (literally and figuratively). We spent 45-minutes discussing alternate options, ulterior motives, and tactics unsung.
While Paramedic Daniel D. was the Orchestrator of Operations, Paramedic Marvin came up with The Plan of Plans. Options included the following:
Body boards, stair chairs, K.E.D. vests, standard wheelchairs, neck braces, tie-down straps, a simple top/bottom carry, a swift walk-down, hoists, hooks.. and even the dreaded balcony throw!
*Some of these options were mix and match, so by all means, use your imagination.
And the only casualty? Drywall. Yes, they destroyed one of the walls during their first dry run. The wheelchair got away from them, tumbling down the stairs end to end.. even partially disintegrating along the way before piercing the wall in several places. Right then and there, I should have been more concerned, but…
Method Actioning
Anyway, we finally decided on the simple top/bottom carry. The two female paramedics were opposed, but didn't protest all that much, having been outvoted 3 to 2.
*Oh, my wife offered tremendous dedicated assistance throughout the putting-all-of-my-shit-together process. She offered caring concern.
So, Marvin the Shorter bear-hugged me from behind, arms underneath mine, hands fastened to my wrists, while Tall-tall Daniel took hold underneath my bent knees. He was first down the stairs. And they carried me that way.
The reason why I agreed to this option?
Fewer physical contact points meant less muscle stress, stretch, and strain.
Additionally, they allowed me to bypass the blood pressure cuff en-route. The repeated muscle squeezing only makes my P.E.M. worsen. And worsening is always bad.
One Funny Thing
Paramedic Daniel says, "Dude, you're too young for all of this."
And I say, "I ain't so young no more. I got a twenty-one year old son, even."
Marvin be like, "How old yer son?"
So I repeat, "Twenty-one."
Paramedic Daniel, "You're thirties at most. Now stop it. Probably no more than thirty-five, right?"
My wife enters the room shaking her head. She is displeased.
"Come on, gimme this!" I almost say out loud. Her desire to appear younger than me is fierce. Ha!
Anyway...
Decorating Room
What does it look like in here? Well, it's a fair amount worse than I expected. The walls are colored off-brown. Different shades of that color from right to left, it seems.. with darker brown semi-circles and splotches covering up… ???
Perhaps patched drywall, hastily repaired gaping holes in the wall.. or maybe random graffiti scribbles from former prisoners?
Besides that, I count an easy dozen existing holes in the wall, the one facing me (probably the East Wall). What exactly are these smallish holes? I cannot be sure.
I can see where there was a major leak in the ceiling.. where it sags and is discolored, off to the left. And the metal air/conditioning vent above my bed is spotted brown, a perpetually dripping brown substance (like a stalactites of some sort). Could it be root beer? Motor oil?
The slightly further away inflow vent appears to be heavily caked with grey clumps of dust.
Neither of the vents does anything anyway. There's no air-conditioning in here. None that I can feel. So it's probably 85° at best. At worst?
Eh. I'll adapt.
Oh, my nurse said she'll report the issue to maintenance. She'll also report that my bed is broken. It's supposed to comfortably adjust, but it doesn't really. Unresponsive buttons.
By the way, there is one sort of decoration. It's a smallish clock on the wall.. that ticks like a time bomb. I just noticed the ticking. Finally. After having been here for seven hours already. It's probably that I finally took off my earmuffs. Ever so briefly.
A Noise
Even with my industrial strength earmuffs fully engaged, the sounds emanating from my roommates television penetrates everything and all. And besides him, every other room near and far has dueling television sets. And no, I AM NOT exaggerating.
But if I allow them to close the door to this room, it somehow gets even warmer in here. Really, it's not that awful, but I am rather sweaty.
My wife said she will drop off my bedside fan tomorrow.
There's an exterior window beyond my privacy curtain, on the other side of my roommate's bed. It faces due south. The sun shines through this window, probably making it hotter in here. But now it's dark.
Call Button
I buzzed the nurse 51 minutes ago, and ...nothing. I require new feeding formula. A bandage change. A tube flush. My probiotic. My teeth brushed.
Right now, it doesn't seem as though that's going to happen.
Oh. My roommate is snoring.
Someone just came in to get my vitals - she said she'd hail the nurse.
bp 101 over 64
hr 82
oxygen 94%
Loud Lewd Angry Angry Roommate
When I first started writing down these words, my roommate was spewing out f-word expletives like they were going out of style. That was immediately prior to him and the staff going toe to toe.
Nope, my 61-year-old roomie (Jeff) wasn't at all happy. An hour later, another argument ensued because his dinner had yet to arrive. But really, I suspect the poor man was just plain jealous. You see, my dinner did arrive. Except, I don't eat. So the tray got sent off to the actual honest-to-goodness intended recipient.
Well, possibly it did.
Gifting
They keep trying to give my belongings away to my roommate. They think he's me, and they think I am nobody. Or Jeff. But you've got to know, I do not look like a "Jeff" .. but probably not a "Howard" either.
Night Nurse
At long last she arrives.. 71 minutes post-button push.
We agree to skip certain tasks, eliminate the least important objectives. No bandage change. No probiotic with a spoonful of apple sauce.
And halfway through the visit, my designated CNA shows up. So now we've got a full-on party happenin'!
Night Nurse is a groovy woman. She's modeling tattooed arms, elbow to armpit, and facial piercings. And she tells me not to fret over lost milk. Spilled coffee?
No, her advice doesn't make all that much sense.
The Overnight CNA seems puzzled by things. When I ask, she defers to the Night Nurse, no matter the simplicity of the task. Fetching whatever, for instance. She has no footing. And her eyes only look at me indirectly. A shy curious introvert. Bespeckled. Busy calculating infinity.
Note: most of the staff has been agreeable and almost friendly.
Lights On
It's minutes after midnight. I slept for seventeen minutes. The lights are on. All of them. My neighbor needs something. Requires servicing. He and someone else are laughing. A woman. My nurse?
Tight as a snare drum, I wrap the red bandana around my earmuffs, across my eyes, to shield my face from the light.
3:40am
I only count four televisions sounding off at once, right now. But my ears need to breathe. They are a sweaty steaming mess. My hair is soaked, too. And my right inner arm is sticky stuck to my right rib cage. Adhering.
Yes. Perspiration, Alabama style. Total humid saturation. No hint of cool air. Nothing moves besides my recycled breath.
Alright. I'll post this now. Fresh words. First interpretations.
And I'm okay. Amused. Somewhat. But also, I wonder how anybody does this day in and day out? I mean, their lives end this way. In this environment. And for some, this must be the worst kind of suffering. TV hell aside.
At least for me, I am merely reporting, for now, because my emotions have yet to catch up. And I do not suspect I shall end this way. This ending does not suit me. Then again, neither does this illness.
Howard
Lift
Compared to my most recent carry down the stairs (in June), the results were far more favorable this time. Why was that? All options were exhausted (literally and figuratively). We spent 45-minutes discussing alternate options, ulterior motives, and tactics unsung.
While Paramedic Daniel D. was the Orchestrator of Operations, Paramedic Marvin came up with The Plan of Plans. Options included the following:
Body boards, stair chairs, K.E.D. vests, standard wheelchairs, neck braces, tie-down straps, a simple top/bottom carry, a swift walk-down, hoists, hooks.. and even the dreaded balcony throw!
*Some of these options were mix and match, so by all means, use your imagination.
And the only casualty? Drywall. Yes, they destroyed one of the walls during their first dry run. The wheelchair got away from them, tumbling down the stairs end to end.. even partially disintegrating along the way before piercing the wall in several places. Right then and there, I should have been more concerned, but…
Method Actioning
Anyway, we finally decided on the simple top/bottom carry. The two female paramedics were opposed, but didn't protest all that much, having been outvoted 3 to 2.
*Oh, my wife offered tremendous dedicated assistance throughout the putting-all-of-my-shit-together process. She offered caring concern.
So, Marvin the Shorter bear-hugged me from behind, arms underneath mine, hands fastened to my wrists, while Tall-tall Daniel took hold underneath my bent knees. He was first down the stairs. And they carried me that way.
The reason why I agreed to this option?
Fewer physical contact points meant less muscle stress, stretch, and strain.
Additionally, they allowed me to bypass the blood pressure cuff en-route. The repeated muscle squeezing only makes my P.E.M. worsen. And worsening is always bad.
One Funny Thing
Paramedic Daniel says, "Dude, you're too young for all of this."
And I say, "I ain't so young no more. I got a twenty-one year old son, even."
Marvin be like, "How old yer son?"
So I repeat, "Twenty-one."
Paramedic Daniel, "You're thirties at most. Now stop it. Probably no more than thirty-five, right?"
My wife enters the room shaking her head. She is displeased.
"Come on, gimme this!" I almost say out loud. Her desire to appear younger than me is fierce. Ha!
Anyway...
Decorating Room
What does it look like in here? Well, it's a fair amount worse than I expected. The walls are colored off-brown. Different shades of that color from right to left, it seems.. with darker brown semi-circles and splotches covering up… ???
Perhaps patched drywall, hastily repaired gaping holes in the wall.. or maybe random graffiti scribbles from former prisoners?
Besides that, I count an easy dozen existing holes in the wall, the one facing me (probably the East Wall). What exactly are these smallish holes? I cannot be sure.
I can see where there was a major leak in the ceiling.. where it sags and is discolored, off to the left. And the metal air/conditioning vent above my bed is spotted brown, a perpetually dripping brown substance (like a stalactites of some sort). Could it be root beer? Motor oil?
The slightly further away inflow vent appears to be heavily caked with grey clumps of dust.
Neither of the vents does anything anyway. There's no air-conditioning in here. None that I can feel. So it's probably 85° at best. At worst?
Eh. I'll adapt.
Oh, my nurse said she'll report the issue to maintenance. She'll also report that my bed is broken. It's supposed to comfortably adjust, but it doesn't really. Unresponsive buttons.
By the way, there is one sort of decoration. It's a smallish clock on the wall.. that ticks like a time bomb. I just noticed the ticking. Finally. After having been here for seven hours already. It's probably that I finally took off my earmuffs. Ever so briefly.
A Noise
Even with my industrial strength earmuffs fully engaged, the sounds emanating from my roommates television penetrates everything and all. And besides him, every other room near and far has dueling television sets. And no, I AM NOT exaggerating.
But if I allow them to close the door to this room, it somehow gets even warmer in here. Really, it's not that awful, but I am rather sweaty.
My wife said she will drop off my bedside fan tomorrow.
There's an exterior window beyond my privacy curtain, on the other side of my roommate's bed. It faces due south. The sun shines through this window, probably making it hotter in here. But now it's dark.
Call Button
I buzzed the nurse 51 minutes ago, and ...nothing. I require new feeding formula. A bandage change. A tube flush. My probiotic. My teeth brushed.
Right now, it doesn't seem as though that's going to happen.
Oh. My roommate is snoring.
Someone just came in to get my vitals - she said she'd hail the nurse.
bp 101 over 64
hr 82
oxygen 94%
Loud Lewd Angry Angry Roommate
When I first started writing down these words, my roommate was spewing out f-word expletives like they were going out of style. That was immediately prior to him and the staff going toe to toe.
Nope, my 61-year-old roomie (Jeff) wasn't at all happy. An hour later, another argument ensued because his dinner had yet to arrive. But really, I suspect the poor man was just plain jealous. You see, my dinner did arrive. Except, I don't eat. So the tray got sent off to the actual honest-to-goodness intended recipient.
Well, possibly it did.
Gifting
They keep trying to give my belongings away to my roommate. They think he's me, and they think I am nobody. Or Jeff. But you've got to know, I do not look like a "Jeff" .. but probably not a "Howard" either.
Night Nurse
At long last she arrives.. 71 minutes post-button push.
We agree to skip certain tasks, eliminate the least important objectives. No bandage change. No probiotic with a spoonful of apple sauce.
And halfway through the visit, my designated CNA shows up. So now we've got a full-on party happenin'!
Night Nurse is a groovy woman. She's modeling tattooed arms, elbow to armpit, and facial piercings. And she tells me not to fret over lost milk. Spilled coffee?
No, her advice doesn't make all that much sense.
The Overnight CNA seems puzzled by things. When I ask, she defers to the Night Nurse, no matter the simplicity of the task. Fetching whatever, for instance. She has no footing. And her eyes only look at me indirectly. A shy curious introvert. Bespeckled. Busy calculating infinity.
Note: most of the staff has been agreeable and almost friendly.
Lights On
It's minutes after midnight. I slept for seventeen minutes. The lights are on. All of them. My neighbor needs something. Requires servicing. He and someone else are laughing. A woman. My nurse?
Tight as a snare drum, I wrap the red bandana around my earmuffs, across my eyes, to shield my face from the light.
3:40am
I only count four televisions sounding off at once, right now. But my ears need to breathe. They are a sweaty steaming mess. My hair is soaked, too. And my right inner arm is sticky stuck to my right rib cage. Adhering.
Yes. Perspiration, Alabama style. Total humid saturation. No hint of cool air. Nothing moves besides my recycled breath.
Alright. I'll post this now. Fresh words. First interpretations.
And I'm okay. Amused. Somewhat. But also, I wonder how anybody does this day in and day out? I mean, their lives end this way. In this environment. And for some, this must be the worst kind of suffering. TV hell aside.
At least for me, I am merely reporting, for now, because my emotions have yet to catch up. And I do not suspect I shall end this way. This ending does not suit me. Then again, neither does this illness.
Howard
