What's the best motivation to get out of the hospital? A Dumb Ass roommate.
I didn't pay much attention when he moved him into the Step-Down room. I think I was still too doped up and spacey from the anesthetic. But after my first day there, he was hard to miss.
First off, his wife / girlfriend / partner showed up with some of their kids (I overheard him claim to have 9 children altogether). Nice. A family visit. Bring the kids to see Daddy in the hospital. They were a little rambunctious but not bad. Dad and Mom got into a fight, though. Hard not to overhear when there's only a cloth curtain between you and the flying accusations. Where am I going to get the money? You said! She said! He said! I said! Tears. I was happy when they left.
But then, after a bit, the fight continued via cell phone! At least this time I only heard one side of the conversation. That was bad enough. I gave you the money! You said! She said! He said! I said! Click. I didn't mind when they moved him out into the regular ward room.
When it looked like they might be getting close to moving me out too, I asked about the private or semi-private room that my insurance would pay for. Any available? None just yet. So, of course, I was moved into the same room as Mr. Dumb Ass. At least my catheter came out before I moved. One less holding tank to drag around. It was really very nice to feel a full bladder and to pee when I wanted, even if I did have to go into a container to measure my 'output'.
In the evening, after the nursing shift changed, Mr. Dumb Ass picked it up a notch. He began to whine and complain to the nurse about wanting to get out outside for a smoke. A smoke? What the? He's just had heart surgery and he wants a smoke? I overhear that they've already put a nicotine patch on him. It doesn't work he complains. The nurse finally gives in to his whining. OK, he can go out. But he pushes it further. He wants to be disconnected from his IV drips. Apparently he's on an IV blood thinner and it really can't be stopped. He whines. He complains. He pleads. He argues. It was impossible not to listen. Eventually she gave in, unhooked him, and let him go.
It wasn't long before he was back. Apparently he'd made it to the front door and only then realized he actually didn't have any smokes with him. So, not to be denied, he shambled off toward the nearest convenience store on 16th Avenue, a block away, until security stopped him, turned him around, and sent him back. Smokeless. Right. Go for a smoke without smokes. Dumb. He wasn't just an Ass, he was a Dumb Ass.
Thank god for itunes and headphones. I was finally able to shut him out with a relaxing mix; just needed to keep the volume loud enough to drown his whining out.
The next day was not much better. More phone calls. More fights. More complaining. More whining. To everyone. To the nurses, to the food deliverers, to the lab staff who came to draw blood (Ow! I bruise! Unnnh! Ow!), to the physio-therapists, to the doctors. This was too much. I asked again about a private or semi-private room.
Finally, late afternoon, about 24 hours after moving our of the step-down room, they wheeled me into a semi-private room. And -- Bonus -- there was no one else there! Luxury. And even better, they took out my remaining chest tube (an interesting feeling, sort of like a sharp stab in reverse) and gave me fresh dressings. Ahh ... I felt like a new man. I was free of containers and IV poles. I could go to the bathroom on my own.
I was so looking forward to a good night's sleep. And I had just gone deep when the lights came on. It was about 11:30. Commotion. There was racket. Someone bumped into my bed. I was wide awake. They were moving in a roommate. And, who was my new roommate? Mr. Dumb Ass! I'd recognize that whining voice anywhere.
I'd met the charge nurse earlier in the evening. So now, about 1:30 a.m., I tracked him down and let him know that I wasn't happy. In the end, though, I figured turning myself into another whining complaining patient wouldn't help and so I would live with it and try to maintain my composure and positive energy, no matter what Mr. Dumb Ass did. But thank god for itunes and headphones.
The nurses were very patient and professional with him. They kept listening to everything Mr. Dumb Ass said, offering options for every complaint, offering strategies to deal with his demands, setting up meetings with doctors, psychologists, social workers, physiotherapists. Those who prescribe to the 'squeaky wheel' theory might feel that all of this help proves that he was getting more care than others of us who were, say, quieter and more reasonable. He was certainly getting more attention. That seemed to be what he wanted. But I don't think he was getting more care.
Afterall, they discharged me before him.
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