My second stay in a regular room was fairly uneventful. There were times that I wondered why they were keeping me in the hospital. True, I couldn't really move very well, but I thought that was going to be fixed once I got to rehab. They sent in physical therapists pretty much every day. The stuff they asked me to do in bed (raise my legs, bend my knees, do armcurls with a Poland Spring bottle) I managed just fine. It was the stuff out of bed that was a problem. I couldn't stand on my own. That, of course, would preclude walking as well. It's truly amazing to what extent your muscles abandon you when you haven't used them for a while. Anyway, other than the occasional PT, an x-ray here, a cat scan there, my days consisted of eating, bedpan breaks and napping. Kinda like being an infant, only without the breastfeeding. Oh, and TV...lots of TV. Did you know that commercials on daytime TV are very different than they are during prime time? After a few days I started noticing the pattern: malpractice and/or personal injury lawyers, durable medical equipment (e.g. concentrators, inhalers, diabetes supplies) and retirement villages. So I started thinking, gee, who's their target demographic? Then it hit me...you are, dummy! Anyway, just as I was getting comfortable with the idea of room 614 in the Milstein Pavillion being my permanent home, they had the unmitigated chutzpah to discharge me. Actually "discharge" doesn't quite describe it accurately; "kick me out" is closer. One minute I was lying comfortably in bed watching "Big Cat Diaries", next minute they were sending in a social worker with discharge papers. It was as if there was a big Oxford Parking Meter somewhere and I had just run out of quarters. "Yeah, but..." I protested, "I can't walk". I guess that minor detail was lost on them. Apparently when Oxford says you're well enough to leave, you're out on your sponge-bathed butt.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
You're Outta Here!
My second stay in a regular room was fairly uneventful. There were times that I wondered why they were keeping me in the hospital. True, I couldn't really move very well, but I thought that was going to be fixed once I got to rehab. They sent in physical therapists pretty much every day. The stuff they asked me to do in bed (raise my legs, bend my knees, do armcurls with a Poland Spring bottle) I managed just fine. It was the stuff out of bed that was a problem. I couldn't stand on my own. That, of course, would preclude walking as well. It's truly amazing to what extent your muscles abandon you when you haven't used them for a while. Anyway, other than the occasional PT, an x-ray here, a cat scan there, my days consisted of eating, bedpan breaks and napping. Kinda like being an infant, only without the breastfeeding. Oh, and TV...lots of TV. Did you know that commercials on daytime TV are very different than they are during prime time? After a few days I started noticing the pattern: malpractice and/or personal injury lawyers, durable medical equipment (e.g. concentrators, inhalers, diabetes supplies) and retirement villages. So I started thinking, gee, who's their target demographic? Then it hit me...you are, dummy! Anyway, just as I was getting comfortable with the idea of room 614 in the Milstein Pavillion being my permanent home, they had the unmitigated chutzpah to discharge me. Actually "discharge" doesn't quite describe it accurately; "kick me out" is closer. One minute I was lying comfortably in bed watching "Big Cat Diaries", next minute they were sending in a social worker with discharge papers. It was as if there was a big Oxford Parking Meter somewhere and I had just run out of quarters. "Yeah, but..." I protested, "I can't walk". I guess that minor detail was lost on them. Apparently when Oxford says you're well enough to leave, you're out on your sponge-bathed butt.
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