Arr, Mateys! It's International Talk Like A Pirate Day!
Okay, now that that's out of the way, I'll get down to serious business.
Earlier this week I read something about people who get out movies from Netflix and then put off watching them - sometimes for months. It seems to me that there was a term for people like this, but I can't remember it. I Googled it, and I searched the Boston Globe, but I can't find any reference to it.
Anyway, the point was that the movies we put off watching are the ones that we get out because we think we ought to watch them. Usually they're serious movies, the ones we know are going to deal with "heavy" subjects. Hotel Rwanda comes to mind. I feel as if I ought to want to watch it, but it hasn't even made it to my queue. In 2007, I received The Last King of Scotland on the same day I received Wild Hogs. Guess which one I watched first? Guess which one sat on my desk for a couple of weeks?
But my personal failure was The Queen. I sat on The Queen for a month, then returned it unwatched. (Ooh, she sat on the Queen!) Helen Mirren, an actress I admire, won an Oscar for it, and I thought I ought to watch it. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I was never a fan of Lady Diana, whose title was never Princess Diana, incidentally, even though everybody called her that. Queen Elizabeth II herself doesn't interest me especially. The thought of sitting through a movie dealing with the Queen's reaction to Diana's death just doesn't appeal to me.
A couple of weeks ago, Pride and Prejudice (the Keira Knightley version) arrived. Somebody somewhere said something (I'm so vague...) that made me feel I ought to watch it. I liked the book, last time I read it, which was probably 35 years ago, but it isn't one of my favorites. So I sat on it. (The movie, not the book.) Finally, last night, I made myself watch it. Lightweight all the way through. Quite a contrast to the usual kind of movie I avoid. It was cute. (My sons always pick on me - if I say a movie is "cute", it means I didn't like it.)
No Country for Old Men arrived earlier this week. I ought to want to watch it, right? It won the Oscar for Best Picture this year. What's not to like? I don't know. I wonder how long I'll avoid watching it...
Friday, September 19, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
White-bread Jesus
These days I don't attend church very often. I grew up in the Unitarian-Universalist church, but I married a Congregationalist, and my kids were raised in the United Church of Christ. I was first introduced to handbells there, and after my divorce, when I moved to my home north of Boston, I decided to choose a church based on whether they had a handbell choir. It was another UCC church. My sons now play handbells with me there. (My daughter has substituted in our choir when she's home from grad school in Maryland.)
Anyway, on those Sundays I do attend, which happen to be the Sundays when the handbell choir plays, I'm strongly aware that I'm a UU sitting in a Christian church. My boys have decided they're more UU than UCC these days, too, so at least I'm not the only one.
But that really has nothing to do with my humorous experience in church yesterday. It was Homecoming Sunday, the first Sunday after Labor Day, when the church year really kicks off. We played handbells, accompanying the choir on the anthem. It was also the first Sunday of the month, so it was a Communion Sunday. I like the idea of Communion as a way for people to bond together into a group, a fellowship. But Jesus for me is a teacher who lived a long time ago and doesn't have an active presence in my life today, which is fine with me.
So the deacons passed out the Communion bread - cubes of white bread. When I was a kid, we used to get cubes of Wonder bread for Communion, and we'd squish them as small as we could. I restrained myself from doing that yesterday, but I suddenly had an inspiration for a blues song:
Okay, it needs work, but it cracked me up.
Then, in the prayer after Communion, the text read "we go from here to be eager bearers of his word..." Well, I read it "eager beavers". Fortunately I didn't actually say this, but I couldn't stop giggling.
For the first 47 years of my life, I was always active in church. I grew up in the church, always there for Sunday school and junior choir and church suppers and youth group and the church fair, which I still go back to attend. I raised my kids in the church - they were always there for Sunday school and junior choir and handbell choir and church suppers and youth group. I was always there on committees, senior choir, handbell choir, teaching Sunday school...
Then my marriage broke up, and I moved away. My ex has "custody" of our former church, and I can't really attend there without feeling awkward.
Where churches go, I'm homeless. The church where I play handbells hasn't exactly taken me in. They made a few attempts at the beginning, but I resisted being sucked back into the bottomless pit of being asked to be on committees, teach Sunday school, etc. etc. If I became active in church again, I'd have to start attending regularly. Also, I'd have to pledge money, and when I first started coming to this church, I was barely making ends meet.
But I'm teetering on the fence now. If people tried to get me to be more active in this church, I might do it. I'm also considering looking for a UU church to attend on weeks when I'm not playing handbells. I dunno.
Anyway, on those Sundays I do attend, which happen to be the Sundays when the handbell choir plays, I'm strongly aware that I'm a UU sitting in a Christian church. My boys have decided they're more UU than UCC these days, too, so at least I'm not the only one.
But that really has nothing to do with my humorous experience in church yesterday. It was Homecoming Sunday, the first Sunday after Labor Day, when the church year really kicks off. We played handbells, accompanying the choir on the anthem. It was also the first Sunday of the month, so it was a Communion Sunday. I like the idea of Communion as a way for people to bond together into a group, a fellowship. But Jesus for me is a teacher who lived a long time ago and doesn't have an active presence in my life today, which is fine with me.
So the deacons passed out the Communion bread - cubes of white bread. When I was a kid, we used to get cubes of Wonder bread for Communion, and we'd squish them as small as we could. I restrained myself from doing that yesterday, but I suddenly had an inspiration for a blues song:
I don't want no white-bread Jesus,
He's too bland for me,
I'm lookin' for a whole-grain Jesus...
Okay, it needs work, but it cracked me up.
Then, in the prayer after Communion, the text read "we go from here to be eager bearers of his word..." Well, I read it "eager beavers". Fortunately I didn't actually say this, but I couldn't stop giggling.
For the first 47 years of my life, I was always active in church. I grew up in the church, always there for Sunday school and junior choir and church suppers and youth group and the church fair, which I still go back to attend. I raised my kids in the church - they were always there for Sunday school and junior choir and handbell choir and church suppers and youth group. I was always there on committees, senior choir, handbell choir, teaching Sunday school...
Then my marriage broke up, and I moved away. My ex has "custody" of our former church, and I can't really attend there without feeling awkward.
Where churches go, I'm homeless. The church where I play handbells hasn't exactly taken me in. They made a few attempts at the beginning, but I resisted being sucked back into the bottomless pit of being asked to be on committees, teach Sunday school, etc. etc. If I became active in church again, I'd have to start attending regularly. Also, I'd have to pledge money, and when I first started coming to this church, I was barely making ends meet.
But I'm teetering on the fence now. If people tried to get me to be more active in this church, I might do it. I'm also considering looking for a UU church to attend on weeks when I'm not playing handbells. I dunno.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
That's as far as I got.
So that was it, my knee replacement blog. I'm a trifle embarrassed; originally I wanted to write every day, but it got a little tedious.
I went back to work on August 4. I had hoped to start back half-days, but nothing ever works out quite the way you'd planned. . . When I arrived and saw six weeks' worth of work piled on my desk, that plan fell by the wayside. I stayed half a day on my first day back, about three-quarters of a day my second day back, and after that, it was full-time. I was walking with a cane, but I felt as if I'd hit the ground running.
Last Thursday I saw my orthopedic surgeon for a post-surgery check-up. It's been about two months since my surgery, and I guess this is routine. I told him that I was still having a lot of pain - nerve twinges, I call them, and sometimes it feels as if my kneecap is going to pop right out through the scar. I said that at that point, I would say I wished I hadn't had it done. Now I have a knee that hurts more and doesn't work as well as the old one. I think he was hurt. He got out my pre-surgery and post-surgery x-rays and told me how much better my knee was now. Easy for him to say.
I still have hope that my knee will eventually improve, though. I am having physical therapy twice a week. I still haven't tried to climb stairs one at a time (alternating feet, the way normal people do), but I hope that eventually I'll be strong enough that I can dash up a flight of stairs again. I want to be able to stand for long periods - something I'm going to have to do tonight, as my handbell choir starts up. I want to be able to take long walks and simple hikes. I'm still not well enough, but at least now there's a chance I will be.
I went back to work on August 4. I had hoped to start back half-days, but nothing ever works out quite the way you'd planned. . . When I arrived and saw six weeks' worth of work piled on my desk, that plan fell by the wayside. I stayed half a day on my first day back, about three-quarters of a day my second day back, and after that, it was full-time. I was walking with a cane, but I felt as if I'd hit the ground running.
Last Thursday I saw my orthopedic surgeon for a post-surgery check-up. It's been about two months since my surgery, and I guess this is routine. I told him that I was still having a lot of pain - nerve twinges, I call them, and sometimes it feels as if my kneecap is going to pop right out through the scar. I said that at that point, I would say I wished I hadn't had it done. Now I have a knee that hurts more and doesn't work as well as the old one. I think he was hurt. He got out my pre-surgery and post-surgery x-rays and told me how much better my knee was now. Easy for him to say.
I still have hope that my knee will eventually improve, though. I am having physical therapy twice a week. I still haven't tried to climb stairs one at a time (alternating feet, the way normal people do), but I hope that eventually I'll be strong enough that I can dash up a flight of stairs again. I want to be able to stand for long periods - something I'm going to have to do tonight, as my handbell choir starts up. I want to be able to take long walks and simple hikes. I'm still not well enough, but at least now there's a chance I will be.
It must be my Percocet-addled brain. . .
July 9, 2008
I've been home from rehab for a week now, and I haven't updated this account yet. I'm still recovering quickly. The staples in my knee were removed Monday, and the scar is healing well. I've still got some swelling, and of course, I don't have full function of the knee yet - but why should I, two weeks post-surgery?
The rest of my time in the rehab hospital went quickly, with no more major problems. Minor problems - the dreadfully uncomfortable hospital beds, the horrible food - remained, but with everything else going smoothly, these didn't seem as bad. I continued to fight the No Eggs at Breakfast battle until the last day, when they finally got it right. Of course, they gave me regular jelly instead of sugar-free, but by then I decided it wasn't worth fighting any more.
I left the rehab hospital on Tuesday, July 1, a day ahead of schedule. If I had been willing to stay one more night, they would have had my home physical therapy arranged before I left. But I couldn't stand one more night in that uncomfortable bed. My back and hips were protesting; I needed round-the-clock Percocet to relieve the pain in them more than the pain in my knee. The physical therapists had taken me off the Continuous Passive Motion machine a day early because four hours of lying flat on my back on the flimsy plastic mattress were hurting me more than they were helping my knee. So I left at around 4 p.m., promising to call my primary care doctor the next day to get the home physical therapy going. My kids (all 3 - my daughter was staying until Friday) and I had a great evening, eating Bertucci's pizza and playing Rock Band. My older son has a PlayStation 3 and the video game Rock Band, which includes a guitar, drum set, and microphone. He brought them in to my house so that we could all play together. There's a fourth track, for bass guitar, but we only had the one guitar, so one of us would take a break while the other three played. I sang. Next time he brings it in, I'll try the guitar, but I won't do the drum set until my knee heals.
I called my doctor's office the next day, leaving a message. At the end of the day, somebody called me back to tell me I should have had it set up before I left. Yeah, I know... She said she'd see what she can do. I didn't hear back on Thursday, and Friday was the Fourth of July, a holiday, so I knew I'd go the rest of the week without any physical therapy. I continued to do the exercises they gave me at the rehab hospital.
We went down to my mother's for the Fourth of July, as we do every year. She turned 84 on July 3rd. She's combined her birthday celebration with the Fourth since she was a kid and thought the fireworks were for her. My kids cooked hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill for lunch. Mostly I sat in the recliner and let everything happen around me. But I was there! We stayed to watch the fireworks, which were beautiful, as always.
Monday I bought a cane and I've been using it instead of the walker, which increases my mobility a lot. I drove my son's car yesterday, so I don't feel housebound any more. Not that I plan to go anywhere else this week! Also on Monday, I heard from the physical therapist. She came out on Tuesday and will be back today and probably Friday, too. My insurance is paying for this. I'm very lucky.
I've been home from rehab for a week now, and I haven't updated this account yet. I'm still recovering quickly. The staples in my knee were removed Monday, and the scar is healing well. I've still got some swelling, and of course, I don't have full function of the knee yet - but why should I, two weeks post-surgery?
The rest of my time in the rehab hospital went quickly, with no more major problems. Minor problems - the dreadfully uncomfortable hospital beds, the horrible food - remained, but with everything else going smoothly, these didn't seem as bad. I continued to fight the No Eggs at Breakfast battle until the last day, when they finally got it right. Of course, they gave me regular jelly instead of sugar-free, but by then I decided it wasn't worth fighting any more.
I left the rehab hospital on Tuesday, July 1, a day ahead of schedule. If I had been willing to stay one more night, they would have had my home physical therapy arranged before I left. But I couldn't stand one more night in that uncomfortable bed. My back and hips were protesting; I needed round-the-clock Percocet to relieve the pain in them more than the pain in my knee. The physical therapists had taken me off the Continuous Passive Motion machine a day early because four hours of lying flat on my back on the flimsy plastic mattress were hurting me more than they were helping my knee. So I left at around 4 p.m., promising to call my primary care doctor the next day to get the home physical therapy going. My kids (all 3 - my daughter was staying until Friday) and I had a great evening, eating Bertucci's pizza and playing Rock Band. My older son has a PlayStation 3 and the video game Rock Band, which includes a guitar, drum set, and microphone. He brought them in to my house so that we could all play together. There's a fourth track, for bass guitar, but we only had the one guitar, so one of us would take a break while the other three played. I sang. Next time he brings it in, I'll try the guitar, but I won't do the drum set until my knee heals.
I called my doctor's office the next day, leaving a message. At the end of the day, somebody called me back to tell me I should have had it set up before I left. Yeah, I know... She said she'd see what she can do. I didn't hear back on Thursday, and Friday was the Fourth of July, a holiday, so I knew I'd go the rest of the week without any physical therapy. I continued to do the exercises they gave me at the rehab hospital.
We went down to my mother's for the Fourth of July, as we do every year. She turned 84 on July 3rd. She's combined her birthday celebration with the Fourth since she was a kid and thought the fireworks were for her. My kids cooked hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill for lunch. Mostly I sat in the recliner and let everything happen around me. But I was there! We stayed to watch the fireworks, which were beautiful, as always.
Monday I bought a cane and I've been using it instead of the walker, which increases my mobility a lot. I drove my son's car yesterday, so I don't feel housebound any more. Not that I plan to go anywhere else this week! Also on Monday, I heard from the physical therapist. She came out on Tuesday and will be back today and probably Friday, too. My insurance is paying for this. I'm very lucky.
Rehab, Day Three
Bright and early on Saturday morning, the occupational therapist strode into the room. Briskly she told us what we'd do today as she laid several odd-looking objects on each of our beds - a very long shoehorn and a half-pipe with strings, among other things. Then she gave us each a pink dishpan filled with the toiletries we'd been scrounging for ourselves for two days already. Toothbrush and toothpaste! Soap! Deodorant! Towels! Well, that started us off. Why hadn't we received these when we first arrived? Well, my roommate and I gave this poor woman an earful about our treatment during the first two days. She was duly horrified.
The weekend nurse came in, also very nice and concerned about how we'd been treated. From that moment on, everybody was very nice to us. We think the aides were lectured; I really hope the "fricking sleep" one was fired.
The occupational therapist sat down with my roommate and showed her what each of the tools was for. I was on the CPM machine and couldn't see what was going on, but she said she'd go over them with me later. After I got off the machine, I ate breakfast, and an aide took me down for a shower. (She was a trifle ungracious about it, but at least she did it when I wanted it done.) By the time the OT got to me to show me the tools, we had run out of time before her next appointment. She showed me the thing that you can use to snag something at a distance. Frankly, tongs work better. I was sitting there in socks and sneakers I'd put on myself without the aid of any special tools, so she didn't show me the long shoehorn or that other device, which was to help you put on socks. In fact, I was doing so well I didn't really need this part of the training at all.
Then, two physical therapists, one of whom was perky Jen, dragged us down to a "group therapy" session. We were snickering about what to expect - would we all hold hands and share our struggles? What we got was an exercise class, sort of wheelchair aerobics, since half of them were in wheelchairs. The other six participants were elderly and much less able than we were. I know I was wondering why we were there...
After I got back to my room, my sons arrived and we played cards for awhile. It was lively and probably the most fun I've had while I've been here.
That afternoon, my mother and sister visited. It strikes me as particularly funny that I may be the only denizen of this facility who has ever been visited by her mother...
The staff were going out of their ways to be nice to us now. The weekend night nurse was young and inexperienced, but eager to please. The aides weren't openly hostile any more. What an improvement!
The weekend nurse came in, also very nice and concerned about how we'd been treated. From that moment on, everybody was very nice to us. We think the aides were lectured; I really hope the "fricking sleep" one was fired.
The occupational therapist sat down with my roommate and showed her what each of the tools was for. I was on the CPM machine and couldn't see what was going on, but she said she'd go over them with me later. After I got off the machine, I ate breakfast, and an aide took me down for a shower. (She was a trifle ungracious about it, but at least she did it when I wanted it done.) By the time the OT got to me to show me the tools, we had run out of time before her next appointment. She showed me the thing that you can use to snag something at a distance. Frankly, tongs work better. I was sitting there in socks and sneakers I'd put on myself without the aid of any special tools, so she didn't show me the long shoehorn or that other device, which was to help you put on socks. In fact, I was doing so well I didn't really need this part of the training at all.
Then, two physical therapists, one of whom was perky Jen, dragged us down to a "group therapy" session. We were snickering about what to expect - would we all hold hands and share our struggles? What we got was an exercise class, sort of wheelchair aerobics, since half of them were in wheelchairs. The other six participants were elderly and much less able than we were. I know I was wondering why we were there...
After I got back to my room, my sons arrived and we played cards for awhile. It was lively and probably the most fun I've had while I've been here.
That afternoon, my mother and sister visited. It strikes me as particularly funny that I may be the only denizen of this facility who has ever been visited by her mother...
The staff were going out of their ways to be nice to us now. The weekend night nurse was young and inexperienced, but eager to please. The aides weren't openly hostile any more. What an improvement!
Rehab, Day Two
My roommate is around 70 and had her hip replaced. (We're "the knee and the hip.") Both of us are very young for our ages, unlike virtually everybody else on the rehab floor. Most of them are off in la-la-land. We think we might be the only two people here who realize how bad the care is. Or maybe not. Anyway, the story continues.
We didn't have towels (except for the one I filched from the shower the day before), so I washed up with soap I'd brought over from the hospital and paper towels. I managed to convince somebody to give me a toothbrush and toothpaste, so my mouth felt a lot better. I had my son bring over my hairbrush and deodorant from home. All of these were supposed to have been supplied by the hospital, but hadn't been. I put on clothes (YAY!) for the first time since I'd arrived at the hospital Monday. (They were the same clothes; they still had some use left in them.)
Two unbelievably perky physical therapists came by to evaluate us. Seriously, one of them, named Jen, of course, has a cheerleader flip and a toothy smile. It's as if she'd been supplied by Central Casting. They walked me down the hall and back. I'm still walking with a walker, so every time I say "I walked", you can mentally add the walker.) Nothing really changed because of this; I already had unescorted bathroom privileges.
My younger son was visiting me later that morning when my office sent over an Edible Arrangement. It was wonderful. I'm glad I had it because it may be the only nutritious real food I eat until I'm back home. We passed it around to everybody who came through.
Okay, the next character-from-the-nether-regions was The Night Nurse. He's the one I mentioned yesterday who took my water pitcher and abandoned it. When he took my blood sugar, he blew on my finger after he swabbed it off. Didn't that recontaminate the field? What an idiot. He was generally arrogant and incompetent. Here's an example. This happened to my roommate. She had a small sore near her wound and was concerned that she might be developing a bedsore. So she called in the nurse, hoping he could treat it for her. The nurse looked at it, said it looked fine to him, and started to leave. She asked him wasn't there anything she could do about it? "Don't sit on your bum," he responded condescendingly. I'm not making this up. I was there. Where was she going to sit, then, on her head?
I've spent a lot of time on the Continual Passive Motion machine, the one that bends and flexes my knee for me. I'm spending two hours in the morning (6-8 - they hook it up and I go back to sleep) and two hours in the evening. Anyway, the first time they hooked me up to it was that evening, and my knee puffed up right afterwards. Well, I'd already learned about the ice-bag situation. The Central Casting PTs were supposed to be looking for an ice pack, too, but hadn't come up with anything. The night nurse did supply the two little ones from the night before, so I had some relief. But I was beginning to wonder: was my joint actually going to be rehabilitated here?
The other brilliant moment from that day took place at about 5 a.m. the morning of the 28th. I was awake, and I overheard one of the night aides complaining at the top of her lungs. "Why don't they all just fricking SLEEP?" She and whoever else was out at the desk commiserated about how their friends all thought they had it easy working nights, when they could socialize and relax, but no, they actually had to do some work once in awhile. (To hear her tell it, she spent every minute running around, but clearly she wasn't spending that one.) Every time she had to answer a call, she complained about it. This is a fine example of the cheerful service we had been given there during our first 48 hours.
We didn't have towels (except for the one I filched from the shower the day before), so I washed up with soap I'd brought over from the hospital and paper towels. I managed to convince somebody to give me a toothbrush and toothpaste, so my mouth felt a lot better. I had my son bring over my hairbrush and deodorant from home. All of these were supposed to have been supplied by the hospital, but hadn't been. I put on clothes (YAY!) for the first time since I'd arrived at the hospital Monday. (They were the same clothes; they still had some use left in them.)
Two unbelievably perky physical therapists came by to evaluate us. Seriously, one of them, named Jen, of course, has a cheerleader flip and a toothy smile. It's as if she'd been supplied by Central Casting. They walked me down the hall and back. I'm still walking with a walker, so every time I say "I walked", you can mentally add the walker.) Nothing really changed because of this; I already had unescorted bathroom privileges.
My younger son was visiting me later that morning when my office sent over an Edible Arrangement. It was wonderful. I'm glad I had it because it may be the only nutritious real food I eat until I'm back home. We passed it around to everybody who came through.
Okay, the next character-from-the-nether-regions was The Night Nurse. He's the one I mentioned yesterday who took my water pitcher and abandoned it. When he took my blood sugar, he blew on my finger after he swabbed it off. Didn't that recontaminate the field? What an idiot. He was generally arrogant and incompetent. Here's an example. This happened to my roommate. She had a small sore near her wound and was concerned that she might be developing a bedsore. So she called in the nurse, hoping he could treat it for her. The nurse looked at it, said it looked fine to him, and started to leave. She asked him wasn't there anything she could do about it? "Don't sit on your bum," he responded condescendingly. I'm not making this up. I was there. Where was she going to sit, then, on her head?
I've spent a lot of time on the Continual Passive Motion machine, the one that bends and flexes my knee for me. I'm spending two hours in the morning (6-8 - they hook it up and I go back to sleep) and two hours in the evening. Anyway, the first time they hooked me up to it was that evening, and my knee puffed up right afterwards. Well, I'd already learned about the ice-bag situation. The Central Casting PTs were supposed to be looking for an ice pack, too, but hadn't come up with anything. The night nurse did supply the two little ones from the night before, so I had some relief. But I was beginning to wonder: was my joint actually going to be rehabilitated here?
The other brilliant moment from that day took place at about 5 a.m. the morning of the 28th. I was awake, and I overheard one of the night aides complaining at the top of her lungs. "Why don't they all just fricking SLEEP?" She and whoever else was out at the desk commiserated about how their friends all thought they had it easy working nights, when they could socialize and relax, but no, they actually had to do some work once in awhile. (To hear her tell it, she spent every minute running around, but clearly she wasn't spending that one.) Every time she had to answer a call, she complained about it. This is a fine example of the cheerful service we had been given there during our first 48 hours.
As promised, the Knee Replacement Blog
I really want to be a blogger. But there's a gap between my wanting to write and my actually doing it. . . Anyway, I did post a knee replacement blog on another site, and I'm bringing it over here, just in case there's anybody reading this who's considering knee replacement surgery. Mine was over 2 months ago now, and it's coming along, sort of. I still have nerve twinges. When I saw my surgeon last week, he put me back on Percocet, which gave me a wonderful long weekend without pain. But I can't take Percocet and work at the same time. It makes me stupid, in its literal sense - puts me in a kind of stupor. I still can't do stairs, and I walk with a cane for balance. I loathe that cane. It makes me feel old. It usually scores me a seat on the subway, though.
So, with no further ado, the first installment of the Knee Replacement Blog!
June 27, 2008
Last Monday, June 23, I had my left knee replaced. Everything went well. I spent three days in the hospital, as expected. The hospital staff was wonderful. Everybody was pleasant and helpful. Tuesday they had me sit up in a chair (which consisted of standing up, grabbing the walker, shuffling a couple of steps to the right, and sitting down again). Wednesday they had me walk (with the walker) across the hall - which gave me bathroom privileges, so goodbye, Mister Bedpan! Thursday I walked (with the walker, as usual) down to the next room. They told me I was doing wonderfully. I felt great. This was going to be a breeze.
Then I moved to the rehab hospital.
Now, my recovery is still going well and I'm walking fairly long distances with the walker, so that's not the problem. Here's what I wrote the day after I moved here:
6/27
I really need to write this down – nobody would believe it anyway. This lovely little rehab hospital (or so I thought) with Wifi in every room and large-screen TVs, remodeled two years ago... well. It's a prison camp. My room is opposite the nurses' station, and the nurse notification signal is a loud screech, kind of like a smoke alarm. The annoying chimes and beeps at the hospital suddenly don't seem so bad.
First of all, the ambulance sent to pick me up was an hour late, and the attendants didn't know how to get to the rehab hospital. One of them ceaselessly harassed the other one about being girly and feminine (he wasn't). They missed the driveway the first time, but turned around and got in all right on the next pass. When I got wheeled in the door, [my older son] was waiting for me. He'd been waiting two hours, from my original arrival time, which had already been delayed an hour...
My heart sank even further when they put me in the room across from the nurses' station. I knew it would be noisy, and I have enough trouble sleeping in strange places as it is... It just so happened that my roommate's granddaughters were visiting her at the time, and I was disappointed – I had hoped I could be by myself. My roommate has turned out to be great, so it turned out not to be a bad thing at all. The rooms were small, the beds were tiny and, as it turned out, dreadfully uncomfortable. I was hot and sticky and sweating like the proverbial pig, and all I wanted was a shower.
Somehow I managed to convinced them to let me have a shower. This involved having a nurse's aide wheel me up to the shower room. Here she turned me over to the shower attendant (who was another nurse's aide). She transferred me over to a “bathing chair”, which looked like a commode without a tank. I'm going to get showered on a toilet seat? Oh, this should be an experience! Well, of course I had to strip naked, which wasn't all that hard, since all I was wearing was two hospital johnnys (one on back to front so my butt wouldn't hang out) and a pair of pressure stockings. Well, after three days in the hospital I didn't have any modesty left anyway, so I ripped 'em off. (They helped me with the stockings, which are thigh-high, have open toes, are white, and help keep my legs from swelling.) I had my blue T-shirt nightgown to put on afterwards.
So I was pushed into the shower stall in this large commode-without-a-tank, and the attendant proceded to scrub me off. I was uncomfortable about it because she was a black woman and it made me think of slavery, which I'd never want to practice. Anyway, she was rough and dictatorial, and she was hard to understand. But I got my hair washed and my body to the waist. Then she spread a towel in front of me and allowed me to stand up long enough to soap my belly and crotch. Then she hosed me down. I felt like an elephant being washed. She made me sit down immediately. Then she wheeled me back out to the outer stall, and we dried me off. I was allowed to stand to get my butt and crotch toweled off. I put on the nightgown. Another nurses' aide came in, and she was drafted into helping get me into the wheelchair. That second aide pushed me back to my room. She let me keep a towel to finish drying off my hair. I didn't realize how precious a piece of bathroom linen would become.
I was returned to my uncomfortable bed. I felt much better for being clean at last.
Then the struggles really began.
The kitchen consultant came in and made notes of our food preferences, so that they could ignore them, as it turned out. I made myself sputteringly clear to her that I wanted the diabetic menu. I was frustrated by the fact that the hospital never figured this out.
My nurse for the evening (who had originally escorted me to the showers), had rinsed out my pressure stockings and hung them in my bathroom. Within a few hours, my left knee had ballooned alarmingly. So I rang the nurse and asked for an ice pack. You'd have thought I asked for yak butter or something equally unlikely to be found around a hospital. She gave me a tiny one, maybe 4 “ x 4 “. It melted almost immediately. I managed to get her attention again, and she gave me a standard-sized cold pack , maybe 12 x 6. She thought maybe I needed one of those Physical Therapy ice packs that can be secured around the leg. I asked if they had any. They didn't up here, but she could ask at PT when they were in tomorrow...
Wait a minute. Isn't this a REHAB hospital? Am I the first patient they've ever had who had post-surgical swelling? I doubt it. This is just another example of how woefully unprepared they've been.
Not only that, but this turns out to be a place where there's one nurse for 20 patients. Stupid. And every single one of the nurse's aides I've met so far has been a bitch. They stick their noses in the air and act as if you've insulted them if you ask them to do their job.
Example: I asked the attendant who wheeled me back after my shower if I could have a box of tissues. She said she'd look for them. I'm sure she didn't. I asked the next person I saw for a box of tissues. She said we'd have to wait until the next day; nobody knew where anything was during the night. So I asked a third person for them. She said she'd check, and disappeared. I suspect she went back to the station to talk huffily with the other nurses about the patient who had the nerve to ask them for something they were supposed to supply.
I asked for the toothbrush and toothpaste the staff had promised at the interview. Oh, sure, whoever this was (probably my first nurse) said, and promptly forgot about it. She was kind enough to rinse out my support stockings, but didn't think she could find a second pair for me.
I asked if I could have a trash bag where I could reach it from my bed. I wasn't supposed to be walking around, and they kept leaving pill cups and little alcohol towelettes and their packages around me. It seemed stupid to have the only trash receptacle in the room up by the door. Wasn't this a rehab hospital? Wouldn't they want to make things easier for the patients they were trying to rehabilitate?
I asked for my Percocet, which the hospital had been supplying every 4 hours. Before the surgery, I had been sternly warned to keep ahead of the pain – don't wait until it really hurts to take more medication. The hospital had had to be nudged, too, I'll admit, but this place is unbelievable. The nurse's alarm, as I've mentioned, sounds like a screeching smoke alarm. It's horribly annoying. I was lying there in pain, well past my time for my medication, and I didn't want to contribute to the horrible screeching only to be ignored again.
Getting new pitchers of ice water is like pulling teeth. The nurses' aides are supposed to do it. I asked my nurse to do it tonight, and he took the pitcher and, heck, he could have thrown it away for all I know.
Back to last night. At some point when I had a nurse's aide's attention, I asked for more ice water, and she brought it. This is the same one who brought me back from the shower, the one I asked for tissues. I poured myself a glass and spilled it. Some of it went onto my laptop. So I managed to get the nurse's aide back in there to help me mop it up. “See, this is why I need tissues!” I shouted, panic-stricken. She went off again to search for them. This time, she came back...with a fistful of paper towels. Okay, they'd mop up the water, but I wouldn't be blowing my nose on them if I could help it. She brought me a wastebasket liner and taped it to my bed table, too, so she was really trying to be helpful.
Okay, so without tissues, without a toothbrush or toothpaste, and with a severely aching knee, I was ready to call it a day. I struggled out of bed without my walker to turn off the bedside lamp that the first nurse had turned on because she thought it made the room look warm. I hadn't wanted it then, and I didn't want it now, either. Then I reached up to pull the chain to turn out the lamp over my bed, one I assumed was just like the light over my hospital bed. I pulled it, and the light directly over my bed came on. I pulled it again. It went back off. And again, and again...I remembered those light switches they had put up by the door. They wouldn't...would they? They had. Both my roommate's and my over-the-bed lamps (the ones that point towards the ceiling) are controlled by one switch. By the door. In a rehab hospital.
I had closed our door to shut down on some of the din. When I turned off the lights, the room was plunged into darkness. More poor planning, but this was on my part. I found my way back to bed...
And lay there, unable to sleep. The stress of the surgery, the move, and the realization that this place was totally unprepared to rehabilitate people was just too much to process. Why had they put me so close to the nurse's station, when I sleep so lightly? Why were they so unaccommodating?
I'm not sure of the sequence of the next few events, but I don't think I was the one who rang for the nurse. I can't remember what my roommate wanted – probably pain medication that they had scheduled an hour earlier. And an older woman came in (heh – she was probably my age). She did whatever she'd come in to do. One of us, or maybe both of us, mentioned how abandoned we'd felt since we'd been here. She made some placating remarked and left without closing the door. Seems it's against regulations to have the door closed, which doesn't really surprise me. Anyway, I ended up crying. I think my roommate might have been making some of the same complaints over the phone to her husband, very quietly. She might have been crying, too.
The nurse came back, maybe with my roommate's pills, I don't know, and I managed to get her attention. I tearfully spilled out some of the miseries of the day. Not sure of the sequence, as I said, but within a few minutes I had a spare pair of pressure stockings, two boxes of tissues, and an Ambien to help me sleep. Just had to ask the right person...and I can't even remember what she looked like.
Well, I got to sleep eventually, and slept for 4 and a half hours or so. When I woke up, I could hear my roommate talking with a nurse in the bathroom. The toilet was clogged. I knew it had been running slowly and assumed she'd called him because of that. Nope. It had actually overflowed, and when he grabbed something to mop it up, he got her bathrobe with it. Fortunately, the bathrobe didn't get wet. Oh, and it gets better. He didn't know where the plunger was. Maybe they didn't have one. Somebody would know in the morning...
And we hadn't even been here for 24 hours.
It was a great bonding experience, though, and we've become fairly friendly, keeping the curtain between the beds open except for times like when her family's here or one of us is sleeping.
Morning comes and the kitchen staff eventually wheels the trays of food out into the hall outside our door. We are among the last people to be served, of course. My heart sank when I saw my tray. I had specified the night before “NO EGGS FOR BREAKFAST.” And when I lifted the dish, there they were: scrambled eggs. Well, I yelled and screamed. When the aide who delivered it tried to say it wasn't on the order slip, we looked more closely at it, and what do you know? There it was: No eggs for breakfast, and diet jelly, please. (They'd supplied jelly for the two slices of limp toast, but it was regular.) Apparently word got sent down to the kitchen pretty quickly, because the aide came back with another dish, which contained six slices of limp toast which appeared to have been scavenged off of other plates, coffee creamers, and diet jellies. We'll see what I get tomorrow. I'll bet they spit in it.
How are we going to last out another week here? Stay tuned...
So, with no further ado, the first installment of the Knee Replacement Blog!
June 27, 2008
Last Monday, June 23, I had my left knee replaced. Everything went well. I spent three days in the hospital, as expected. The hospital staff was wonderful. Everybody was pleasant and helpful. Tuesday they had me sit up in a chair (which consisted of standing up, grabbing the walker, shuffling a couple of steps to the right, and sitting down again). Wednesday they had me walk (with the walker) across the hall - which gave me bathroom privileges, so goodbye, Mister Bedpan! Thursday I walked (with the walker, as usual) down to the next room. They told me I was doing wonderfully. I felt great. This was going to be a breeze.
Then I moved to the rehab hospital.
Now, my recovery is still going well and I'm walking fairly long distances with the walker, so that's not the problem. Here's what I wrote the day after I moved here:
6/27
I really need to write this down – nobody would believe it anyway. This lovely little rehab hospital (or so I thought) with Wifi in every room and large-screen TVs, remodeled two years ago... well. It's a prison camp. My room is opposite the nurses' station, and the nurse notification signal is a loud screech, kind of like a smoke alarm. The annoying chimes and beeps at the hospital suddenly don't seem so bad.
First of all, the ambulance sent to pick me up was an hour late, and the attendants didn't know how to get to the rehab hospital. One of them ceaselessly harassed the other one about being girly and feminine (he wasn't). They missed the driveway the first time, but turned around and got in all right on the next pass. When I got wheeled in the door, [my older son] was waiting for me. He'd been waiting two hours, from my original arrival time, which had already been delayed an hour...
My heart sank even further when they put me in the room across from the nurses' station. I knew it would be noisy, and I have enough trouble sleeping in strange places as it is... It just so happened that my roommate's granddaughters were visiting her at the time, and I was disappointed – I had hoped I could be by myself. My roommate has turned out to be great, so it turned out not to be a bad thing at all. The rooms were small, the beds were tiny and, as it turned out, dreadfully uncomfortable. I was hot and sticky and sweating like the proverbial pig, and all I wanted was a shower.
Somehow I managed to convinced them to let me have a shower. This involved having a nurse's aide wheel me up to the shower room. Here she turned me over to the shower attendant (who was another nurse's aide). She transferred me over to a “bathing chair”, which looked like a commode without a tank. I'm going to get showered on a toilet seat? Oh, this should be an experience! Well, of course I had to strip naked, which wasn't all that hard, since all I was wearing was two hospital johnnys (one on back to front so my butt wouldn't hang out) and a pair of pressure stockings. Well, after three days in the hospital I didn't have any modesty left anyway, so I ripped 'em off. (They helped me with the stockings, which are thigh-high, have open toes, are white, and help keep my legs from swelling.) I had my blue T-shirt nightgown to put on afterwards.
So I was pushed into the shower stall in this large commode-without-a-tank, and the attendant proceded to scrub me off. I was uncomfortable about it because she was a black woman and it made me think of slavery, which I'd never want to practice. Anyway, she was rough and dictatorial, and she was hard to understand. But I got my hair washed and my body to the waist. Then she spread a towel in front of me and allowed me to stand up long enough to soap my belly and crotch. Then she hosed me down. I felt like an elephant being washed. She made me sit down immediately. Then she wheeled me back out to the outer stall, and we dried me off. I was allowed to stand to get my butt and crotch toweled off. I put on the nightgown. Another nurses' aide came in, and she was drafted into helping get me into the wheelchair. That second aide pushed me back to my room. She let me keep a towel to finish drying off my hair. I didn't realize how precious a piece of bathroom linen would become.
I was returned to my uncomfortable bed. I felt much better for being clean at last.
Then the struggles really began.
The kitchen consultant came in and made notes of our food preferences, so that they could ignore them, as it turned out. I made myself sputteringly clear to her that I wanted the diabetic menu. I was frustrated by the fact that the hospital never figured this out.
My nurse for the evening (who had originally escorted me to the showers), had rinsed out my pressure stockings and hung them in my bathroom. Within a few hours, my left knee had ballooned alarmingly. So I rang the nurse and asked for an ice pack. You'd have thought I asked for yak butter or something equally unlikely to be found around a hospital. She gave me a tiny one, maybe 4 “ x 4 “. It melted almost immediately. I managed to get her attention again, and she gave me a standard-sized cold pack , maybe 12 x 6. She thought maybe I needed one of those Physical Therapy ice packs that can be secured around the leg. I asked if they had any. They didn't up here, but she could ask at PT when they were in tomorrow...
Wait a minute. Isn't this a REHAB hospital? Am I the first patient they've ever had who had post-surgical swelling? I doubt it. This is just another example of how woefully unprepared they've been.
Not only that, but this turns out to be a place where there's one nurse for 20 patients. Stupid. And every single one of the nurse's aides I've met so far has been a bitch. They stick their noses in the air and act as if you've insulted them if you ask them to do their job.
Example: I asked the attendant who wheeled me back after my shower if I could have a box of tissues. She said she'd look for them. I'm sure she didn't. I asked the next person I saw for a box of tissues. She said we'd have to wait until the next day; nobody knew where anything was during the night. So I asked a third person for them. She said she'd check, and disappeared. I suspect she went back to the station to talk huffily with the other nurses about the patient who had the nerve to ask them for something they were supposed to supply.
I asked for the toothbrush and toothpaste the staff had promised at the interview. Oh, sure, whoever this was (probably my first nurse) said, and promptly forgot about it. She was kind enough to rinse out my support stockings, but didn't think she could find a second pair for me.
I asked if I could have a trash bag where I could reach it from my bed. I wasn't supposed to be walking around, and they kept leaving pill cups and little alcohol towelettes and their packages around me. It seemed stupid to have the only trash receptacle in the room up by the door. Wasn't this a rehab hospital? Wouldn't they want to make things easier for the patients they were trying to rehabilitate?
I asked for my Percocet, which the hospital had been supplying every 4 hours. Before the surgery, I had been sternly warned to keep ahead of the pain – don't wait until it really hurts to take more medication. The hospital had had to be nudged, too, I'll admit, but this place is unbelievable. The nurse's alarm, as I've mentioned, sounds like a screeching smoke alarm. It's horribly annoying. I was lying there in pain, well past my time for my medication, and I didn't want to contribute to the horrible screeching only to be ignored again.
Getting new pitchers of ice water is like pulling teeth. The nurses' aides are supposed to do it. I asked my nurse to do it tonight, and he took the pitcher and, heck, he could have thrown it away for all I know.
Back to last night. At some point when I had a nurse's aide's attention, I asked for more ice water, and she brought it. This is the same one who brought me back from the shower, the one I asked for tissues. I poured myself a glass and spilled it. Some of it went onto my laptop. So I managed to get the nurse's aide back in there to help me mop it up. “See, this is why I need tissues!” I shouted, panic-stricken. She went off again to search for them. This time, she came back...with a fistful of paper towels. Okay, they'd mop up the water, but I wouldn't be blowing my nose on them if I could help it. She brought me a wastebasket liner and taped it to my bed table, too, so she was really trying to be helpful.
Okay, so without tissues, without a toothbrush or toothpaste, and with a severely aching knee, I was ready to call it a day. I struggled out of bed without my walker to turn off the bedside lamp that the first nurse had turned on because she thought it made the room look warm. I hadn't wanted it then, and I didn't want it now, either. Then I reached up to pull the chain to turn out the lamp over my bed, one I assumed was just like the light over my hospital bed. I pulled it, and the light directly over my bed came on. I pulled it again. It went back off. And again, and again...I remembered those light switches they had put up by the door. They wouldn't...would they? They had. Both my roommate's and my over-the-bed lamps (the ones that point towards the ceiling) are controlled by one switch. By the door. In a rehab hospital.
I had closed our door to shut down on some of the din. When I turned off the lights, the room was plunged into darkness. More poor planning, but this was on my part. I found my way back to bed...
And lay there, unable to sleep. The stress of the surgery, the move, and the realization that this place was totally unprepared to rehabilitate people was just too much to process. Why had they put me so close to the nurse's station, when I sleep so lightly? Why were they so unaccommodating?
I'm not sure of the sequence of the next few events, but I don't think I was the one who rang for the nurse. I can't remember what my roommate wanted – probably pain medication that they had scheduled an hour earlier. And an older woman came in (heh – she was probably my age). She did whatever she'd come in to do. One of us, or maybe both of us, mentioned how abandoned we'd felt since we'd been here. She made some placating remarked and left without closing the door. Seems it's against regulations to have the door closed, which doesn't really surprise me. Anyway, I ended up crying. I think my roommate might have been making some of the same complaints over the phone to her husband, very quietly. She might have been crying, too.
The nurse came back, maybe with my roommate's pills, I don't know, and I managed to get her attention. I tearfully spilled out some of the miseries of the day. Not sure of the sequence, as I said, but within a few minutes I had a spare pair of pressure stockings, two boxes of tissues, and an Ambien to help me sleep. Just had to ask the right person...and I can't even remember what she looked like.
Well, I got to sleep eventually, and slept for 4 and a half hours or so. When I woke up, I could hear my roommate talking with a nurse in the bathroom. The toilet was clogged. I knew it had been running slowly and assumed she'd called him because of that. Nope. It had actually overflowed, and when he grabbed something to mop it up, he got her bathrobe with it. Fortunately, the bathrobe didn't get wet. Oh, and it gets better. He didn't know where the plunger was. Maybe they didn't have one. Somebody would know in the morning...
And we hadn't even been here for 24 hours.
It was a great bonding experience, though, and we've become fairly friendly, keeping the curtain between the beds open except for times like when her family's here or one of us is sleeping.
Morning comes and the kitchen staff eventually wheels the trays of food out into the hall outside our door. We are among the last people to be served, of course. My heart sank when I saw my tray. I had specified the night before “NO EGGS FOR BREAKFAST.” And when I lifted the dish, there they were: scrambled eggs. Well, I yelled and screamed. When the aide who delivered it tried to say it wasn't on the order slip, we looked more closely at it, and what do you know? There it was: No eggs for breakfast, and diet jelly, please. (They'd supplied jelly for the two slices of limp toast, but it was regular.) Apparently word got sent down to the kitchen pretty quickly, because the aide came back with another dish, which contained six slices of limp toast which appeared to have been scavenged off of other plates, coffee creamers, and diet jellies. We'll see what I get tomorrow. I'll bet they spit in it.
How are we going to last out another week here? Stay tuned...
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