Nurse Is a Relative Term

By Bob Rehak

I just got out of the hospital last week, and it turns out that no matter how good the hospital is or how skilled your surgeon is, it’s the nurses that matter. Nurses are like the hospital’s waiters and waitresses. You can go to the best restaurant in town and have the most fabulous food you’ve ever tasted, but if the waitress didn’t treat you well, that’s probably going to have a profound effect on your experience. I’ve eaten at places like Lawry’s, Magnum’s, and Wildfire, (all with coupons) and they were all very pleasant and expensive experiences, due to the quality of the food and the attentiveness of the waiters and waitresses (and the price). I’ve also had a few fancy meals where I had the feeling that the waitress knew that we had pulled up in my Escort wagon and treated me like, well, someone who had just pulled up in an Escort wagon. Then again, some of the best service I’ve ever received was at Sizzler (some of the best rolls with butter, too. I think they’re made by elves). So the way you’re served and cared for can make or break the experience. Same with the hospital.

I went in on a Friday morning for a “routine” gall bladder removal, although I contend that any time someone reaches in through your navel and pulls out an organ, it’s a little more than routine. The whole procedure was to take about 4 hours, start to finish, from the time I walked in, to the time I was wheeled to the curb. I’ve left my car at Midas for an oil change for longer than that.

Since I was in mild pain from the gallstones and a little chilly from the Kleenex-thin gown I was wearing, I was counting the minutes till my favorite doctor, the anesthesiologist, came calling. Just put me out, do your business, and wake me when it’s over. I vaguely remember the anesthesiologist talking to me in the operating room, and I remember thinking that he really could use a shave or a mask, especially since I was about to get three holes poked into me for the laparoscopic procedure. (Basically they stick a camera in one hole and instruments in the other two holes and play with surgical chopsticks to snip and move things. At least that’s the way I had come to envision the surgery).

The anesthesiologist asked me some general questions that I can’t remember. He may have even asked me for my bank account number for all I know (unless he saw us pull up in the Escort). I was out really fast and woke up in Recovery, which should really be called Irritation, because they really don’t want you to recover there.

It’s like one of those scenes from an action movie where the hero is beat up and keeps collapsing, and the villain nods to the henchman to give the hero another whack to stay awake and answer the question. I thought I was recovering very nicely, on the edge of feeling comfortable, and then the nurse would stand six inches away and say “Robert? Robert? You’re in Recovery. Robert? Can you hear me?” Since they didn’t remove my ear drums, of course I could hear her. So I mumbled something to get her off my back, but that just seemed to get her more excited and chatty. “Open your eyes, Robert.” God, I hate it when they use your formal name, like some convicted killer. So I broke under the pressure and opened my eyes to a room that seemed as well lit as a White Castle, only there was no onion smell or ketchup packets on the floor. OK, I’ve complied with all your requests; I answered the questions and opened my eyes; now go away. She did, I slipped back towards comfort-town, but she caught me just before I arrived. We played this fun game for a while, and slowly I realized that they were keeping me over night.

It seems there were a few minor complications during the routine oil change, after all. The doctor later told me that the gall bladder was “nasty”; a medical term I hadn’t heard before. He was afraid it may have had an effect on its neighbor, my liver. My four-hour quickie lube turned into a three-day diagnostic check.

On Day One I met my first shift PCT (Patient Care Technician). I’ll call her Maria S., since that was her name. Maria was one step and three years away from being a registered nurse, so she had to pay her dues by working as a PCT. Basically it meant that she had to care for her patients on a more personal level: the bathing and aiding to the bathroom and the walking around the hospital floor to get patients back on their feet. Maria was a great PCT; she went above and beyond, in my opinion.

At one point my wife noticed dried blood on my inner thigh, right near the Mason-Dixon line. Maria went right in and cleaned off the area, without hesitation. If it was me I would have handed the patient a wet-nap and pretended I was being paged in the ER. I’m no Florence Nightingale; or Maria S.

On Day Two I met the second shift PCT, a young lad I’ll call Scooter (not his real name, though it may have been his real nickname). Scooter was obviously not into the whole PCT experience. He did his job more like it was part of a plea bargain than a vocation. Scooter asked how I was doing, but in that same voice I use when I go through a toll booth. Whenever I would ring Scooter for a bathroom escort, he’d wheel around the IV and just wait for me to catch up. I get more personal attention from a Wendy’s drive-up window than I got from the Scooter.

The first time that I needed him to take me around the floor for a walk, Scooter spent some time conversing with his PCT buddy, another youngster I called Goober. These two were obviously friends, and they each had patients to “care for”. While Scooter and I were out for a walk, Goober would go by with one of his patients, and I swear the two of them rolled their eyes at each other every time we passed. These walks that the hospital wants you to go on are to get your system moving and get you one step closer to the exit. You’re supposed to go at your own pace; gingerly, like your ankle could snap on the next step. Slowly you build up your stamina and start walking like you’re strolling through broken glass. Eventually you walk like you mean it.

When I went on walks with Maria, she told me to stop when I needed, take deep breaths, and hold onto the rail as she followed this close behind me. With Scooter, our walks were an obvious inconvenience to his social life. Maybe him and Goober were in the middle of a Halo 3 combat, I don’t know. All I know is every time he took me for a walk, he held onto the IV and walked six feet in front of me, like he was leading a pony. He may have been trying to lap Goober and his pony, I’m not sure. All I know is that he rode me hard and put me away wet.

By the end of my hospital stay, I was ready to go home. I was looking forward to uninterrupted sleep and quality time in my own tastefully decorated bathroom. Mostly I was looking forward to getting away from the hospital. And Scooter.

NEXT WEEK: Losing Patients and Broken MRIs