At some point during my stay (but before the surgery) I said the following phrase to a member of the hospital staff. I have NO idea to whom or in response to what...

"door #3: the one where I get to go outside for a cigarette."

my roommate....aaaahh, my roommate.

My roommate (the NON-CONTAGIOUS one) was roughly 98 (give or take a decade) and had had some major surgery. By the time I arrived, she'd already been there for 13 days, recovering from some major surgery. She wasn't healing well at all...she was bruised from head to toe and was, frankly, a mess. It frightened me. Not just about the pain of my upcoming surgery and recovery, but also about just how bad it could be. Clearly she was at a later stage in life, where your body just doesn't bounce back that quickly and it just...opened my eyes. To how little time we really have and how easily and quickly things can just turn on a dime and be gone.

I'd like to say that this realization cured me of my fear and caused me to happily zing through surgery and blissfully stroll through recovery but...duh. That shit HURTS, man. I tried not to be too whiny and bitchy, though I'm sure I had my moments.

For instance...that roommate? The one who changed my perception and life? Yeah...she pissed me OFF. I mean, she seemed sweet and didn't talk a whole lot (which is always a plus) and clearly she was well-loved, considering how many people came to see her and take care of her and only one out of the dozen or so people seemed annoyed to be there. The rest seemed genuinely concerned and adored her. It was really sweet. Ohhhh, but when they were gone? When she was left to her own devices? Bitch fell APART. A switch seemed to go off in her when her relatives would leave and she would become this obsessive compulsive jumble of nerves. In between calling the nurses for her pain medication (make sure it's the TWO pack! I have to have TWO!) which was understandable, she spent the whole time clicking buttons. Non-freakin-stop. The buttons for the bed...the buttons for her television...buttons for the volume...the light...the recliner, the nurse, etc., etc., et-fuckin-cetera. It was OCD at its finest. Worse because of my OWN OCD tendencies, which meant that I had to NOTICE the patterns in her incessant pushing and clicking and I really wasn't bothered by it that much. It drove MY visitors crazy, of course, but for whatever reason, I just didn't mind all that much. Maybe because it kept my mind off my own fear and pain to see her and hers going through the rituals. She would frequently forget which buttons were which, sending her bed up and down, reclined and not reclined, turning the channels like a man on a mission, and -several times- calling the nurse's station by mistake. Literally, non-stop until her next visitor arrived or fatigue won out. It was distracting, to be sure, but I couldn't get mad at her.

Until.

She added the light switches into the mixture. Ohhhh, that's what did it. Karma just couldn't let me for once be sweet and accepting and compassionate. Nope. They had to whisper in her ear that it would be Way More Satisfying to add the 2 lights on her side of the room into the mixture. *CLICK* television channel *CLICK* volume up *CLICK* raise head of bed *CLICK* raise foot of bed *CLICK* lower entire bed *CLICK* channel *CLICK* channel *CLICK* volume *CLICK* light one ON *CLICK* light two on *CLICK* light one off *CLICK* light two off.

And on and on it went. And she was remarkably good at timing the strobe light show for juuuuuust when I was finally drifting off to sleep, startling me back out of my much-needed slumber and inducing a near-seizure with all the flashing. I tried to ignore it (and had been for hours on end up to that point) but when the lights were going off and on off and on and it was now 2 a.m. the night before my surgery? Oh...UH-UH. No. So I delivered (toward the curtain that separated us) my patented Deeply Annoyed Sigh™ which seemed to do the trick. ...for a little while anyway. About 15-20 minutes after each annoyed sigh, she'd be unable to hold it in any longer and would start back up again. We played this game for quite a while until either she stopped or I became immune to the flashing...I have NO idea which of those happened, only that the nurse came and gave me a Xanax (unsolicited) and I don't remember much after that. Isn't it funny? If you ask for help...for medication...something to relieve your pain or anxiety, you are labeled and denied. If you don't ask for something...if you act like you abhor anything chemical, they practically shove it down your throat. What is that about? Why not just treat everyone the same? Compassionately and with care?

I know this to be true based on past experience and tremendous pain (and not knowing the apparent 'rules' of how you and your pain are treated...or not), the experiences of friends and family, articles I've read, etc. We also saw both ends of the spectrum during my own stay. I wanted nothing to do with the meds they were constantly pushing on me at the beginning. I was in pain and accepted it in the ER because I felt like I was dying and needed help. Afterward, that pain subsided yet they kept offering it. My back hurt a hell of a lot worse than the gall bladder pain, but they kept saying "Gall bladder pain is SO PAINFUL. You should take something for it!" and I would say, truthfully, "It's just not that bad. My back is worse than the gall bladder, so no thanks." Then I realized that I wasn't going to be able to take my own back meds (I asked) and wasn't going to get any relief and the pain (due to the position I had to stay in because of the crappy bed and my I.V.) and realized that I was being silly. They're offering me meds (seem both impressed and irritated that I wouldn't accept them), I'm in pain, though more from a separate issue than what brought me here, so...why not? If it helps, it helps, and they seem only too willing to load me up with them, right?

Ugh. Idiot. They gave me morphine and honestly, for the life of me, I simply do NOT understand how so many people go to such extremes to get that shit. It sucked ASS. Not only did it do NOTHING for my pain? It made me feel all hot throughout my whole body, like when you do a shot of whiskey, like I was being squeezed by a giant, and made me say wrong words without realizing it. Truly hated it. After the surgery, I was in TONS of pain and the morphine still wasn't doing a thing for me, so I asked if they would just let me take my own medication, as I KNEW that would help. Well of course they refused. I'm sure it was a combination of liability reasons and...billing reasons. Why let me care for myself when they can double charge me for something they have on hand, right? I adamantly refused to take any more morphine, so she called the doc and he suggested hooking me up to a Demerol drip.

Weeeeeeee. THAT I understand. That helped my pain, got me up and moving, and that I could control. Well...within reason. I only clicked it once in one hour and when the nurse came to check on me, she seemed upset that I'd only done one click. She said "He authorized it for every 8 minutes." So...I thought I was screwing up. I did what I was told. I was especially vigilant about it after about an hour because she came to tell me that I was being released around dinner time if I was up and walking around. Well...the strobe light show, enjoyable as it was, was wearing thin and I couldn't stand to be in that place another night, so I did whatever it took to get out of there. I click-click-clicked until I felt less-less-less and then got up several times an hour to do laps in the hallway in my silly gown and dragging my I.V. cart with me.

During one such hallway I.V. shuffle, I passed another woman doing her walking (this gets you moving, prevents atrophy, gets gas moving thru body and promotes its...exit) and I said to her "Wanna race?" and, because I was full of Demerol and felt shiny and brilliant, I thought this was hysterically funny. She either was on more drugs than me or ...maybe it wasn't so funny, but she thought I was serious and said "No...I can't...that would hurt and I don't think we're allowed to, anyway."

How do you respond to that??

So. Before the rest of the story, let's talk about the staff. My goodness. What a crew. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure that there are plenty of wonderful, intelligent, highly qualified staff members at this Hicktown Hospital, it's just that...they weren't on my floor.

For instance, the main, daytime nurse who was assigned to me? She was probably in her mid-twenties, seemed sweet (in the beginning, before she realized that I wouldn't remain a staunch-anti-pain-girl for the duration of my stay) and had an awful southern accent...not the lilting, pretty, dainty one you hear in the movies, but the redneck, "I ain't got no schoolin'" accent. It was alarming to hear her speaking with other patients and noticing how often she would mispronounce names of medications (some of them very basic) and it wasn't an accent thing...it was a STUPID thing.

Speaking of the staff...one of my favorites (and there weren't many of those) was the so so funny deeply African CNA (certified nurse's aid, according to George, who has a medical background). She hadn't been in America very long. Maaaaaybe a year? I was highly medicated and hadn't slept in 30 hours when she told me, so my memory is a little fuzzy. Anyway, she was heavily accented (African, not redneck as above) and clearly, enviously (on my part) and over-the-top confident. She was wearing a highly styled (read: Academy Awards worthy) blonde wig, despite her very dark complexion. She came to check my vitals (blood pressure, temperature, pulse) as they do every hour (sometimes more) and saw the magazine on my bed that George had bought for me --A rag tabloid with a picture of Angelina Jolie on the cover-- and just launched right in: "Ooooooh dat ahnjuh-leeee-naaa! she KNOW how to keep a mon. she KNOW. we have women like dat in ahhhfrica and we KNOW ...joo don't leave NO man alone with her! she take heem! rrrraht away, yessuh! she JUST like an african woman...probably why she like to go day-uh so much, ha ha ha! see...we come he-uh...weee come and weee see ameddikkuh woman and they cry and they weak and they beg their men don't go and we say "wot the HAYL is dat aboat? you no CRY. you help him pack, sis-TUH, and you tell him go! kick dat ass right OAT! he come back. they aaaaaalways come back, mah dee-uh, when you strong woman. dat jenneefuh aneestone...she too ameddikuh. she don't know her own mon. she don't know any mon. dat why she lose him. she don't know him. it was too late fuh huh. Joo got to KNOW your mon. Joo got to know what they about and see inside them and scare them and be strong and they no go. but if they go? *shrug...wave hand* they go. who need 'em? aaaand the bastahds always come back anyway, so EH! PSHAW...stupeed! STUPEED women. Got to KNoooooo duh mon, mon."

And then she... left. Muttering all the way out of the room and into the next. 10 minutes later and I could still hear her muttering about "that Ahhhhnnnn-juh-LEEE-na bitch". I loved her. She was a trip. So funny, so strong, so completely knowledgeable about herself and her womanhood and about life. Adored her.

The woman who came on after her though? I did NOT love HER. She got her blood pressure tube wrapped up in my I.V. line and started leaving the room without unhooking it. Thank CHRIST I noticed ("waitwaitwaitwaitwait!") before the slack was taken up on the line, causing major pain and a needle reinsertion. And...she LAUGHED. No apology...no thanks...just "Ooooo honey! Aaahhhhahahahahahaha!"

I swear...some of these people have GOT to be recent grads (or dropouts??) from those schools you see advertised on television...those really low-budget, badly-lit commercials with actors who have to be related to someone on the staff for all their (non-) professionalism and skills. Those schools where, in 13 days you, too, can be assisting doctors and be popular with everyone and you, too, can then stand around, nodding and pretend-talking at the same time as everyone else in the commercial's background, because you were such a genius to pay $49.95 for the enviable course. Yes...that is JUST who I want working on me during a scary time...and believe me, every one of the people who were sucked in by those crappy commercials? Were all hired by Crappy Hicktown Hospital near my home. I swear, the next time I have ANYTHING wrong? No matter how slight? I'm going to lavish Buckhead, to the Upscale Hospital with the Well-Educated staff. I don't care that it's more than half an hour away. I want to be CARED for dammit...not handled (jostled!) as though I'm on an assembly line. Not ignored by the doctors and treated like cattle or furniture by the staff.

Right...where was I? Ah yes, my story. So before the surgery, you aren't allowed to eat. I ate regular food Friday night for dinner (having no idea what lay ahead) and was admitted to the hospital early Saturday morning and was immediately put on an all-liquid diet. Water...Jello (DIET jello...with nutrasweet...friggin HURL) broth (sometimes beef, sometimes chicken, most times URINE) and nothing at all after midnight (the night before surgery) including water, ice, tooth-brushing...nothing. While watching television around 3 a.m., a commercial for a local restaurant came on announcing new and exciting appetizers (fried mac and cheese and other wonderfully tasty-sounding food) and at that point I hadn't eaten real food in over 30 hours. Ohhh, they'd offered me some diet lemon Jello, but it tasted like something my dog would throw up and I honestly couldn't force it down, no matter how hungry I was. So I see this commercial and I actually begin to drool. I feel it filling up my mouth and am slightly embarrassed, but not so much so that I couldn't ask the following question of the nurse, who happened to walk in right then: "Excuse me, miss? I was wondering. Does drool count as a banned liquid? Cause we may need to cancel the surgery..."

Needless to say, the surgery was not canceled. Though...it was delayed a bit. I actually started having chest pains a few hours before the surgery and while it was probably nothing (and in fact turned out to be just that), they didn't want to take any chances, so they hooked me up to an EKG machine just to make sure. While the EKG woman was hooking me up to the sticky nodules and running her tests, Crazy McLoon started her famous light show again and it was oddly comforting to see the raised eyebrows, widened eyes, and quizzical look she gave me. I shrugged nonchalantly as though I'd been dealing with her for years and rolled my eyes in a "what're ya gonna DO, eh?" gesture. The EKG turned out fine and though my initial surgery time was bumped, I was sent in a couple of hours later. I was quite nervous as I laid on my gurney in the middle of the O.R. department hallway, waiting to be wheeled into my possible death-room, but figured I wasn't so far gone as I could be, as I was able to notice the stunning cleanliness of the area. I had noticed, back upstairs, just how UNCLEAN the hospital was...how much dust and dirt was around and was alarmed by it. You could see that they cleaned, definitely, but it wasn't difficult to notice that they weren't interested in truly sanitary conditions. You could see the half-assedness in their work. So when I got to the OR area and saw how even the corners were shiny with clean? Ohhh, I was in HEAVEN.

That didn't last. I was soon whisked off to the operating room, strapped to the table with arms outstretched like Jesus Christ and was told, as they put the clear mask full o' gaseous drugs over my face (while the surgeon stroked my shoulder, which was slightly odd yet somewhat comforting, despite my near-nakedness under the blankets) to reeeeeelax, think of some place happy and caaaaalming. Think of the moooouuuuntains or the beeeeeeach...." and within seconds, I was out. Thankfully. I terrifies me, being put to sleep. I've had it done several times and each time? I am convinced that I won't be waking up again. That this is finally it, that it's time to see who was right about what happens 'after' and I just hate the anxiety leading up to it, but usually, around 10 minutes or so before I go under, I give up the fight and make my peace with it all.

I woke up 5 seconds later (okay...an hour and 5 seconds later, but it FELT like 5 seconds) and I was in paaaaaaain and I couldn't take more than shallow breaths, my lip was cut open (on the inside), my throat felt like I'd been drinking bleach (apparently they had to intubate me due to me having the nerve to stop breathing during surgery) and my mouth was so dry I was convinced they'd tossed me in a sandbox for kicks. As soon as I woke up, in the middle of a mild earthquake (true story), I whisper-yelled (because that was all I was capable of, don'tchaknow) "Hey! This is NOTHING like the BEACH!!" and then I fell back to sleep.

We still haven't figured out if it was actually the earthquake from down south where reverberations were felt as far North as...well...at least Atlanta, or if it was construction going on outside the hospital, but it was enough that the whole room was shaking. I certainly felt it, but was so out of it on medication that I thought someone was standing at the foot of my gurney and was writing in my chart, causing my bed to shake. I heard one of the nurses asking her coworkers if they felt the room shaking and they were making fun of her, clearly not feeling what we were. I felt for her, knew that she wasn't crazy, and felt the need to come to her defense. So I (still semi-naked, bruised and battered) huskily whispered "Dude...I feeeeel the shakin' TOO! I jesss thought someone write...on my bed..."

Yeah...I reeeeeally helped her out there.

I finally was taken to my room where George leaned over my bed to say hello and comfort me and see how I was doing and got a very alarmed look on his face and quickly looked at the nurse and said words that are SO NOT COMFORTING when coming out of surgery: "Um...miss? Is that...lookit...her eye...is that...? Is that NORMAL!?" Because he saw a MUCH worse version of this:

Yum.

I also found that, as I mentioned above, my inner lip was cut open, my throat was sore and I had an inexplicable yet very real and very tender BRUISE on my FOREHEAD. the FUCK??

Also as mentioned above, I was finally given a Demerol drip and was using it liberally (every 8 minutes, as instructed, lest we forget) especially since a) it was instructed; b) everything hurt despite the supposed 'ease' of this new method of surgery; c) I was going to be put into a bumpy and moving CAR in a few short hours, which...call me crazy...I had an inkling might HURT; and d) Nurse Genius told me that the doctor was sending me home with A PILL for the pain. Not a prescription, not SEVERAL pillS for the pain, no no... A. P.i.l.l. Now, idiot that I am, I took that to mean ONE ... PILL. Cause, you know, she SAID SO. So my happy ass was pressing that Demerol drip button like I was on the Stephen King version of Jeopardy! and my life would be over if I pressed at any rate below 55 mph.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Nurse Genius came in at the moment I was to be released and said "Ooooh, sorry, you have to stay for another 30 minutes."

Gracie and George, simultaneously: "What? WHY??"

Nurse Braniac: "Well...because you used too much Demerol"

Gracie: "What do you mean? You TOLD me to use it like that"

Nurse Braniac: "Yes, but we didn't think you'd use so MUCH."

Gracie: "Then...why'd you give it to me and tell me to use it?"

Nurse Braniac: "...."

Gracie: "...."

Nurse Braniac: "Anyways..." (please note her incorrect usage of the word...that she INCORRECTLY added an 'S' to the end of the word, furthering my contention that she has NO BUSINESS being in charge of lives, the point of which will be further driven home in a moment...) "My supervisor says you've had too much medicine, so you can't leave until it's worn off."

Gracie and George, simultaneously: "Are you SERIOUS??"

Nurse Braniac: "Yeah. Totally."

Gracie: "Oh. my. GOD."

Nurse Braniac: *Shrugs*

Gracie: "You're sending me out just a few hours after I've had surgery...which = painful, of course, and the ride home is going to hurt like hell...shouldn't that warrant being a bit medicated??"

Nurse Braniac: "...."

Gracie: "Okay then. Let me also point out that you told me that the doctor was sending me home after said surgery with ONE. PILL. Call me crazy, but I'm guessing the pain isn't going to magically disappear as I walk through those doors...I thought maybe that was why you told me to use so much of the medication...to prolong the relief as much as possible"

Nurse Braniac: "No."

Gracie: "Clearly"

Nurse Braniac: "Wait, wait...did you say ONE PILL??"

Gracie: "Yes. That's what you said."

Nurse Braniac: "Did I?"

Gracie: "UH-HUH!"

Nurse Braniac: "Hahahahaha! That's so funny!"

Gracie: "WHY exactly is that funny?"

Nurse Braniac: "Well cause I say wrong things sometimes and that was one of 'em! Haaahahahahaha!"

Gracie: "So...you were wrong, then? I'm not getting one pill?"

Nurse Braniac: "Oh-ho-ho NO, honey. You're getting a whole prescription for Percocet."

Gracie: "Oh, thank GOD."

Nurse Braniac: "Still can't leave for 30 minutes, though." (Note once again the lack of apology for fuck up)

And George and I had to waltz back into the (SO NOT PRIVATE) room to complete my sentence. It was like going to jail with my tail between my legs. To make it all the more cheery, my roommate, who spoke maybe 3 words the full 2 days I was with her, said (quite huffily) "What're YOU doing back?? I thought you were LEAVING!" Gee thanks, Bitch. "Nope, can't leave just yet." And she replied "But...my daughter wants your bed! And I want a private room! You ARE leaving, right? SOON???" Hey! D.J. Mac-daddy Ethel with the strobe lights! *I* wanted a private room myself! I also would've liked ohhhhh more than 15 minutes of sleep at a clip, but thaaaaat wasn't in the cards thanks to your overly-active OCD crap. Un-knot your thong, granny!

Of course that's what I said. Course...it came out sounding like "just a few more minutes, sweetie." Leave me alone. She was 190 years old, had been there for 2 weeks and was no closer to going home than when she got there.

I leave you today with an email to my brother and his wife. Tune in tomorrow for some amusing emails that have flown back and forth over the last week.

[Gracie's Brother],

This is a picture of my eye. Sadly, this is a marked improvement from earlier in the week. At least now you can see white and there isn't that big bubble of crimson grossness that was there in the beginning. Shudder. Also, George has finally stopped giggling each time I look at him, as I look less and less cross-eyed as the blood dissipates.
This = FUN!

Hope you're eating spaghetti sauce! Love ya!

Gracie

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