A (for Active). You are the slowest moving person in your apartment building. And your building has five apartments, each containing one person. And you bring down the median age of the apartment building to 70ish. These apartments consist of:
*One 70+ year old permanently on oxygen who cannot lift her head using her neck muscles.
*One 96 year old who wears wigs on her three hairs and just bought the most amazing leopard skin print glasses I have ever seen. They match her silk robe. Hot.
*One 70+ year old who just had two hips replaced.
*One blue-pale, skin sloughing off 80+ year old who leaves her house only once a week at most and is so memory-lagging she believes that the apartments were never sold to the Mega-Devil known as CitiApartments this year. And we must keep doors open for her "man" doing the laundry, although she has no man and no one is anywhere near the laundry room.
*One 35 year old who is suddenly not allowed to go to work for at least a month and right now cannot even make it down two steps without feeling pain and wanting to nap.
Wanna guess which one you are?
That's right. They are all more mobile than I am presently. They bring me the mail. They offer me rolling TV dinner tray sets. They offer up spare bedside commodes. Bad sign A. Actually, that really should be bad signs A-C at least, but ne'ermind.
B (Bummers - or the Bell Curve). You find yourself on a Friday night in the "prestigious" UCSF ER, surrounded by a confederacy of dunces, and get to use phrases like:
1) Tap on his shoulder, "I am sure the ladies just adore you, young doctor boy, but do you think you could avoid ACTUALLY leaning on the area that I am pretty sure is bursting as you do that ultrasound?"(Response: 'Uh, oh, sorry.' He readjusts his weight so he is not actually lying on you for a minute. Of course two minutes later, he relaxes back into squashing you and your leaking innards. Nice.)
2) It is lovely, truly lovely that you want to get a chance to explain what general anesthesia is going to be like, Mr. Resident Anesthesiologist Boy, but since you are unfettered by the sharp intake of breath I just did and the gasping, gripping, eye rolling I am doing, I am now forced to reach out and take your arm and say, "Sorry to interrupt, but now you need to shut up and move away from me because I am going to vomit and faint again." (Response: Full-scale panic and the ceasing of a tiresome room-wide argument over whether you should have surgery at 5 a.m. with the very tired current team or you will still be alive to wait for the new, fresh, 7 a.m. team to appear. It turns out that dropping your blood pressure and fainting is the best way to spur action in the ER. I know, I did it twice.
Note: Anecdotal evidence such as telling people at the ER that you know you have burst and are bleeding internally is not enough, especially when they cannot find real evidence in the form of an ultrasound... although it, in retrospect, turns out they only couldn't see such evidence because they had you on your back and, as they were looking on your sides, the blood was quietly pooling in the back of your stomach. Woops. Oh and, note #2, it also turns out that turning powder blue is not enough. For confirmation of this point, ask AM, who remarked: 'How is it possible that with 10 people in the room, you and I seemed to be the only people to know that you were about to faint?' A good question, one of several, on AM's part. Just tidbits to know should you find yourself in the ER in the near future.
3) "This is not personal, but I am beginning to lose confidence in you people. First you don't know how to use the keys to get the elevator from the ER to the OR floor, and now you are pushing my bed back and forth on the OR floor, saying things like 'Right or Left? Do we go Right or Left?' It's like you've never been here before." (Response: Nervous giggles and the confession that that is essentially the case. You request AM to snap a pic with your phone to document this occasion, should these be the last four people who will ever see you alive and your mother needs to know who to hate. See one nervous grinner, as the rest of them hide when the camera appears. All this transpires as you bleed out at least three pints of blood into your stomach and stop coagulating, which it turns out is unfortunate because you only get six pints to start with.)But back to 'It's Never a Good Sign When...'
C (Chances, Second). You hear a fellow say over you to someone you cannot see, "God I'm glad you saw that. I really think you saved her life."
D (Diet). You are encouraged to eat solid foods by your caretakers, at which point you have to question them and refer these experts to page 13 of your chart, letting them know you believe you are not allowed solid foods. They look at you sideways, come back acknowledging that you are, in fact, right.
E (Encouragement). You get to point out that perhaps they have, as all hospital rooms do, a pre-fab sign they can put on your door that relays this so future caretakers will not rely on your Vicadined self for the most accurate medical information. They find the sign on the shelf and post it.
F (Food). Three hours later, you are offered a liquid diet made especially for you, since you are a caffeine-free vegetarian: coffee, gelatin-horse-hoofed jell-o, and a choice of clear broths. These broths come in two packages. One package is red, portrays a drawing of a cow, and says BEEF. The other package is more promising. It is yellow, portrays a drawing of a chicken, and says CHICKEN. (Nurse assistant response: Yes, vegetable broth. I am pretty sure.) You drink chamomile tea.
G (Graphic). Your first personal experience of someone drawing on labia is in a hospital context, done by a lip-biting Resident with a furrowed brow.
H (Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy). Several days later, you call your nurse in, expressing with the wildest joy that he simply must note in your chart that you were finally able to poot. He does a victory dance for you. You grin widely. Clap your hands. Burst into tears, because you cannot believe you have been reduced to this as a context for elation. He hands you a stool softener and a Vicadin, and, comforted like a defenseless puppy, you go to back to sleep. I (Inconvenienced). Nurse assistants, when they do actually respond to your infrequent call bells, tell you things like, "Hey, you know you can record the levels, empty and clean your own bathroom pan and just tell your nurse later. Then you won't even need to bother us."
J (Juggled). You never see the same doctor twice. One doctor is supposed to come back to sign your release papers, but forgets and clocks out... going home instead.
K (Kicked Out). 14 hours and several pages to yet another different doctor (who is surprised you are unreleased) later, you are given a Vicadin and then informed your paperwork is being processed and you are being released within the next 15 minutes. And by the way, your room is needed, so you'll have to get dressed and pack your stuff and go sit in the waiting room within the next 10 minutes to await your ride, who should be at UCSF within the hour. Note: You are simultaneously being told you are not to bend, pick up, or carry anything. It is like a team challenge. You are your whole team. Sweet.
L (Listening to Liars About Lists). You are told that if you have any of the list of symptoms written on the paper, you must call a certain number immediately so you don't almost die again. You call the number. Three times. No one returns your calls.
M (M'bad, Yeah Right). You are called the next day. You are called in order to be yelled at for your audacity at calling other doctors through a different number at 3 a.m the previous night, which apparently got your team of doctors "in trouble." Once it is ascertained that you are not, in fact, a liar, and that you did, in fact, call the three times you had stated, as you were supposed to, and spoke with someone promising you'd get a call back but no actual response, you are then both apologized to and again strongly chided not to call other doctors, not to call your father, not to call your brother for advocacy. (Response: Hey, call me back and I won't.)
N (Nope). Several days later, you find out that although searing pain with 100 degrees feels hot, chilled, abnormal, and potentially worrisome, it is not technically a fever, and therefore not a good enough reason to call the doctor. It would be a good enough reason perhaps if it were 101, it turns out. Click.
O (Ouch). You are not allowed to laugh, cry, sneeze, snarf, hiccup, yawn, stretch, or throw things in disgust at Julia Roberts on the movie screen for at least four weeks without tremendous pain.
P (Payment Plans). Despite having insurance, you know that in the coming weeks you are going to very efficiently receive a fat bill from this illustrious institution for their stellar services.
Q (Questionable). At at least three different doctor junctions prior to the ER, different decisions could have most likely avoided all of this.
This really could go on forever.... but let's end on a happier note:
It's a Less Bad Sign When....
You know that nurses should be the highest paid, most honored practitioners in the field of western medical hospitalization. Even if they sometimes forget about you, take 1.5 hours to come when you ask for your next pain pill, fumble around with your IV as you watch now-someone-else's blood spill from you. Even then, they are your heroes.
And most importantly, It's Such a Good Sign When....
A - Y. You cannot express the profundity of your love and appreciation for the likes of: AM above all for a 3 a.m. ride and butt kicking advocacy, plus your bro and sis-in-law, the Smurf, the Bear Whisperer, AM and AA, your intern Leslye, your terrorized panicky superstitious militant sleepy parents, Miz CK, the other WALC teachers, your principal, and the superhero Nancy, your boss E, Sej, Pamikins, PQ, Ros, Gregorio, Miz D, Sista Boothie, MarquitaPants, Meem, Dimple, Noodle, Advisor-ee, My Patient, and the rest of your incredibly loving, helpful, compassionate, patient, sweet, reiki-skilled, laughter-avoiding, food-bearing, cooking, cleaning, dropped items retrieving, tea-making, snuggling, boggle-playing, handholding, book-sending, helpful, and concerned friends. You know who you are. I really cannot express my joy at both being alive and that I am so well - I have you all to thank for that. I am the most blessed person I know. I even just found out that Moo donated blood in my name. Aw shucks. Givin' back, givin' back.
Z. You have so much food in your fridge, placed there by so many lovely and considerate friends, that you have to force your friends to take some home, because really your biggest problem? That food will rot and go to waste. How's that for a problem?
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