Posted on Thu, Mar. 23, 2006

Little victories so valuable in life's good fight

By Sidney B. Kurtz

They say, "It's the little things in life that count." After my latest hospital stay, I'd like to change it a bit. I say, "It's the little victories in life that count."

First, a disclaimer. This story is only 99.99 percent true. The rest was added for drama. Otherwise, I write it as it happened, in two parts: pre-suicide watch and post-suicide watch.

Slowed by a blood problem, I drove myself to Kennedy's ER. (My doctor is associated with that hospital.) After a reasonable wait of five hours, I was given the first available bed in a four-bed room - the only room in the hospital with four beds.

My space measured about six by six feet. Sick or not, I don't like small spaces.

Presently a doctor entered, dutifully trailed by an entourage of students and interns.

They surrounded one of my roommates, a man about 45 who looked reasonably healthy.

The doctor minced no words: "Have you smoked today?"

"No."

"You're lying. You've been smoking in the bathroom. When's the last time you had a drink?"

"The day before I came in."

"How many?"

"I don't know. One, two, three. Maybe four."

"Maybe more. Your blood looks like a pharmacy inventory. You on cocaine, too?"

No answer.

"So, you were admitted with chest pains probably induced by your alcohol and drug binges. You're an alcoholic and a druggie. Now, what do you want us to treat you for?"

So it went.

The man finally opted for the chest pains, probably figuring he could avoid rehab that way. That evening, two ministers came in and sat by his bed, talking occasionally in low tones. The patient shouted, "Why are you watchin' me? I ain't gonna kill myself."

He asked to wash his face and brush his teeth. A nurse unlocked him from the bed. He dutifully washed his face, brushed his teeth, and had a smoke while in the bathroom. I could smell it. Why they allowed him to smoke, I don't know.

He returned to his bed, noisily pushing chairs aside and asking for a drink or a drug. The ministers resumed sitting.

It suddenly occurred to me this guy was on a suicide watch.

I decided I was outta there! I hobbled to the nurse's desk and demanded another room, even if it meant going back to ER. No way was I going to spend the night in an uncomfortable room with a suicide watch.

They found me a nice two-bed room. A victory for me.

End of Part One.

Ensconced in my spacious room at the far end of the hall, I was a happier camper - still sick, but happier.

Victory No. 2 may not sound earthshaking to healthy people on the outside, but patients in hospital beds may find it to be of vital interest.

You know the white cross on the two control panels of the bed that signals the need for assistance?

Good idea, when it works. On a scale of 1 to 10, I'd rate it a 6.

Sometimes the response would come over an intercom, asking what the problem was.

Does that matter? Somebody needs help, although I suppose the type of help might determine what the nurse brings with her to the room.

I try to give the nurses the benefit of any doubt. They work hard. Yet when I press that white cross, I expect something to happen.

My IV system stopped working several times.

A woman whose husband has been in and out of the hospital gave me a quick course in restarting the IV. During the night, it quit again. I couldn't get it restarted, and no amount of white-cross pressing could summon assistance.

I got a brainstorm. I called the operator downstairs and had her connect me to the nurse's station on my floor. "My IV is out," I said.

"I'll send somebody right over," the voice answered. In two minutes I had help. Good old American know-how.

It was a small victory, but any victory is better than defeat.