I had gall bladder surgery on March third. I had been sick with gall bladder problems since the previous September. I had been hospitalized in October with antibiotic therapy and told to adhere to a strict diet until the surgery. The situation, however, got worse regardless.
So, March 3 came and went. I recuperated enough to be sent home. Or so they said. And believe me, I wanted to get home.
The hospital here is old and under funded. The buildings are ugly, in disrepair and there is nothing "inviting" about the surroundings, be they inside or out. There is no cafeteria. There are a few vending machines that are not always filled with soda, water and snack items such as potato chips and cookies. There is a coffee machine. There are no sandwiches or anything you could possibly heat up in a microwave, such as soup. Nothing.
Some hallways have peeling paint, missing pieces of the floor, chipped doors and dirty windows. There is no "ambulatory" surgery department. Everything that needs to be done ahead of time (filling out forms, getting a history, taking blood and urine) is done within the Pediatric department. It is bizarre.
And, naturally, things work on "Italian time." That means that breakfast for the patients is coffee (or even better, a coffee substitute called orzo) and a couple of cookies. Lunch is the "big" meal and dinner is more spare. There are no menus, no one is asked what they would like. I never was allowed to eat during my initial stay until my last day. This time I was allowed a little food my last two days. A plate of mashed potatoes and a slice of meatloaf. Then a plate of mashed potatoes and sliced chicken. Very bland, but I was ravenous.
I was happy to get out of there and get home. However, it became obvious after a week or two that I was not, in fact, getting better. As time went on I got worse. I could not lie down, but I had to "sleep" or attempt to sitting up in a living room chair. I coughed incessantly. There was a terrible, nasty taste in my mouth which I learned was bile. I did not eat. I did not walk. I really could not talk because my throat was so sore and the coughing never stopped.
I was not happy, but I was taken to the ER again, this time for the cough and bile. They had to do a Covid test, which was sent to Pescara so the result took hours to receive. I just sat in a wheelchair coughing and using up scads of tissues for hours. Finally, the negative result was returned and I was admitted. It was supposed to be "for a couple of days."
Honestly, I don't remember a lot because I was so terribly ill. I do remember the young male nurse choosing the absolute worst spot to put an IV (in the crook of the arm) but I was too weak to say anything about it. I was able, however, to commit this particular nurse to memory.
I was bedridden for days although I am not sure how many. I was in a small room by myself, which made sense since I was so sick. They had me in diapers. Time was meaningless. I thought that I might die. At one point I was given iron via IV. After that they gave me a pill everyday. I didn't get my usual medications for blood pressure because my pressure was so low.
Two nurses came in each morning to clean up only my genital area and change the diaper. The rest of me did not get clean. My hair, my skin....I was beginning to feel gross and started scratching.
Slowly I began to feel a bit "better" by which I mean I could sit up and croak out a whisper here and there. I learned I had pneumonia.
As my condition improved, my husband came to visit, bringing me clean night shirts, a brush for my filthy hair, a bar of soap, a towel. At last I was able to be escorted to the little bathroom in my room. It only had a sink and a toilet, no shower, which was very disappointing. But I was able to soap up my face and arms which helped a bit. I started to use the toilet, so the diapers were discontinued.
When my husband visited we opened the window in my room for some fresh air. I passed the time either sleeping or reading my Kindle as IV bags were changed. The IV itself had to be moved several times as it kept failing. No one EVER put it in my hand until the very last freaking day. As time passed I started noticing that my arms were bruised badly from all the needles.
I had to be taken for tests from time to time. One day, during the "lunch" hour, I was finally allowed to have some food, and it was good, too! It was chicken that had been roasted in herbs and carrots and a small bowl of pasta with a tomato/meat sauce and a nice Italian roll. I wasn't done, I was happily pacing myself with the bounty in front of me when a girl came to whisk me away for an MRI. Of course, when I got back, the tray had been removed.
The MRI department always had the same two people there, a man doing the actual MRI and a female nurse preparing the patient. She drove me nuts because she always fiddled with the IV...the IV so precariously placed somewhere on my bruised arm. What the hell? Leave it alone!!
After that, for some strange reason, my meals were always a piece of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Same thing, over and over and over again. ???? I protested. This was ridiculous. I don't even want to eat anymore.
I don't know how orders are transmitted but something had been interpreted the wrong way, certainly I was not ordered to have the same damned thing every damned day! I worked in hospitals for ages. Someone ask the damned doctor about it!!!
There were nice nurses, too, don't get me wrong. One lovely young lady went out of her way to get me a cup of tea when she was on duty (I don't drink coffee or orzo, whatever it is). Most, in fact, were very solicitous and kind. But there were a few who rankled me no end.
As my condition improved, I marveled at the fact that no one gave sponge baths. No one was escorted to a shower. I was filthy....really filthy. I had scratched myself badly on my legs and my chest, my upper arms. My head felt like I had spent the day at the beach and gotten sand all over my hair. And now that I could go to the bathroom, my private parts weren't getting clean either.
Eventually a duo, one man and one woman, came to my room to get up and walking. I couldn't do much and wound up having them grab a chair and bring it to the middle of the hall so I could sit. Weak doesn't quite describe it. By the third day I was able to walk (with a walker) to the end of the hall and back.
Some man was admitted several days before my discharge. He was loud, obnoxious and yammered, sang, yelled most of the night. I don't understand why he was not put somewhere further down a hall where he would disturb less people.
Every couple of days someone came around with a Covid test. Jerk face male nurse came to my room and did the test. The next day I was informed that the test came back positive!! I've been in a private room the whole time!! With that, I was moved to a room at the end of a hall. Some nurses...two to be exact, one of whom was my favorite jerk face, consistently closed the door to my room to totally isolate me. Others, like the nice gal who got me tea, consistently opened my door for sound and light, and also opened the window in my room for some fresh air. I was alone in the room...not running around infecting people. I was also instructed, and not very nicely, to keep a mask on AT ALL TIMES...even though I was totally alone. I didn't. I wanted to breathe fresh air and there was absolutely no one around. What the hell?
Unfortunately, even though I was a tiny bit stronger by now, there was still no shower in the bathroom, so I was still gross and filthy. However, I was informed that despite the positive test, I would be discharged. By the way, the food situation had not changed so I was barely eating. One day one nice nurse somehow found a plate of that delicious chicken again, but otherwise mashed potatoes and meat loaf were not inspiring. (By the way, I haven't eaten beef in ages but no one asks, there are no menus and you just get what you get.)
Spring was delayed, so although it was mid-April, and even though the sun was out, the weather was still chilly. My second morning in my "new" room, I was told I could go home. Hallelujah!!! When? What time? "Non lo so."
I learned that I had to have an ambulance take me home due to the Covid diagnosis. I just had to wait. And wait. And wait. No one offered me any food, luckily the really nice nurse who brought me tea did just that and that was all I had all day. Finally, at four in the afternoon the drivers showed up. I had my things gathered neatly and they threw them into a big garbage bag. I put on my jacket and they put me on a stretcher. I was still coughing rather badly, but not constantly. Being flat on my back didn't help.
They stopped at the corner because our street is too narrow to accommodate an ambulance. It was an uncomfortable, noisy and very bumpy ride across cobblestones to my door, but I was home!! And exhausted.
Once inside Lupo and Missy Tee came right up to me, the other clowns were cautious. Little Imp approached and then Scruff and finally Percy, Zini and Notte. Meanwhile, with my husband's help, I was stripping down to climb into the shower before I collapsed. Clean at last!!!!
It may take months to fully recuperate but gradually I am getting stronger, doing more, coughing less to none. I still don't have my voice back and have started to salt water gargle everyday. I have read that bile regurgitation can damage the vocal chords. I hope nothing is permanent.
I won't get a bill for anything - the hospital, the tests, the medications. However, if I ever must be in a hospital again, if I have any say in the matter at all, I will choose to pay and use the "private" insurance that we have. This hospital has been in trouble for years and although it was the "Covid hub" during the height of the pandemic, it has been losing support for ages. There is talk of privatizing half of it and still maintaining a portion of the public hospital. I am now in support of such a plan. Otherwise, the "private" hospital nearest is about a half hour away.
I also noticed the lack of discussion between doctor and patient and I don't know if that was the normal course for all patients or only for female patients or only for me, although I never witnessed the doctors discussing situations with other patients either. For an American, that is very frustrating almost to the point of insulting.
Also, if, god forbid, I should ever be stuck in THIS hospital again, I will refuse to have a certain nurse come near me and I really don't care how outrageous that sounds. Most were kind and competent but a few (and one in particular) were a slackers and rude.
My next adventure begins next week when I call a rheumatologist. Wish me luck.
