My Published Articles for ViewsHound: TEN HOURS IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM

Monday, May 18, 2015

TEN HOURS IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM

TEN Hours in the Emergency Room of this Hospital Last Friday, MAY 15

Last Friday at about 5:30PM, I felt a sharp and lingering pain (Level 4 to 5) on my lower back. I decided to visit the nearby Urgent Care Center about ¼ mile from our residence, since David III was at home to watch for her Mother and my primary care doctor's office was closed. I did not eat dinner, because I thought I will be back in 20 minutes after talking to the clerk at Urgent Care. I have never been to an Urgent Care Clinic and also my first time with this nagging back pain accompanied by frequent urination.

When I arrived at the Urgent Care Center I paid my copay of $30. There were about five patients ahead of me. It was not until 6:30PM when a physician was able to examined me. He indicated there is nothing they can do to be sure that my pain is not serious. They took a sample of my urine and shows no urinary infection. The attending physician recommended I go to the Emergency Room for a CAT SCAN of my abdomen and stomach and lower back, since my stomach was bloated and a slight pain when he palpitated the area during his physical exam. He asked me if I drove, because he recommends I should take their ambulance. When I insisted I drove to the ER he said I will have to sign a waiver that in case something happened to me on the way to the ER Urgent Care is not responsible. He also indicated that If I arrived via ambulance, I will have preference to those who are just walk in to the ER.

I decided to take the ambulance not knowing if my insurance will cover it. While waiting for the ambulance I bought a bag of potato chips- my dinner for the night. I called my son to pick up my car in the parking lot of the Urgent Care Center and to call my daughter in Sacramento ,

The Paramedic took all my vitals and a medical history including the medicines I am currently taking. He also took my blood sugar since I am diabetic. We arrived at the ER with six Police ambulances ahead of us at about 7:00PM.

There were six patients in various stages of trauma ahead of me, so by the time I was able to get a room(cubicle) in the ER it was 10:00PM. More blood and urine samples were taken. An EKG and an IV were done. An order for a contrast CAT SCAN of my stomach area and lower back was in my schedule.

The attending doctor thought I might have a blockage of the bowel, since I had explosive diahrrea with black stool that morning. However she would not know until the cat scan is completed. At about 11.00PM, I was given a big cup of dye for contrast that tasted like chalk. I almost vomited. After consuming the dye, my stomach started to ache (level of pain about 5) I have to ask for pain medication. After one hour of drinking the dye, I was finally wheeled to the CAT SCAN machine. The scan took only a few minutes. It was another hour before the doctor informed I have no blockage, but kidney stones so big and calcified.

By the time we were able to check out, it was 2:30AM. The doctor recommended that I see my primary care physician as soon as possible and get referral to a urologist. I am going to do that today. She gave me also a prescription for pain

WE, referred to my angel, Ditas my youngest daughter who sat down by my bed side to keep me company almost 8 hours. I did appreciate her coming to the ER Otherwise I would have died of loneliness and boredom waiting for 10 hours just for A CAT Scan You will never know the feeling of loneliness, waiting alone in the atmosphere of patients moaning and asking for pain medication. The cubicle next to me was a man complaining of level 10 pain and moaning for Jesus to Help Him It took another hour before he got his pain medication. There was only one nurse station in the ER room that night. In my case my level of pain after drinking the chalk dye was only about 5, but in 30 minutes I got my morphine. After 30 minutes the pain was reduced to level 1 and we were ready to be discharged

Ditas drove me home. I was so hungry I ate the leftover pork chops with gusto. I cooked the chops before driving to the Urgent Care Clinic. Again, thank You, Ditas for keeping me company. And to David who took over taking care of my wife who has Parkinson Disease while I was in the ER..

The hospital mentioned in this article is the The Mercy San Juan Hospital owned by Dignity Health in Carmichael, California.

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Monday, May 18, 2015

TEN HOURS IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM

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