Talking Out of Both Sides of My Mouth (eBook)

Chapter 2—A Bridge!

Friday morning (March 31) a voice pulled me from my thick sleep. A nurse was saying, “It’s time to wake up.” She continued on with, “We’ll be taking you over to Genesis soon and you need to eat something before you go.” Not much later, after breakfast, a courier, who was very familiar from work, arrived with a wheelchair for the trip to the rehabilitation hospital. As he had been all week, Jerry was at the hospital after spending another difficult night trying to sleep in a chair that was in the room. Although it was difficult for him, it was important that he be there since he would be needed to assist in the complex process of a simultaneous discharge from one hospital and admission to another. The fact that we were not married had the potential to complicate that process.

The nurse and the courier worked together to position me into the wheelchair and, with Jerry following along, the courier began pushing the chair toward an elevator at the end of the hallway. The anticoagulant medication remained in IV form; the bag was hanging from a device known as an IV pole. The “pole” is made of metal and sits on a four wheel base. At the upper end is a set of inverted hooks where medication bags are hung for transport. In addition, the catheter had not been removed and the urine bag dangled on the back of the wheelchair. The urine bag would not be an issue for the courier, but he would be controlling a wheelchair and an IV pole simultaneously while getting from one hospital to the other. I remembered how difficult that task could be. As the pole wheels passed over a bump that sent it leaning precariously to one side, the courier deftly stepped sideways and caught it without interrupting the balance of the medication bag where it dangled from the top of the pole. Jerry commented to the young man, “You must have taken some course or something to learn how to do this kind of thing.” The courier laughed and said “I’ve got this down after doing it for a couple of years.” Smiling, he said, “I guess you could say it’s on the job training.” We both commented, “Practice makes perfect--- or something close to it.”

A wheelchair is not a Toyota Camry. It felt like we were moving on a brick road instead of a smooth floor. As we exited the elevator on the second floor of the Memorial building on our way to the bridge, Jerry asked, jokingly, “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” The courier replied, “Oh sure, I do this every day.” He added, “The hospital is still working on changing a few things to make it easier to get around, thank goodness.”

Working our way through the brightly lit halls, memories of the earliest days of my employment while rehabilitation was still a part of Memorial came back. Yet, those memories could not change a feeling of detachment from the surroundings. The hallways seemed as foreign as the first day that I had walked them. I had heard that before my employment at Memorial, there had been discussions among their board members about separating rehabilitation services from the hospital for various reasons. It was eventually decided that a new hospital would be built across the street on the nearest available property. It was decided that the new hospital would be called Genesis. It was a reference to new beginnings.

The design and appearance of the building was, and remains, a refreshing departure from a typical hospital environment. After moving into Genesis, the customary day-to-day activities took on a different air. The doctors, nurses, and other staff were always a strong, positive group of people. The atmosphere of care and concern they created would be evident in any environment. Giving them a fresh new environment added to their positive approach.

The most important thing for me was that this was not a show. Everything was very real rather than a pretty façade created to hide a lack of substance. It was real both physically and service-wise. Things were done for the comfort, care, and safety of patients. It was a place everyone felt good about. Having come to work for the hospital after previously working for a for profit rehabilitation company (not a hospital), my job was a relief. Any similarities with those two jobs ended with similar clinical staff and services. Genesis turned out to be the opposite of that experience for many reasons other than the few similarities. After exiting the last elevator on the second floor of Memorial, we continued on the path to the entrance of the bridge where we would leave Memorial and continue on into Genesis.

We continued on, moving closer and closer to the entrance to the rehabilitation hospital. Along the way it was easier to have negative thoughts rather than positive ones. It was disconcerting to imagine the possibility of seeing some doctor or therapist that I knew, or a patient that I had been working with up until the Friday of my stroke. It was difficult to imagine how it would make either of us feel. In any case, it was an unpleasant thought. In addition to those thoughts, knowing the many unusual aspects of my situation made it difficult to see resolutions for them. At that particular moment it was better not to think about those things. Jerry held my hand and said, “Try to relax.” To that I replied, “Easier said than done.”

Being a naturally positive person, I chose to think about the more immediate situation, and not worry about things yet to come. While the ramifications were vast, the rehabilitation hospital stay would not last forever. That was a very important thing to remember. In addition, it seemed obvious that my work experiences and personal strength would help in coping with whatever might be ahead. The doctors, nurses, other therapists, as well as patients had taught me many of the basic aspects of rehabilitation that would be beneficial to me. They had taught me a great deal more than they could know. Most importantly, the full support of a true partner and friend was involved. Still, accepting therapy and medical treatment from previous co-workers would be a supreme test. Here, Deborah the therapist, would be separated from Deborah, the patient. The entrance into Genesis loomed ahead like the entrance of a dark cave. The thought of entering Genesis as a patient was more bizarre than could be imagined. I did not want to go there in my condition. It seemed as if Rod Serlings’ ghost might be found peeking around a corner someplace inviting us to enter “The Twilight Zone.”

In spite of a few bumps and near collisions, we managed to make it to Genesis without losing the medication bag or pulling out the IV. As we arrived it was certain that crossing the threshold into Genesis would be very different from the last day that I had worked. Still, nothing could change the course of events from that point on. There was no choice but to face what might lie ahead. When we reached the point in the bridge where a security camera hangs from the ceiling, I made my customary wave to the unit secretary who watched the monitor in the nurse’s station and I mouthed, “Hi.” I’ve never known if she had seen me do that in the past, but I have always made the effort when walking in either direction across the bridge. After getting through the entrance to Genesis, leaving the sunlit bridge, the subdued lighting and hushed atmosphere seemed very strange rather than familiar.

After our arrival, the first order of business was to check in at the nursing station on the third floor which was the stroke unit. After completing a great deal of paperwork, we were taken to a room that was very different from my ICU room at Memorial. It was surprising to find that it was one of the larger rooms called “suites.” The appearance of the room was another example of attention given to form along with function. All rooms at Genesis were basically large in order to give patients some space for their sometimes-lengthy stays. The suites had some added space.

Naturally, there is a finite amount of space in any building, but there was an effort made at Genesis to maximize the use of space as efficiently as possible. The room had a pleasant, hotel-like quality to it. The walls, like the other rooms in Genesis, were a soft peach. There were two small tables, and in the middle of the room, the bed. There was also a chair and a small sofa that were covered in a peach/teal print. For clothes, there was a large wardrobe with a television set into it, much like those found in hotels. On the adjacent wall to the wardrobe was a “vanity” table.

It was obvious that much thought had been put into the style of the room. At that point in time, there was no way to know how long my stay would be. It was nice to know that there would be some reasonable space to “live” in as long as it was necessary. The best feature of the room was a window. While the view over the parking lot wasn’t exactly resort quality, it was a window.

Some former patients had joked with me about their rooms being a “home away from home.” It was impossible to think about the room as home even for one day. My thoughts were about how much I missed my home. A more difficult thought would be when Jerry would leave for work. Because he had been away from work for so many days, he wanted to get back to it that afternoon. He could not be there throughout my entire stay at the rehabilitation hospital. It was a fact that was clear. Nonetheless, it was extremely unpleasant to think about.

I have always been a very independent person and generally comfortable about being on my own. Traveling out of town for educational conferences independently or staying at home while Jerry traveled was never a problem. Suddenly, it was difficult to...