Christ I am going to invest in a bed at St Mikes. Dad went back in at 3pm yesterday and I met up with him and Brother Mike after work. By the time I get there, he’s on his second dose of Demerol (one just before coming into the hospital) and he’s groggy with pain and fatigue. Mike sticks around for a while and we shoo him home around 7pm.
Around 9pm, into his cube curtain comes a 5th year orderly and a first year orderly, two petite women with smiles and rosy cheeks. They inform Da that he’s going to have a Ultrasound on his heart to make sure his pain isn’t upsetting his aorta.
“Can I get a nice wallet sized photo?” I ask as she fires up the machine.
“What?” the first year asks, utterly bewildered.
“Ignore him,” offers Da.
With much wand waving, the fifth year manages to point out a blurry image of a …black… blob? I get to see the villainous lump in Da’s pancreas tube. I curse you, you vile lump of excrement!
The image on the screen shifts. “I can see the head!” I exclaim.
The fifth year turns on me, “Stop stealing my jokes!”
“Forget it,” Da croaks, “Nothing is taboo to him.”
They slather more jelly on his tummy to look for Da’s aorta and they run out of lube. The container makes that end-of-ketchup blbllblbork-ak-ak noise. I start thinking of responses:
“No more? That’s ok. Do you have Barbecue sauce?”
“Well that sounds like a Saturday night!”
“MMmmm a hot dog would be great about now…”
Etc etc…
…but I don’t say a word because you shouldn’t trump a fifth year’s comedy routine when she has a cold wand in her hand. This was at 10:15pm.
at 11pm or so, a cute orderly comes in to re-take blood. The careless vampyre at the onset of Da’s current visit failed her task of finding a good vein. Yes, 6 hours after the fact. I’m not pleased, but this time was a charm as that the orderly was swift and painless in his duties. Shortly after, Da gets yet another IV drip with Demerol. They take him to get a CT scan on his chest to see if there are blood clots causing the pain (just to be sure – thankfully none). He comes back close to midnight.
At 12:30am, the night Gastro doctor comes into his curtain cube. Da is whacked out on Demerol and tries to answer questions best he can. The doc decides that he’s going to admit him into a bed and with a sigh of relief all around, I take my tired leave. Total time at this point: 9 hours in St Mike’s Emergency. I go home to bed and promise to return in the morning to see if he needs anything.
8:30 am and I stroll up to St Michael’s reception and ask what room my dad is in. “Still in Emergency,” says the receptionist, “You get to it by going-”
“I KNOW.”
I’m pissed. At this point he’s been in that noisy cesspool of human suffering for 16+ hours getting the oh so urgent rest he needs while whiny people yell and cry all around him. But I also know that getting mad at the doctors or nurses in the Emergency is likely to get me a security guard’s baton up my ass and a nice trip to the curb (as one whiny person experienced just in front of Da’s cube curtain the night before). I go to the nursing station, keeping my anger in check and ask about my dad. No beds came available last night and they may need to “borrow” beds from other wards. Any idea when? Nope.
“I have here a crisp, new, $2 Tim Horton’s coupon that might accelerate that,” I say, taking the slip of paper out and snapping it like it was a Sir Robert Borden. Laughs all around, but of course, all that gets me is a better class of juice and some ice chips for Dad.
I go back to the cube. He’s been told he’ll go for another Ultrasound specifically for his pancreas. He’s not in pain anymore (probably because he’s not eaten anything in 24 hours) and he’s bored. I go get him a National Enquirer (Oprah to Dr Phil – You’re Fired!).
There was nothing more I can do so I go off to work. My sister calls from Calgary on my phone while I’m steps away from my office and she tells me that she called the nurses herself and with her superior knowledge of all things medical (she works at Calgary General) she tells me that Da doesn’t have a heart problem and that he’ll be ok for the pancreatic operation.
“Oh great!” I Pause. “BUH! WaaaaaaAAAuuurrrr!” I suddenly let loose with a choked stream of tears that would make Belize Howler Monkeys jump back in fear. Right in front of my office on Yonge Street. Nice. Composure, Ted!
Anyway, as it stands, he’s in line for a bed and he’s ok.
Update: 1pm and still no bed.
Update2: he finally got a bed around 5pm Thursday, 26 hours after entering the hospital.
7 thoughts on “St Michaels ReQuartre”
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Appreciate it, Jay!
Hugs Ted, I know this is hell. The thoughts of Carl and I are with you and Sharkboy and your Dad.
Thanks lamq! I like #5. And calling a local news team to come see what 22 hours waiting will do to a person.
But what if you find yourself in an emergency room that has long waits and nasty employees? Mason and the emergency room doctors have this advice about what not to do while navigating the ER:
1. Don’t forget to call your doctor on the way to the ER
When ER doctors hear from a fellow physician, they listen, says Beiser at the University of Chicago. “They’ll talk to me professionally and put a bug in my ear,” he says. “This guy will now be on my radar screen.”
2. Don’t use an ambulance unless you really need it
“There’s a myth out there that if you arrive in an ambulance, you’ll go straight back to the doctor,” Mason says. “But it’s not true. If we can see that you can walk, you may get asked to get off that gurney and go to the waiting room.”
3. Don’t be quiet
If the triage nurse — that’s who makes the decisions about who needs care first — isn’t helping you, don’t stop there, says Sayah. “Speak up. Say, ‘I need to see the person in charge,'” he says.
4. Don’t get angry, and don’t lie
While it’s important to make yourself heard, it’s also important to use basic etiquette.
“We’re all human, and usually when people are nice to us, we’re nicer back to them,” Sayah says.
Lying about your symptoms — making them seem worse than they really are in hopes of getting attention faster — can backfire, says Dr. William Bozeman, an emergency room doctor at Wake Forest University Baptist Medical Center in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.
5. Don’t forget the phone
If things get really bad, and no one is helping you, look for a house phone, dial zero, and ask for the hospital administrator on call, Sayah says. “Even the smallest hospitals have a hospital administrator or a patient advocate on call 24/7,” he says. “Hospital administrators don’t want to hear patients are unhappy. Their job is to break the hurdles and move forward.”
Thanks Andy, send up Thor, would ya? We need some muscle-nurse action. 20 hours in Emerge and still no bed for him. Fuck you, Michael Moore.
Glad it’s not his heart. If it was, I’d send my sister up to consult.
Hope Dad comes out of this okay. You’re all in our thoughts.