By now I'm hungry, very hungry. Breakfast doesn't arrive until nearly 9 a.m. I gobble it down immediately. The certified nurse's assistant who is friendlier than she is efficient carefully writes her name, the name of the nurse assigned to my room, the day and the date on the little white marker board that faces my bed. A beautiful Christmas bouquet arrives from Tom. I still vividly recall the arrangement he sent to my home after I had cataract surgery for the first time.
A little while later, a perky young woman appears at my bedside, introduces herself as my physical therapist and quizzes me about my "total hip precautions" or THP, which I will have to observe for the next 6 weeks: my right knee always must be lower than my right hip, I can't walk pigeon-toed and I can't cross my legs. Responding to her encouragement and instructions, I slip out of bed painlessly and stand on my own briefly. "I'll be back tomorrow," she says.
A nurse named Doreen, enters the room to take my vitals, interrupting my first phone call from Barnet, my oldest gay friend who recently has undergone minor knee surgery and who has just told me that he burst into tears yesterday when the Senate repealed "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" because he knew how much it meant to me, a former Army brat who has long expressed more outrage about not being able to serve my country than not being able to get married. Not that I've ever tried to do either. Doreen doesn't operate the high tech equipment as well as Marie, or perhaps it has stopped functioning properly, but she ends of up taking my blood pressure using the hand pump method. It is low. "I'll put you on a saline drip" she tells me. "That usually does the trick." Apparently the resident on duty disagrees. I gather that doctors are pretty scarce around here on weekends, although Dr. Reimers does briefly poke his head in later to see how I'm doing.
When Doreen returns with this news, she asks me what I do. She tells me she knows several 9/11 rescue and recovery workers who have benefited from a program offered by the Church of Scientology. I tell her what I know about the program and that there is no peer-reviewed evidence to support its effectiveness but add "there are many pathways to recovery." Which I believe but which also is calculated not to offend the woman in charge of my care.
Doreen is quite the chatty Cathy, although I have to ask her and her assistant to empty my urine bottle. She notices that I have brought along Life, Keith Richards' memoir and engages me in another discussion about rock 'n roll. When she proclaims that she recently attended the Heart reunion concert I do offend her by observing that it probably made her feel young again. Full disclosure: I'm a total rock 'n roll snob.
Doreen exits, but returns a few minutes later with some news and an offer. If my blood pressure doesn't go down soon, she will put me on a saline drip. "Do you want an oxycontin?" she asks, holding out a pill in an opened cellophane package. I hesitate, because I'm not in any pain and I didn't particularly enjoy the loopiness that I experienced the day before when the operating room nurse gave me my first. "Well, if the doctor thinks it's a good idea," I say, tentatively. She tells me the doctor had nothing to do with her offer and I immediately wonder if our discussion of Keith Richards did. Perhaps she recognized me as a fellow traveler? Little did she know how paranoid I am about addictive medications or, in Mick's words, "Mother's Little Helper," after a childhood of watching my own stockpile Darvon in quantities large enough to turn the shelves in her medicine cabinet pink.
Tom arrives with Jerry, another friend. "Those were supposed to be white lillies," he says, eying the flower arrangement critically and moving it, at my request, into a spot where I can gaze upon the red flowers more easily. Jerry has brought a lovely assortment of homemade Christmas cookies. I immediately sample one of each variety: fruitcake, sesame and lemon. Yum, so much better than the lunch I completely consumed earlier. We hear a lot of laughter in the halls. I ask them to hand me my toothbrush, toothpaste and what appears to be a traditional bed pan so that I can brush my teeth in bed. Tom agrees to empty my urine bottle before leaving, which is much fuller than when Marie was on duty. Truth be told, I appreciate this more than the beautiful flower arrangement as I'm reluctant to summon the nurse for any reason.
Until I have to. When my blood pressure doesn't go down, the resident approves the saline drip. Doreen wants to wait until the electrolyte drip finishes emptying, but hangs the saline bag in preparation and tells me to buzz when the electrolyte bad is completely empty. I keep my eye on it and buzz at precisely the moment the last electrolyte enters my bloodstream. 10 minutes pass. I buzz again. 10 minutes later I buzz again and give up. Doreen returns an hour after the first buzz, reeking of cigarette smoke, and telling me not to worry. I don't but I decide the weekend nursing staff leaves a lot to be desired.
Fortunately, Marie shows up during the mid-afternoon. Although she's not scheduled to go on duty until 4 p.m. she lets me and my roommate know that she's there for the staff holiday party and she's just doing a quick check in with her patients. I gush over her return and empty my bladder with abandon.
Dinner is served early, around 5 p.m., I spend the evening eavesdropping on the conversation behind the curtain. My roommate's girlfriend has arrived to relieve his mother. They are watching "Date Night" when I drift off to sleep. I awaken at one point and hear my roommate telling his mother about the last time he was in detox. Am I dreaming?
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