Angels, all
I was past the tears and good-byes and long hug stage from the Admissions area, although my eyes were still very moist. All surgical consent and release forms were duly signed, which seemed an ideal time from my surgeon's perspective to have these binding documents thrust upon an awaiting patient for quick signature. This didn't seem to be the right time nor occasion to parse a legal contract, clause by clause. Just scribble in the lower right corner. And get on with shaving my legs and chest area.
My earlier angiogram day was simply horrific, full of trepidation and the unknown. Today's visit is potentially much more problem- atic, yet I was very much at ease, almost uncharacteristically fatalistic: I'm either going to wake up and survive this day. Or not. It's clear, that if I don't have the operation, my odds for a sustained survival and a quality of life past remembered, will be somewhere between slim and nil. And Slim never showed up for today's party.
By now, Patty was being directed to the family waiting area, where she would be for the next five or six hours.
It's a short gurney hop down a long corridor and a few swinging doors, from the Admissions area to the cardiac OR section. I don't know why, but along the way, I placed a hand over my heart, in a symbolic attempt to feel it pumping one last time. Couldn't feel a damned thing. A mild drugged and shaved state 'being delivered' will often make you do the silliest of things. Today, was no exception.
This wasn't so much a case of following one's heart, as possibly being hauled along with it, literally, to the garage for an imminent major overhaul. About halfway there, you pass a glassed in area. Outside was turning into a gorgeous sunny Fall day, which I was determined to see more of. At the time, it seemed a good omen.
Events were now moving swiftly. All told, there must have been about a dozen principal and support persons buzzing around my gurney on operation morning. They were all a friendly and task-driven lot. Mostly, I just saw the ceiling and staff coming and going out of a corner of view. To an outsider, there's a controlled air of order and chaos in the room, not unlike looking down on an ant hill. A nurse on my right side was doing her best to put me at ease, while hooking up IV lines to my right hand. Her warm assuring smile, on these occasions, went a long way. Concurrent tag-team enquiries on my left, were being asked as to what hand I used for writing, as my arm veins were gently being tapped and stroked. Big lamps hung above and behind this confident pair. I looked out beyond my two feet, and caught a quick glimpse at my masked surgeon, in an adjoining area.
I didn't realize it at the time, but a cocktail of drugs was already kicking in. Big time.
The next round of Angels I remember in a very groggy state, started with Nurse F, much later in The-Day, while in the recovery Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit (CVICU). I was oblivious of family and any other staff for most of this stay, and still too incoherent to quietly recognize the obvious: 'You lucky SOB. You made it!' That quiet congratulatory period from me to me, was later observed over a luncheon jello later in the week. Early on, I was told an inserted respirator tube made it challenging to make anything but small talk. Now, I just had a raw throat, and was already Pavlov dog trained to nod on command. There were tubes to empty my bladder and to drain off any accumulated blood, IV's in my neck and wrist to administer drugs and fluids, strings coming out of the base of my chest and noisy heart monitors somewhere above and behind. Nurse F, became my lifeline for the balance of the day, as she closely monitored all vital functions, when time could have been day, or evening. Or elsewhere. I was so glad, she never seemed to be far away. Nor did I want her ever to leave her shift. I remember mostly a dimly lit area with her small desk at the room entrance, her soft hands on mine when she thought necessary, and always a comforting voice. Nothing much else.
The next morning, I was relocated to the CVICU recovery ward on the 3rd floor. Nurses here work on a 12 hour rotating shift basis. Work days are long on 3 West, with a job description that can best be summed up in a word: Intense.
Nurse R was my first contact with the real world. I never gave it a second thought nor concern, when she wrote every transaction down between ourselves, rather than punching all data into a hand held computer. We often smiled to each other when I mentioned to her that, "a short pencil was better than a long memory." Later in the week, I found out she still had a part-time designation at the hospital. Her eyes are pure. She has a big heart in cardiac patient recovery, and no doubt a long future in nursing. Two thoughts come to mind: Get this lady enrolled full-time, before she's scooped up elsewhere. Secondly, here's an ideal candidate for a mentoring program, if one prevails on-site.
Nurse A must have drawn the short straw and got me for the evening shift on Day One. My vitals apparently were all in a mess and quickly needed aligning. There were many visits to Room 311 before the end of her shift. Saline bags came and went overhead regularly. Extra pills were dispensed. And while in a multi-tasking mode, my fingers quickly became a pin cushion for a succession of ongoing blood samples. Throughout the night, there were many close encounters between her stethoscope and my chest area. This can truly become an intense period, when two people in a busy hospital can be very close. I remember her blonde hair was tightly braided back into a small pony-tail. Her eyes were very intense with little reason to smile. It's a guy-thing, but we had catheter issues that night, which resulted in words between us. Later, I always looked for her in my corridor walks, but we never met again. I wanted to quietly express my profound thanks to her, for getting me through that long sleepless night into Day Two. She likely wouldn't give it a second thought, but I'd also like to take this opportunity to personally apologize to her for my insensi- tivities at the time.
Nurse V was pinch-hitting a colleague out, so I only had her for half a shift before bedtime. You quickly realized, that this lady has held small hearts and large hearts in her lifetime. What a commanding presence! She alone, had a gift of expressing professional detachment with a lot of class, when not your patient. You appreciate this fact more after being away from their collective charge, especially when you consider the ward likely has a fresh turnover of patients every 10 days or so.
Nurse S came into my life twice during the last half of my stay. After several days on the floor, I was on the mend and adapting to their daily routines and schedules. You never felt like seven digits on a computer, while in her space. She provided just the right amount of tough-love when required, e.g. booting unnamed tardy patients out of bed for long corridor walks. There was also a high angel trust factor built up over a short period of time. Nobody but her, was going to extract half of my staples, prior to discharge. Nobody. Make no mistake, there is a professional side to her, but in an earlier life, this was the type of team person you'd always like to have a beer with after a hectic work week. And I say this to all, in the nicest of ways.
The hospital did something else smart, when they put their team together -- no small feat, I'm sure, in what is likely a unionized environment. Some bright light recognized the immense talent of experienced nursing staff coming into their retirement phase, who may not wish to retire as yet. Why not let them de-stress a little, keep their pension and dignity intact and repackage them as cleaners and food dispensers on the ward. What a huge win-win concept with immense value to all stakeholders! One turned out to be a past neighbour, who was a most pleasant surprise and joy to await each morning. Thanks, A.
A big thank-you to all the OR and support staff on The-Day. And to subsequent Angels on 3 West, especially the ones not clearly remembered in my early recovering days. You know who you are.
A special heart felt thank-you has to also go out to the Telephone Pioneer ladies, wherever you rest your head after a long day.
My new trusty pal of course, is the small red pillow they personally craft, that each heart survivor receives from these good ladies. With literally every move, it quickly becomes your new love, while in this recovery phase. Some time in the near-term, I'd really like to give you each back a 'near and dear' hug for your special gift.
I carry both an unpaid debt of appreciation and a reservoir of deep respect, to the entire team. Bless you all.
My earlier angiogram day was simply horrific, full of trepidation and the unknown. Today's visit is potentially much more problem- atic, yet I was very much at ease, almost uncharacteristically fatalistic: I'm either going to wake up and survive this day. Or not. It's clear, that if I don't have the operation, my odds for a sustained survival and a quality of life past remembered, will be somewhere between slim and nil. And Slim never showed up for today's party.
By now, Patty was being directed to the family waiting area, where she would be for the next five or six hours.
It's a short gurney hop down a long corridor and a few swinging doors, from the Admissions area to the cardiac OR section. I don't know why, but along the way, I placed a hand over my heart, in a symbolic attempt to feel it pumping one last time. Couldn't feel a damned thing. A mild drugged and shaved state 'being delivered' will often make you do the silliest of things. Today, was no exception.
This wasn't so much a case of following one's heart, as possibly being hauled along with it, literally, to the garage for an imminent major overhaul. About halfway there, you pass a glassed in area. Outside was turning into a gorgeous sunny Fall day, which I was determined to see more of. At the time, it seemed a good omen.
Events were now moving swiftly. All told, there must have been about a dozen principal and support persons buzzing around my gurney on operation morning. They were all a friendly and task-driven lot. Mostly, I just saw the ceiling and staff coming and going out of a corner of view. To an outsider, there's a controlled air of order and chaos in the room, not unlike looking down on an ant hill. A nurse on my right side was doing her best to put me at ease, while hooking up IV lines to my right hand. Her warm assuring smile, on these occasions, went a long way. Concurrent tag-team enquiries on my left, were being asked as to what hand I used for writing, as my arm veins were gently being tapped and stroked. Big lamps hung above and behind this confident pair. I looked out beyond my two feet, and caught a quick glimpse at my masked surgeon, in an adjoining area.
I didn't realize it at the time, but a cocktail of drugs was already kicking in. Big time.
The next round of Angels I remember in a very groggy state, started with Nurse F, much later in The-Day, while in the recovery Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit (CVICU). I was oblivious of family and any other staff for most of this stay, and still too incoherent to quietly recognize the obvious: 'You lucky SOB. You made it!' That quiet congratulatory period from me to me, was later observed over a luncheon jello later in the week. Early on, I was told an inserted respirator tube made it challenging to make anything but small talk. Now, I just had a raw throat, and was already Pavlov dog trained to nod on command. There were tubes to empty my bladder and to drain off any accumulated blood, IV's in my neck and wrist to administer drugs and fluids, strings coming out of the base of my chest and noisy heart monitors somewhere above and behind. Nurse F, became my lifeline for the balance of the day, as she closely monitored all vital functions, when time could have been day, or evening. Or elsewhere. I was so glad, she never seemed to be far away. Nor did I want her ever to leave her shift. I remember mostly a dimly lit area with her small desk at the room entrance, her soft hands on mine when she thought necessary, and always a comforting voice. Nothing much else.
The next morning, I was relocated to the CVICU recovery ward on the 3rd floor. Nurses here work on a 12 hour rotating shift basis. Work days are long on 3 West, with a job description that can best be summed up in a word: Intense.
Nurse R was my first contact with the real world. I never gave it a second thought nor concern, when she wrote every transaction down between ourselves, rather than punching all data into a hand held computer. We often smiled to each other when I mentioned to her that, "a short pencil was better than a long memory." Later in the week, I found out she still had a part-time designation at the hospital. Her eyes are pure. She has a big heart in cardiac patient recovery, and no doubt a long future in nursing. Two thoughts come to mind: Get this lady enrolled full-time, before she's scooped up elsewhere. Secondly, here's an ideal candidate for a mentoring program, if one prevails on-site.
Nurse A must have drawn the short straw and got me for the evening shift on Day One. My vitals apparently were all in a mess and quickly needed aligning. There were many visits to Room 311 before the end of her shift. Saline bags came and went overhead regularly. Extra pills were dispensed. And while in a multi-tasking mode, my fingers quickly became a pin cushion for a succession of ongoing blood samples. Throughout the night, there were many close encounters between her stethoscope and my chest area. This can truly become an intense period, when two people in a busy hospital can be very close. I remember her blonde hair was tightly braided back into a small pony-tail. Her eyes were very intense with little reason to smile. It's a guy-thing, but we had catheter issues that night, which resulted in words between us. Later, I always looked for her in my corridor walks, but we never met again. I wanted to quietly express my profound thanks to her, for getting me through that long sleepless night into Day Two. She likely wouldn't give it a second thought, but I'd also like to take this opportunity to personally apologize to her for my insensi- tivities at the time.
Nurse V was pinch-hitting a colleague out, so I only had her for half a shift before bedtime. You quickly realized, that this lady has held small hearts and large hearts in her lifetime. What a commanding presence! She alone, had a gift of expressing professional detachment with a lot of class, when not your patient. You appreciate this fact more after being away from their collective charge, especially when you consider the ward likely has a fresh turnover of patients every 10 days or so.
Nurse S came into my life twice during the last half of my stay. After several days on the floor, I was on the mend and adapting to their daily routines and schedules. You never felt like seven digits on a computer, while in her space. She provided just the right amount of tough-love when required, e.g. booting unnamed tardy patients out of bed for long corridor walks. There was also a high angel trust factor built up over a short period of time. Nobody but her, was going to extract half of my staples, prior to discharge. Nobody. Make no mistake, there is a professional side to her, but in an earlier life, this was the type of team person you'd always like to have a beer with after a hectic work week. And I say this to all, in the nicest of ways.
The hospital did something else smart, when they put their team together -- no small feat, I'm sure, in what is likely a unionized environment. Some bright light recognized the immense talent of experienced nursing staff coming into their retirement phase, who may not wish to retire as yet. Why not let them de-stress a little, keep their pension and dignity intact and repackage them as cleaners and food dispensers on the ward. What a huge win-win concept with immense value to all stakeholders! One turned out to be a past neighbour, who was a most pleasant surprise and joy to await each morning. Thanks, A.
A big thank-you to all the OR and support staff on The-Day. And to subsequent Angels on 3 West, especially the ones not clearly remembered in my early recovering days. You know who you are.
A special heart felt thank-you has to also go out to the Telephone Pioneer ladies, wherever you rest your head after a long day.
My new trusty pal of course, is the small red pillow they personally craft, that each heart survivor receives from these good ladies. With literally every move, it quickly becomes your new love, while in this recovery phase. Some time in the near-term, I'd really like to give you each back a 'near and dear' hug for your special gift.
I carry both an unpaid debt of appreciation and a reservoir of deep respect, to the entire team. Bless you all.
posted by leisurelan at 7:33 PM
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