How I Joined the Elite 1% and Why it's Not All it's Cracked Up To Be - Part 3
If your doctor's not in the office, they might not be golfing.
This is the final installment of this three-part series. Probably best if you read Part 1 first, and then Part 2.
Tuesday, September 16 - changing times
Getting a dose of IV antibiotics every six hours wouldn’t be all that bad if I was thirty and my bladder could manage to go an entire night without waking me up.
Despite the lights and noises in the corridor, I slept relatively well. The bathroom was right across the hall from my bed, so it took mere seconds to slip across for my nightly 3:00 am pee. (Until I am clear of all the antibiotics, I’m taking a safety-first approach; I now sit when I urinate. I’m a quick learner.)
Unlike hotel security guards, night nurses don’t appear to fall asleep on the job. Despite my stealthy excursion, when I emerged from the bathroom at 0301 Tuesday morning, a nurse in rubber-soled, silent shoes stood by my bed with the portable version of the machine that goes “PING”!
“Your temperature was a bit high earlier, I thought it would be good to run your vitals now and not have to disturb you if you're sleeping later.”
Customer service at its finest!
Instead of just telling you what the result was, let me sneak in a plug here for another great Substack publication to see if you can guess what the machine said -
.5:00 pm - New bag for you
My 6-12-6-12 antibiotics regime was broken Tuesday afternoon.
“New bag for you!”, said the nurse when she hooked it up to the portable pole beside the bed. “From now on it’s only once every 24 hours.”
A few hours later, the world was a blur.
I was lying in bed with my contacts out. A voice called my name. I looked up.
An alien or Deadpool stood peering down at me.
I squinted. It wasn’t Deadpool. It was a surgeon. Was I going to be operated on? Had the bacteria figured out how to beat the ‘biotics?
“It’s me. Doctor H.”, said the voice.
I fumbled for my glasses, and yup, it was him—the urologist who performed my TURP six weeks prior.
He looked at the bag on my pole. (The portable one beside the bed.)
“You look good, and this bag is great news. They should be able to move you to an oral version of this. You should be going home in a few days.”
We had a good chat. He was genuinely sorry for my predicament.
“It only happens to like 1% of patients.”, he said.
“I always wanted to be part of the 1% but now I’m not so sure.”, I replied.
His phone rang. He quickly donned his game face. “I’ll be there in less than two minutes.”
It was 9:42 pm on a Tuesday and I’d just had a “house call” from a specialist surgeon.
Doctors aren’t always golfing when they’re not in the office. They just might be saving someone else’s life.
Thursday, September 19 - “Thanks for having me”
Doctor H. was right. The decision to swap my IV Anti-Bs was step one toward discharge.
The doctor on the ward said I needed to be afebrile for 72 hours. I hit that milestone Wednesday night. Some final bloodwork and some paperwork were all that stood between me and having lunch at home on Thursday.
“SURGE PROTOCOL #1” boomed out of the PA system at 8:10, just like it did every day of my stay. The hospital was perpetually overbooked. It reminded me of the first summer I worked as a hotel security guard. The logistics of managing overbookings is a complex profession. To do it with care and compassion is a science.
Bloodwork routines were changed. I wouldn’t be home for lunch, so I had a final soup and sandwich. Kirsten ate the coleslaw and diced pineapple. Then she left for work.
At 1:30, the bloodwork was finally done. Ten minutes later, the doctor found me watching baseball in a family lounge.
“While we’re waiting for the results, why don’t we give you another shot of IV antibiotics? Then you can start the oral doses at home tomorrow.”
His wish, my command.
The nurse who hooked me up was the night nurse who so observantly stood ready with the vitals machine a couple of nights earlier.
I asked if I could remove the ECG pads that were still stuck on my chest.
“Oh yes, all visits include a free wax job.”
I ripped the pads off, and I now have bald patches where they once stuck to my skin.
While the nurse disconnected the IV, a second nurse arrived with my discharge papers.
“OK, we got mounds of paperwork for you. Sign here to confirm you’re not leaving anything behind.”
I signed.
“Now for your discharge instructions. This page will tell you all about the dietary and lifestyle changes you need to make.”
Here we go, I thought.
“Oh, look. There aren’t any! You may resume your normal diet and activities.”
Almost simultaneously, the two nurses said. “Thanks for being such a patient patient.”
“Thanks for having me!”, I said.
“It feels like we should say you’re welcome back anytime.”, the night nurse turned day nurse said. “But we really don’t want to see you again.”
Shoutouts
I probably shouldn’t name names, but as a long-time fan of Hockey Night in Canada, I have to pick my three stars.
First though, let me say that every single person I interacted with, from the ER receptionist to the cleaners to the staff who delivered my meal trays, were exceptionally polite, friendly and caring. I didn’t catch any names of the many doctors and nurses who kept me alive in the ICU. They all deserve to be first star.
This list is to a few standouts in the ward on 6 West.
Nurse Zoe - Monday’s telepathic nurse had an incredible ability to anticipate my needs. She was like the server who suddenly appears when your wine glass needs refilling. Unfortunately, she only brought me water.
Night and Day Nurse Erin - Her previous career is likely in the clandestine services. She stealthily appeared with the vitals machine at 3:00 am. On discharge day, she informed me that the chest hair removal that came with the detaching of my ECG pads was free. Humour and attentiveness in equal measure.
Dr. Elie - Care and compassion all in one. Instead of a long white coat, he wore t-shirts with uplifting messages. My favourite was one with a Brene Brown quote: “One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through and it will become someone else’s survival guide.”
So, I’ve told my story. I hope you never need it as a survival guide.
Thanks for being part of the Always Care Community. Your support is my motivation and I’m genuinely grateful that you’re here. Please share, subscribe, and connect with me.
Written with the clarity of hindsight, the accuracy of a faded memory, and countless creative liberties, 87 Stories is a journal of how my gap year lasted four decades, made me an emigrant, an immigrant and gave me a life I never dreamed of.
In addition to my love for writing, I’m an educator and a consultant passionate about hotels, hospitality, and keeping people safe during their travels.
Please support your local healthcare workers. They are professionals who are committed to keeping you alive.
Paul - thank you for relating your experience so eloquently. Glad you are with us and hope to see you and Kristen soon! Dennis & Joyce
Well done. Thanks for surviving!