I woke up many times at about 1 a.m. by my calculations, although a total wild guess would be a better descriptor. The gurney was still extremely uncomfortable as I lay in the hallway waiting for them to take me to my next destination. It felt like they were playing three-card Monte, getting moved so much, hiding me from someone. But who would they hide me from? I spent several hours in this hallway and a few more in that room as they shifted me time and time again like a giant game of whack-a-mole.
Startled from my slumber, they rolled me down the hallway, into an elevator, and onto the fourth floor. I briefly sat in another hallway and was eventually taken into a room where everything looked dated and well-worn. They tried unsuccessfully to make the room look acceptable and presentable. However, the phrase “putting lipstick on a pig” came to mind as I looked around; the room had extreme wear and tear on everything. I commented on the relatively small television size, which looked like a four-inch TV from 15 feet across the room. She told me it was one of the largest televisions in any hospital room, which made me sad for their patients.
Medical assistant Janet came in first, introducing herself and explaining that she would take my vitals. Minutes later, nurse Cindy had the prescriptions I brought, a few required medications, and still zero information or insights on my illness. It disappointed me that they held firm to the no-information rule they seemed to have, keeping my issues a secret, like who Batman is. Still extremely tired and hungry, I could not think straight to ask the questions and plead for answers they were unwilling to share.
I woke up the first morning when Joe from the kitchen staff brought my breakfast and then quickly turned and left the room. I was starving and ready to tear into even hospital food like a starving badger, as I had not eaten since the previous day’s breakfast. But still paralyzed, I realized I had to wait until someone could help me eat, which devastated my psyche. Even with whatever degree of disability from MS I had dealt with in the past, I could always feed myself independently. Nothing rips away your manhood, dignity, and pride like being spoon-fed Jell-O, like some invalid.
Finally, medical assistant Holly came into my room to take my morning vitals and inform me of the procedures and how-tos. Nurse Heidi entered the room next with the daily regimen of morning medication and vague information and clear-as-mud statements. I requested help to eat since I was paralyzed, and they told me they would act as soon as possible. Several hours later, I remembered scrambled eggs, bacon, and oatmeal were inedible when sold, old and cold. This iced meal was after sitting on the bed table untouched for many hours, getting chilled as I continued to starve, waiting for someone or anyone to help.
On day two, after many hours of extreme boredom, Bill from the kitchen brought the midday meal, which sat taunting me like a mirage to a man in the desert. Next, medical assistant Carol entered my room to take my vitals, asking if I planned to eat, obviously forgetting I could not move my arms. Then, Nurse Sandy entered the room, and I hoped to receive some great wisdom about my ailments and why I was there. Sadly, Sandy gave me no new information, only sharing more vague statements that were made of smoke and mirrors.
Although the medical staff changed every twelve hours and personalities differed each time, the day-to-day life was the same: lame and mundane. So, on the fourth day, I was happy for something different when a wound specialist nurse came in to examine me for bed sores. She found several hotspots where bed sores began forming, so she ordered an air bed delivered that day. This new-age technology would replace my ancient, very used, highly uncomfortable bed and make sleeping almost enjoyable again. Within seven hours of deep slumber on this new air mattress, I was no longer paralyzed and happy as a clam. First, I needed clarification about what had happened but received no information.
This three-day time period of paralyzation required help for everything, and this deeply devastated my dignity. But, this time frame also let me see how some people can have extreme care for their fellow man, and others show a lack of common human decency. In the medical field, you should give up the need to always be right and the courage to say you are not the most intelligent person in the room. I never want to see another September 11th, but I would love to experience another September 12th. Unity, kindness, and compassion shined through that day, which is something humanity desperately needs.
Kindness and compassion, not critiques or condemnation
Scott Cremeans lives in Central Florida. He is a US Marine diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2001 at 27. Scott has successfully managed his MS symptoms independently with his faith, friends, and funnies. You can read more about his MS journey by visiting his blog, http://www.mymsramblings.com, where he muses about life in the slow lane with his literary wit.
Scott's MS Life 