I was in the 21st month of my stay at the Georgia Baptist Hilton. Due to the severity of my injuries, I was required to do a
nuclear medicine scan once every two weeks to make sure the circulation
in my left lower leg was progressing as my doctors had planned. The
procedure required that I have dye injected into my bloodstream and I
sit still for long periods of time while some remote scanner x-rayed my
veins pumping (or not) my blood leading to my healing and ultimately, my
departure from the Baptist Church’s answer to Hospital care. I had this
particular procedure done sixty or so times during my long and protracted
stay at the Hilton, so I was intimately familiar with the systems and
methods utilized therein. Probably more so than most of the bored interns doing
time, making hours, so they could move on to the next phase of their
process which was ultimately becoming a doctor, I assumed.
It (the procedure) usually went as follows:
Don’t eat anything the night before. I couldn’t figure that one out. I
was never “put under” for the procedure, and the bored dude or
dudette doing the procedure could never tell me why. So I’d go in my
gown, ass flying in the breeze and stomach growling like I’d swallowed a
C.B. radio searching for a frequency at full gain. I was usually not in
the mood for all the activity, self-conscious about my ass hanging out,
and to top it all off the procedure was done in the same unit that
cancer patients received chemo for their ailments. We weren’t under the
same suspended ceiling mind you, but we could see each other through the glass partition. We were in the same general
vicinity, really sick folks and really really sick folks, and trust me, there is a difference.
On one particular "Nuke"procedure, I was experiencing a good deal of pain in
my leg from a recent operation to “debride” my bones from where I had a
graft, a painful procedure that usually required some purty serious pain
meds for a good week or more. When said nuke procedure was to be done, it meant that
my pain meds had to be stopped the night before, no dinner, and a night
of intense pain followed by your ass hanging out in the breeze as
described earlier. It was not pleasant. I would do Lamaze breathing
techniques I learned while in training for the birth of our
children. It was the only way I could manage the intense pain while the
procedure was being completed. I must say now that “debride” meant they
(the doctor) would go into my wound area and scrape bone off my bone
graft where it was not healing the way the doctors thought it should. It
was painful. I cannot express that with any more prejudice than by
saying it simply…it hurt like hell. Now, I won’t lie and say I had to
bite a bullet or drink a few shots of whiskey before the procedure was to proceed. The
doctors used modern-day pain killers and lots of ‘em, but the post operative pain was akin to getting a tooth pulled without the benefit of Novocaine or poopin’ a
porcupine out backwards.
I was wheeled into the unit for my nuclear medicine injection and
when I was, I noticed that I was not in the same place I had been,
geographically speaking, the 59 other times I had the procedure done. I
was in another world, Lamaze breathing (yep, the baby birthing kind) to
manage my current pain filled malady and truly not paying much attention
to my current surroundings. I had an internal injection port in my left
forearm just at the elbow, on the top in the meaty part of my arm due
to the hundreds of needle sticks and the scar tissue that had formed on
my hands from being needled so much. I had my eyes closed and waited for
the dye to be injected into my veins as I had done so many times before
when I heard a crunching sound that had the same “gate” as someone
walking. I didn’t think much of it at the time, as I was in a
semi-conscious dream state from no sleep, no dope and no chow. It was
kinda like “Fat, Drunk and Stupid is no way to go through life son” as
quoted to Flounder by Dean Wormer in Animal House. “Sleepy, in pain and
hungry are no ways to spend the day son”…I guess you get it by now.
I felt the familiar cool swab followed by a stiff smell of sterile alcohol (what every one loves in the morning) from my port site and
just before I was going to feel the familiar needle stick, I opened my
eyes. What I saw not only surprised me, It made me jump a little, which
as a good thing. The dude that was going to administer the “dye” was in a
chrome suit. I mean G.I. Joe Space Capsule chrome suit from the 1960′s space capsule set with the Red Record ( a bit of trivia),
silver boots, silver gloves, silver helmet with a cool shield. He looked
like Liberace in an aluminum suit. Just before he was about to stick
the needle into the port I interrupted him with “Hey Dude”…he looked at
me, obviously annoyed, and said “Yes Mr. Green, what is it?”
“I’m not Mr. Green, dude, I’m Mr. Hall”
All I heard was “That’s just Great!” from Mr. Nurse "Chrome Suit" and the
next thing you know, he jumps up and hits a Red button on the wall and
you’d have thought all Hell had officially broke loose in the wing of
the hospital my hungry half-naked ass was parked in. Folks were running around like chickens
with their heads cut off and I was snatched out of the “unit” (fancy
word for “room”) and wheeled to some place where I was hosed off and
sterilized, sanitized and fertilized. I realized later that I was about
to be administered Chemotherapy and it was a damn good thing I “Hey
Duded” that Chrome suited guy before he stuck the needle in my arm. From
what I have heard and read, getting Chemo without needing it was not a
good thing, something about nuclear half-life, and none of which was good. I figured the life I was in
possession of currently had a little over half of it used up from the
accident that landed me in the Hospital hoosgow in the first place. So I figured I’d “Dodged
that bullet”, and, all was well.
Or so I thought.
The next I know, I have hospital administrators in my room, the same
room, 375, as the collection agent called me in (thought you’d like to
know that). I was asked numerous questions as to my mental state and if I
was traumatized by almost being “chemo’ed” as one person put it. I told
them all I was fine, I had caught it just in time, no big deal, no harm
no foul. Everything was hunky and dory (I figured if I was “Hunky”
considering my current circumstances, then ”Dory” was a definite
upgrade) and if could convince these Doctor types to just focus on
getting me out of there we’d call it even. I guess for insurance
purposes (covering their own asses I assumed) they had the hospital
psychologist come to see me in my room, to “talk it through” if you
will, as the last way to have the hospital not be liable for me jumping
off the roof or shoving a broom handle into the spokes of a moving
wheelchair (with another patient in it) because I had lost my mind over
the “Uh-oh chemo!” incident.
This was shaping up to be a Greek Tragedy, if it wasn't true. I guessed that if a body stayed in a hospital as long as I had, there was bound t be some mistakes....but this?
Check back in tomorrow!
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