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.