EAST MONTPELIER – It had been a lovely weekend, courtesy of Martin Luther King Jr.: lots of pleasant conversation and snacks in the two chairs in the office, supper at Julio’s Friday, lunch at the Wayside Saturday, shopping for groceries at the Chopper. Icy cold outside, but snug inside. Bea would head back toward the big city on Monday, and I’d get to work on my weekly column.
At bedtime Sunday, though, I was seized with a sudden, serious chill. Shaking uncontrollably. You’ve probably had one: you can’t stop shaking, no matter how many blankets you pile on. It usually means you’ve got a fever. I declined to check. What would I do if it turned out I did? I brushed quickly and went to bed.
About one or so in the morning, I got up to go to the john and couldn’t stand up. Couldn’t even reach my walker, Herschel; but kept trying and (they tell me) ended up sitting on the floor.
The rest is kind of a blur. Apparently, 911 couldn’t get me up, but the fire department could. Before I knew it, I was out of the bouncy ambulance and in a cubby in the emergency department, with an IV in one arm and Bea sitting sleepily, but vigilant, in a chair at the foot of the bed. She wouldn’t leave, she said, till they found a room for me. Which they finally did, and she went back to the house to get some shuteye.
I’d been here before, several times, for various fractures and an infection. It was an infection again this time, so they kept the antibiotic infusion going. The only problem with that was that when you’re getting an infusion through a port in the crook of your elbow, you have to keep your arm relatively straight. If you hold your cell phone in that hand, it’s impossible; and every time the machine senses a blockage (there are sensors everywhere!), it begins a beeping fit to drive you and your poor roommate, nuts. The beeping produces a nurse asking what’s going on. So you do what has to be done: You cope. There are people all around you with worse problems.
Hospitals used to be dark, forbidding places, gas-lit and smelling of disinfectant. Not any more. The adjustable beds work, the reading light works, and the call button, should you need help, works, too. Through the magic of the cell phone, you don’t have to lie forlorn in your bed, waiting for visitors. Soft, bright pastels everywhere; and I even had a south-facing window that gave a panoramic view of rosy-fingered dawn and a perfect perch from which to watch the progress of the recent snowstorm.
When you get your room and appurtenances – lotion, toothbrush and paste, tissues – they also issue you a stiff, colorful, plasticized menu from which (be still, my heart!) you can choose your meal selections. You call them in with the phone beside your bed, and shortly afterward they appear on a tray. Once I got the hang of it, I coordinated the meals’ arrivals with the news, which I watched quite discreetly on the small hanging TV I could maneuver right in front of my face. It was the Ritz. My daughter and son-in-law had Kiki and brought my mail; there was no grocery-shopping to do; Hagar was safe from the storms in his carport; and a note from Bea assured me that, in spite of horrible traffic in I-93, she was home safely. All I had to do was get better. Which I’m still doing – I think. I’m home again, but this bug is tenacious.
No description of a hospital stay is complete without a comment on the staff. During this visit I decided that either everybody who came into the room was really happy to see me (suggesting a diagnosis of mass insanity) or somebody in HR or training services is working hard to create pleasantness. You know, if you go to a McDonald’s and the counter staff is curt, chippy, or clearly wanting to be elsewhere, that attitude comes from the top. Likewise a welcoming staff reflects the franchise owner. These folks couldn’t have been friendlier. I’m pretty old, so occasionally, when a woman of at least middle years does something especially helpful, I jokingly say, “Thanks! Are you married?” The answer is always yes, to which I reply, “Damn!” But last week one of them said, “No, divorced.” To which I replied, “Oops!”
So now I’m home safely, too, and still unmarried. Kiki and I are back into our routines, as much as possible. After my son’s welcome and beautifully written intervention last week to keep the string of columns unbroken, I’m staring at my old computer screen. But I know that up there on the hill, less than 15 minutes away, stands a welcome and a relief from the inevitable pains of growing old.
