Tuesday, December 14, 2004
My love is like an ambulance, running red hot for ya.
As seen on Shaken Baby Syndrome Poster: "Take a break, don't shake."
I hate hospitals. When I first got here tonight, I was climbing the walls (<= a favorite catchphrase as of late). A city emergency room just hits me like a brick wall- every emergency room does though.
The smell plows into you first. It seeps into your body like a noxious gas- settles into your stomach, sticks in your hair, brings alive thoughts once dead and buried. If hospital smell had a color, it would be a foul yellow green bile colored Crayola. "Pukeshitfecesbleach."
The things in emerge have become sensationalized in the media. I look and wait, but there is no devestatingly hot hunk using incorrect jargon whilst holding the beating heart of a dying man in his hands, in the waiting room, while soapflake snow blows through the doors and a blizzard rages outside despite carols being sung touchingly inside. No gunshot wounds, no vengeful patients, no psychotic doctors, no dramatic birthings- just sombre tired faces. Slipped on the walk. Diabetic shock. Chronic emphazema flare-up. Striders. Back-ache. Mystery bleedouts. Infection. Croup. Colick. Cuts. Bruises. Excuses. Hypochondria.
All these people have done this a million times before. They will have clocked hundreds of emerge hours by the end of their lives. Some lives will end here. One already has in the last hour. Collision, no seatbelt. Hushed murmurs, "are you family? I'm afraid it's not good..." Is death really a prognosis? Sobbing, clutching, falling, catatonia- just like T.V.
There was a girl and her baby brought in about an hour ago (3 a.m. last I checked). So quiet. The paramedic carried the baby down the hall in its carrier while the mother trailed behind draped in a blanket, tired and lost. I wished I could know why they were there, but most of all I wished she would involuntarily pull that drawn dead face into a smile- that the pudgy pale baby would open his eyes, or wave. Or move. Stop being so quiet, baby. Most of all, don't let us hear the scared sounds of an infant being intubated. Muffle it.
The sounds of here are stomach churning. When I was six, I knew what all the codes were, and never forgot. Though changing over the years with technology, the chimes, sirens, chirps, beeps, dings, are still translateable on the basis of urgency. Emergency. Around these are the chorus of the ill, the dying, the scared, the bored and the angry, in a cacophony of wails, moans, phlegmatic coughing, vomitus, scuffles, and crashing equipment.
It is funny how out of all the institutions in our society, that hospitals are expected to be the cleanest. And they are not. Ever put your nose up to the vinyl papered surface of an emerge stall? A thousand bad sorties lurk there, and they conjure up flashes of horror- footage of blood, guts and feces every time you get too close, inhale at the wrong moment, or in the wrong place. At first the dirt, scuffs and ground in soylence of the surroundings is highly offensive:
"Maybe the Alec emerge isn't that bad afterall...should we have gone there instead?" Die in our own, much dirtier bedsheets? The baby sounds like he is coughing out his life.
Hugh asked his nurse tonight, only three floors above us, what he should expect dying to feel like. Ostensibly she replide that she had no experience in the area, and stricken, abandoned Hugh's doctor to the question and fled the room. The doctor calmly explained that Hugh would bleed out, either in his brain, or in his liver. He would simply fall asleep and never wake up. Up front, but not truthful. All the dying man wanted to know. He's 75 with Leukemia that would kill him by treatment alone. Last week he was healthy, given six months to live. This week, he has one transfusion and Christmas to survive. Hope is imperative to life. Healthy spirit = a cliched healthy body. If I have a prescribed amount of time to live (we all do), I don't want to know. The fact that we break that rule and confirm the mortality of others on our whim is indicative of how shitty the lives of humans are, or have become. I don't ever want to know. Please don't tell me of my death, or my love either- both are equally frightening.
But hospitals become the place to witness existing humanity. I will volunteer here in the summer, merely to see more occasion of people being kind and compassionate with total strangers. The head nurse is soft and commanding, gentle and helpful. She's not fresh, but doesn't lose her cool when one of the Aunts does. She bends over backwards instead; gts us canned nutrients, extra blankets, a peds pullout chair (the "rocking-green-mystery-stain-cushion-on-wheels").
The attendent nurse is even more heartening. I keep finding him trying to catch my eye. I scoop up his gaze and shoot my little "we are amused" smile back. He banters with the Aunts, makes my grandma laugh, and peppers them with indirect questions about me. They do the same with him and tease me when I blush. We tally up his life as he's told it- realize we don't know his age- we're dying to know, but dying to leave too.
An assalut of tests later proves only one boone to any discovery- which is that we will be staying overnight here. I- fearing the gremlins and witches of the nightshift- stubbornly refuse to leave- also realizing a good studying opportunity when I see one. Andrew, the nurse, discloses he is 33, which fits his army reserve, military enlistment, Serbia and Croatia peacekeeping tour, teaching and nursing degree. Just barely. He musters up some bravery upon his return trip. We talk of Pierre Burton and the "great Canadian novel" I pledge to be writing. He asks me how old I am and I want to just lie for the sake of being loved on sight by him for the last twelve hours- feeling him watch me with interest and curiousity everytime I pass him- but I cave and tell him my meagre numbers. He mumbles something about "still having lots of time to grow up" and I counter it with an assertive look and the comment of "and gain new experience to write about." D'oh. I'm out of that innocent affection now. Back to old love, old painful and frustrating insolvable old love. It haunts me like hospital smell, or like condensation on toilet seats. Only me...surely I must have an STD by now. Le sigh.
But the reason I'm here- what it has amounted to- is this: An aspiration problem (of air being inhaled with great difficulty). Three vapour steroid treatments. One bossy research doctor on pager dressed for an opera. Blood tests (veins). Monitored vitals. Five seperate occurences of "lets have a listen", intrevenous saline, steroids and anti-biotics. Blood gas test (arterial- a little scary to see that surging red). One pulmonary specialist (has a cold, or is a smoker. Ha ha.)Two lectures. Two repeats of diagnosis by a nurse. Three mentionings of my dead grandfather, also diagnosed with COPD. Two seperate highly emotional moments with the Aunts. ECG. One battle with stubborn matriarch. Us= 1. Matriarch= nothing. She's too tired to fight it. Possibility of Strider. Definately an infection. Possibility of blood clot, or new cancer. Jokes about upcoming PETSCAN. Four trips to Timmy Ho's. $3.50 for breakfast. Fear of forgetfulness. IS ALLERGIC TO IODINE. And shrimp. Is there shrimp in that drip?
The baby is laughing and cooing. I can hear him smile. His mother is relieved and Andrew walked back into ICU with the baby.
Obtained Nutriem 1.5 drip with appropriate adapter for MICKEY. Constructed the "Chickenfish" mascot from latex glove (now thicker with no powder lining- more sharp resistant)- taped loony with ECG button on bottom for maximum sitting stability. One missed vein for IV. Two hard blows for the spirometrics test. Very very tired- yet averse to sleeping, despite complete exhaustion. I think she's too bogged down with hookups to be comfortable. Re-occurring leg cramps. Sharp lids litter the floor. We've filled one waste can almost completely with refuse.
I went and played with the baby. He's not sleepy, and watches me tickle his hand with wide happy doe-brown eyes. His skin is so soft and fawn colored, with tiny little hands and tiny little fingernails with little white half-moons. His head is a chaotic mess of black hair tufting out all over the place. I want one just like him, little snotty nose crust and all.
"Wash your hands," Andrew chides. And I do, not knowing if I've somehow committed a taboo by playing with a sick baby in this place, but smiling at the moment of avid eyes and calmly curious tiny fingers. He's forgotten me, but I'll remember him.
"Attention! Attention to Triage! Code Blue. Code Blue." Merry Christmas, may I stop your wound? I'm bored and not sleeping, feeling slightly nauseaus.
¶ 10:17 PM
I hate hospitals. When I first got here tonight, I was climbing the walls (<= a favorite catchphrase as of late). A city emergency room just hits me like a brick wall- every emergency room does though.
The smell plows into you first. It seeps into your body like a noxious gas- settles into your stomach, sticks in your hair, brings alive thoughts once dead and buried. If hospital smell had a color, it would be a foul yellow green bile colored Crayola. "Pukeshitfecesbleach."
The things in emerge have become sensationalized in the media. I look and wait, but there is no devestatingly hot hunk using incorrect jargon whilst holding the beating heart of a dying man in his hands, in the waiting room, while soapflake snow blows through the doors and a blizzard rages outside despite carols being sung touchingly inside. No gunshot wounds, no vengeful patients, no psychotic doctors, no dramatic birthings- just sombre tired faces. Slipped on the walk. Diabetic shock. Chronic emphazema flare-up. Striders. Back-ache. Mystery bleedouts. Infection. Croup. Colick. Cuts. Bruises. Excuses. Hypochondria.
All these people have done this a million times before. They will have clocked hundreds of emerge hours by the end of their lives. Some lives will end here. One already has in the last hour. Collision, no seatbelt. Hushed murmurs, "are you family? I'm afraid it's not good..." Is death really a prognosis? Sobbing, clutching, falling, catatonia- just like T.V.
There was a girl and her baby brought in about an hour ago (3 a.m. last I checked). So quiet. The paramedic carried the baby down the hall in its carrier while the mother trailed behind draped in a blanket, tired and lost. I wished I could know why they were there, but most of all I wished she would involuntarily pull that drawn dead face into a smile- that the pudgy pale baby would open his eyes, or wave. Or move. Stop being so quiet, baby. Most of all, don't let us hear the scared sounds of an infant being intubated. Muffle it.
The sounds of here are stomach churning. When I was six, I knew what all the codes were, and never forgot. Though changing over the years with technology, the chimes, sirens, chirps, beeps, dings, are still translateable on the basis of urgency. Emergency. Around these are the chorus of the ill, the dying, the scared, the bored and the angry, in a cacophony of wails, moans, phlegmatic coughing, vomitus, scuffles, and crashing equipment.
It is funny how out of all the institutions in our society, that hospitals are expected to be the cleanest. And they are not. Ever put your nose up to the vinyl papered surface of an emerge stall? A thousand bad sorties lurk there, and they conjure up flashes of horror- footage of blood, guts and feces every time you get too close, inhale at the wrong moment, or in the wrong place. At first the dirt, scuffs and ground in soylence of the surroundings is highly offensive:
"Maybe the Alec emerge isn't that bad afterall...should we have gone there instead?" Die in our own, much dirtier bedsheets? The baby sounds like he is coughing out his life.
Hugh asked his nurse tonight, only three floors above us, what he should expect dying to feel like. Ostensibly she replide that she had no experience in the area, and stricken, abandoned Hugh's doctor to the question and fled the room. The doctor calmly explained that Hugh would bleed out, either in his brain, or in his liver. He would simply fall asleep and never wake up. Up front, but not truthful. All the dying man wanted to know. He's 75 with Leukemia that would kill him by treatment alone. Last week he was healthy, given six months to live. This week, he has one transfusion and Christmas to survive. Hope is imperative to life. Healthy spirit = a cliched healthy body. If I have a prescribed amount of time to live (we all do), I don't want to know. The fact that we break that rule and confirm the mortality of others on our whim is indicative of how shitty the lives of humans are, or have become. I don't ever want to know. Please don't tell me of my death, or my love either- both are equally frightening.
But hospitals become the place to witness existing humanity. I will volunteer here in the summer, merely to see more occasion of people being kind and compassionate with total strangers. The head nurse is soft and commanding, gentle and helpful. She's not fresh, but doesn't lose her cool when one of the Aunts does. She bends over backwards instead; gts us canned nutrients, extra blankets, a peds pullout chair (the "rocking-green-mystery-stain-cushion-on-wheels").
The attendent nurse is even more heartening. I keep finding him trying to catch my eye. I scoop up his gaze and shoot my little "we are amused" smile back. He banters with the Aunts, makes my grandma laugh, and peppers them with indirect questions about me. They do the same with him and tease me when I blush. We tally up his life as he's told it- realize we don't know his age- we're dying to know, but dying to leave too.
An assalut of tests later proves only one boone to any discovery- which is that we will be staying overnight here. I- fearing the gremlins and witches of the nightshift- stubbornly refuse to leave- also realizing a good studying opportunity when I see one. Andrew, the nurse, discloses he is 33, which fits his army reserve, military enlistment, Serbia and Croatia peacekeeping tour, teaching and nursing degree. Just barely. He musters up some bravery upon his return trip. We talk of Pierre Burton and the "great Canadian novel" I pledge to be writing. He asks me how old I am and I want to just lie for the sake of being loved on sight by him for the last twelve hours- feeling him watch me with interest and curiousity everytime I pass him- but I cave and tell him my meagre numbers. He mumbles something about "still having lots of time to grow up" and I counter it with an assertive look and the comment of "and gain new experience to write about." D'oh. I'm out of that innocent affection now. Back to old love, old painful and frustrating insolvable old love. It haunts me like hospital smell, or like condensation on toilet seats. Only me...surely I must have an STD by now. Le sigh.
But the reason I'm here- what it has amounted to- is this: An aspiration problem (of air being inhaled with great difficulty). Three vapour steroid treatments. One bossy research doctor on pager dressed for an opera. Blood tests (veins). Monitored vitals. Five seperate occurences of "lets have a listen", intrevenous saline, steroids and anti-biotics. Blood gas test (arterial- a little scary to see that surging red). One pulmonary specialist (has a cold, or is a smoker. Ha ha.)Two lectures. Two repeats of diagnosis by a nurse. Three mentionings of my dead grandfather, also diagnosed with COPD. Two seperate highly emotional moments with the Aunts. ECG. One battle with stubborn matriarch. Us= 1. Matriarch= nothing. She's too tired to fight it. Possibility of Strider. Definately an infection. Possibility of blood clot, or new cancer. Jokes about upcoming PETSCAN. Four trips to Timmy Ho's. $3.50 for breakfast. Fear of forgetfulness. IS ALLERGIC TO IODINE. And shrimp. Is there shrimp in that drip?
The baby is laughing and cooing. I can hear him smile. His mother is relieved and Andrew walked back into ICU with the baby.
Obtained Nutriem 1.5 drip with appropriate adapter for MICKEY. Constructed the "Chickenfish" mascot from latex glove (now thicker with no powder lining- more sharp resistant)- taped loony with ECG button on bottom for maximum sitting stability. One missed vein for IV. Two hard blows for the spirometrics test. Very very tired- yet averse to sleeping, despite complete exhaustion. I think she's too bogged down with hookups to be comfortable. Re-occurring leg cramps. Sharp lids litter the floor. We've filled one waste can almost completely with refuse.
I went and played with the baby. He's not sleepy, and watches me tickle his hand with wide happy doe-brown eyes. His skin is so soft and fawn colored, with tiny little hands and tiny little fingernails with little white half-moons. His head is a chaotic mess of black hair tufting out all over the place. I want one just like him, little snotty nose crust and all.
"Wash your hands," Andrew chides. And I do, not knowing if I've somehow committed a taboo by playing with a sick baby in this place, but smiling at the moment of avid eyes and calmly curious tiny fingers. He's forgotten me, but I'll remember him.
"Attention! Attention to Triage! Code Blue. Code Blue." Merry Christmas, may I stop your wound? I'm bored and not sleeping, feeling slightly nauseaus.
¶ 10:17 PM
