The impatient patient

By Don Fowler
Posted 10/19/16

I'm a 79-year-old Type A guy who can't sit still for more than 10 minutes. I play tennis, work out at Planet Fitness, walk, swim, snorkel and am out almost every night reviewing theatre, movies, concerts and restaurants. That was my routine

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The impatient patient

Posted

I’m a 79-year-old Type A guy who can’t sit still for more than 10 minutes.

I play tennis, work out at Planet Fitness, walk, swim, snorkel and am out almost every night reviewing theatre, movies, concerts and restaurants.

That was my routine until a recent six-month checkup with my cardiologist, followed by a series of tests, concluded that quadruple bypass heart surgery was necessary to open those nasty clogged arteries that were meant to supply blood to my heart.

Following surgery, which required cracking my ribs (my first broken bones) and removing replacement arteries from my leg, other problems led to a “jump start” of the heart and the need for medications to even the blood flow.

All this led to seven long days and nights in the hospital under the watchful eyes of a team of cardiology specialists and nurses that included endless tubes, catheters, ports, pacemakers, oxygen, needles and hourly interruptions to my sleepless body.

All of the above were the expected temporary setbacks to a predicted month-long medical necessity aimed at getting me back on my feet, and after another month of rehab, back on the tennis court. Loss of control

The worst thing that can happen to a Type A person is loss of control.

Lying in a hospital bed, throat parched, having difficulty swallowing and unable to talk due to the breathing tube down my throat during and after surgery, the desire for a sip of water is more desirous than a Twin Oaks martini.

I reach for the coveted nurses’ call button, only to discover it has fallen to the floor. The nurses who disturb my sleep every 10 minutes are nowhere in sight.

Slowly, over the next seven days, breathing tube, catheter, ports and a variety of medical paraphernalia are removed.

I’m visited by a variety of mostly young nurses and aides, all with specific responsibilities.

“I’m the breathing nurse,” says the specialist who covers my nose with a plastic hood that pumps oxygen into my nostrils for 10 minutes at a time.

With three shifts a day, I have met most of the graduates of all the nearby nursing schools, plus a variety of entry-level and trained medical aides who empty my wastebasket, change my sheets, take my blood pressure, blood sugar, temperature, blood for this, blood for that, and give me my morning, afternoon and evening medications.

I repeat my name and date of birth literally dozens of times as everyone who approaches my bed scans my wristband. I sign forms. I answer endless questions.

I finally start to doze when I am graced with a roommate who has brought half his family, including a wife with a voice like Roseanne Barr. The TV is immediately turned on, drowning out the last 10 minutes of my favorite program.

Call buttons constantly go off from all surrounding rooms, while one of the bags dispensing saline into my body needs to be reset every five minutes, providing that irritating and constant beeping sound.

Hospitals are no place to go to get a good night’s sleep and get well. Dehydration/nausea/anorexia

Following surgery, I completely lost my appetite.

Food trays were brought to my bed three times a day. I stared at the food and drink, but could not bring myself to take any liquid besides water to swallow pills. I was on a special low carb, salt free, diabetic diet. Food was bland, but I concluded it was more of a problem than that. I could not look at food, let alone bring it to my lips. And this is from a self-proclaimed “foodie,” food writer and reviewer who loves to eat.

“You’ve got to eat” medical staff and family constantly told me.

Easy for them to say.

I would put a bite of anything in my mouth and it would sit there until I could spit it out.

Psychological? I don’t know.

Result of anesthesia? I don’t know.

All I know is that this lover of food couldn’t even look at it. Rehab

After a week of hospitalization, it was time to move to a rehab facility, where occupational and physical therapy could continue the healing process.

Moved by ambulance on a Friday afternoon, I lay in bed until mid-afternoon Saturday before being formally oriented to my new home and altered lifestyle.

I was able to get up and walk and go to the bathroom on my own, but I still couldn’t handle food.

The first meal they brought me was beef Wellington, a delicacy I couldn’t afford in most restaurants. Next was a beautifully cooked piece of salmon, the food I would choose for my last meal or if cast away on a desert isle.

Still not in control, I continued my rehab at the mercy of nurses and therapists who decided for me when, and in some cases if, they would help me wash, take me to the therapy room, and leave my meal tray.

Walking was no problem. I could climb stairs and complete all exercises beyond their expectations. I showered myself, dressed myself, and handled all of my bodily functions.

But I still was nauseous and could not eat.

Daughter Robin constantly monitored my care and treatment, suggesting Glucerna might be something I could tolerate. It worked, but I needed more.

In walked Robin the next day with a quart of milk, a banana, chocolate syrup, peanut butter and vitamins, which she mixed together and set in front of me.

Now Robin is more than a daughter. She is Dr. Robin Miller. wife of a doctor, daughter of a nurse, mother of a doctor and a nurse/educator/administrator in her own right.

I drank the entire glass and asked for more!

It tasted better than a Matunuck Oyster Bar Bloody Mary.

My blood work was still out of whack, so the doctor sent me by ambulance to Miriam Hospital, where a team of doctors, nurses and pharmacists worked together to get the right medication combinations.

After 24 hours in the hospital, and rehab expecting me back for at least another week of alternating staring at the ceiling and doing basic exercises, my cardiologist asked me what I wanted most of all.

To go home!

He wrote the order. My wife and daughter got me home and settled in my Craig’s List lift chair.

“Would you like anything?” Joyce asked.

“Two meat tacos,” I blurted out.

It was Taco Tuesday at Poco Loco, the closest place to my house with food.

I devoured them, topped it off with Graham crackers and peanut butter, followed by cookies. And I haven’t stopped eating since. Epilogue

Major surgery with complications and side effects can be a most traumatic experience, leading to depression and frequently an anorexic-type experience that can slow the healing process.

Recounting my story to friends resulted in dozens of tales of similar experiences. I’m one of the lucky ones. I went through hell, but I will recover. I’m grateful every day for the little things, like the sun shining, a friend calling to see how I am, a taco, sleeping through the night and awakening feeling refreshed.

I’m determined to get back on the tennis court as I look forward to more rehab.

Extreme nausea is an area that needs a lot more study. While there are medications, the side effects can often be as bad as the nausea. One friend found his solution in medical marijuana, an area that needs closer study.

We all need support of friends and family, plus the best medical care available.

I also discovered that Twin Oaks’ baked stuffed shrimp and a sticky bun from Little Falls is absolutely mandatory for the healing process.

And the prayers and positive thoughts can’t hurt, either. The road back

While I like to remain as independent as possible, the reality of major surgery followed by rehabilitation dictates the need for help. VNA services help to coordinate my care, medication and physical progress. In my case, help, love and caring came from my wife, family and friends.

Joyce was at the hospital and rehab facility every day, bringing me my newspaper, get well cards, and all those little things I needed to make life tolerable.

She’s the one who spent hours on the phone and Internet, fielding questions and providing updates.

She’s the one who is now there for me, encouraging me to “keep moving,” helping me out of bed and low chairs, and driving me around like a chauffeur, as I sit in the back seat to avoid the possibility of an air bag that would crack my sternum.

Once the doctor “releases” me and I can drive and become the Independent Man again, I owe her big time.

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