Into the belly of the beast
The other day (Tuesday, April 13, 2010) my wife had to have a minor medical procedure at Strong Hospital.
The appointment was at 10 a.m.
Into the belly of the beast.
We set out at 9 a.m., since -a) it takes about a half-hour to 45 minutes to get there, and -b) we had to stop at a grocery-store in Honeoye Falls to purchase cough-drops.
We arrived at Strong Radiology at 9:52.
“Please take a seat, and someone will come to get you.”
We had been told the procedure would take two hours, so I would wait, fortified with my own magazines.
My wife disappeared into the mysterious bowels of Radiology.
Hours passed — we were now on hospital time.
There was delay, of course, so her procedure didn't start until after noon.
Meanwhile, two phonecalls came to my cellphone — this never happens.
But none from my wife.
She had her cellphone, but not where she could get it.
If I had known it was gonna be this long, I coulda driven back home and walked our poor dog, who hates to be abandoned in the house.
By now I was paging through my magazines looking for articles of little interest, stuff I usually bypass.
Finally my wife called; it was pushing 2 p.m.
She had retrieved her cellphone herself. —Risking death and destruction from the staff.
I decided to come back to the Nurse's Station to “shake things up.”
I ambled back, and “Is someone helping you?” a nurse asked.
“Don't know if I should, but I'm looking for my wife,” I said, in the garbled speech of a stroke-survivor.
“Her name please?”
“Linda Hughes.”
“Back in 'I.'”
There in “I” was my wife. She still had an intravenous in her hand.
It was for conscious anesthesia.
“No one seems to know I'm here,” she said.
It's no wonder healthcare costs as much as it does; the place was crawling with staff.
“The doctor will see you in a minute,” the nurse said. “Let's get that intravenous out.”
”Worked the first try,” my wife said.
“Well, that's better than six pokes,” I said.
“I try to avoid multiple pokes,” the nurse said.
The harried Doctor appeared. “No strenuous activity,” he said.
“Does that include walking our dog?” I asked.
“She's a puller,” my wife said; “and can throw you to the ground.
Walking our dog was poo-pooed.
Released, we all shook hands and strode out.
Up to the parking-garage, second floor, all elevators, no stairs.
Out into the sunlight; onto South Ave.
It's marked as only one lane wide, narrow, but wide enough to pass two cars per side.
A black BMW was ahead of us, off to the right, left-turn signal on, aimed at a side-street to the left.
The old bus-driving jones kicked in; expect anything!
A car ahead of us pulled around the BMW to the left.
The angry BMW driver stuck his arm out to stop anyone else from passing.
“I'm driving a BMW; I'm entitled!”
The terrified driver behind him stopped.
Arm still out, Mr. BMW arrowed across the road and made his left-turn in front of all-and-sundry.
Too bad I wasn't still driving bus.
I mighta disregarded his arm.
One thing I learned driving bus, the four-wheelers generally don't argue with you.
Elitism doesn't work against nine tons of hurtling steel.
• “Strong Hospital” is a large hospital on the south side of Rochester, affiliated with UofR Medical Center (University of Rochester).
• “Honeoye (‘HONE-eee-oy;' rhymes with 'boy') Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where we live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away. (We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up.)
• “South Ave.” is a main street from downtown south out of Rochester. It's a block or two from the hospital.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke ended that.
The appointment was at 10 a.m.
Into the belly of the beast.
We set out at 9 a.m., since -a) it takes about a half-hour to 45 minutes to get there, and -b) we had to stop at a grocery-store in Honeoye Falls to purchase cough-drops.
We arrived at Strong Radiology at 9:52.
“Please take a seat, and someone will come to get you.”
We had been told the procedure would take two hours, so I would wait, fortified with my own magazines.
My wife disappeared into the mysterious bowels of Radiology.
Hours passed — we were now on hospital time.
There was delay, of course, so her procedure didn't start until after noon.
Meanwhile, two phonecalls came to my cellphone — this never happens.
But none from my wife.
She had her cellphone, but not where she could get it.
If I had known it was gonna be this long, I coulda driven back home and walked our poor dog, who hates to be abandoned in the house.
By now I was paging through my magazines looking for articles of little interest, stuff I usually bypass.
Finally my wife called; it was pushing 2 p.m.
She had retrieved her cellphone herself. —Risking death and destruction from the staff.
I decided to come back to the Nurse's Station to “shake things up.”
I ambled back, and “Is someone helping you?” a nurse asked.
“Don't know if I should, but I'm looking for my wife,” I said, in the garbled speech of a stroke-survivor.
“Her name please?”
“Linda Hughes.”
“Back in 'I.'”
There in “I” was my wife. She still had an intravenous in her hand.
It was for conscious anesthesia.
“No one seems to know I'm here,” she said.
It's no wonder healthcare costs as much as it does; the place was crawling with staff.
“The doctor will see you in a minute,” the nurse said. “Let's get that intravenous out.”
”Worked the first try,” my wife said.
“Well, that's better than six pokes,” I said.
“I try to avoid multiple pokes,” the nurse said.
The harried Doctor appeared. “No strenuous activity,” he said.
“Does that include walking our dog?” I asked.
“She's a puller,” my wife said; “and can throw you to the ground.
Walking our dog was poo-pooed.
Released, we all shook hands and strode out.
Up to the parking-garage, second floor, all elevators, no stairs.
Out into the sunlight; onto South Ave.
It's marked as only one lane wide, narrow, but wide enough to pass two cars per side.
A black BMW was ahead of us, off to the right, left-turn signal on, aimed at a side-street to the left.
The old bus-driving jones kicked in; expect anything!
A car ahead of us pulled around the BMW to the left.
The angry BMW driver stuck his arm out to stop anyone else from passing.
“I'm driving a BMW; I'm entitled!”
The terrified driver behind him stopped.
Arm still out, Mr. BMW arrowed across the road and made his left-turn in front of all-and-sundry.
Too bad I wasn't still driving bus.
I mighta disregarded his arm.
One thing I learned driving bus, the four-wheelers generally don't argue with you.
Elitism doesn't work against nine tons of hurtling steel.
• “Strong Hospital” is a large hospital on the south side of Rochester, affiliated with UofR Medical Center (University of Rochester).
• “Honeoye (‘HONE-eee-oy;' rhymes with 'boy') Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where we live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away. (We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty putting words together.)
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost five, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. a puppy-mill. By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up.)
• “South Ave.” is a main street from downtown south out of Rochester. It's a block or two from the hospital.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. My stroke ended that.
posted by BobbaLew at 1:48 PM
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