A Patient Observed

I was injured in a football game August 17th, 2006. I was in Philadelphia to see Dr. Meyers. I was an excellent candidate. I was one of four gurney-ed patients in the pre-op room, February 2nd, 2007.

Constant motion and noise kept my thoughts from unifying against me. I immersed myself in the surrounding details. At first I counted the floor tiles, the wheels on each chair, the number of orderlies. The equipment was exotic to me, and I could only (uncomfortably) fathom their uses. My first time in a pre-op room made me exceedingly nervous.

There was an old black man across from me whose cot faced mine. We tried not to look at each other, but I tended to stare. He had frail brown paper bag skin and eyes that pivoted deep in his sockets. One of his socks was halfway on, the other halfway off. Three young nurses attended him. He had been here before. The nurse tried to insert an IV, but wherever she stuck the brown paper, a red bead would appear, and a head would shake. His arms reached out and his head tilted back like the Christ as the nurses found the right spot to poke a hole.

A lady coughed terribly from across the room, and I noticed her vital signs screen
Heart BPM: 92
Old Man BPM: 72

As the lady recovered from her coughing fit, her numbers went down 91… 89… 88…
As the old man was prodded and questioned, 73… 74… 75
The imploring eyes continued to rove more as the heart beat increased, the little green lines replacing each other faster.

I watched the old man, made no attempt to disguise my stare. 71. He had been here before. The nurses wrapped a rubber band around his arm that sank into the skin. 73. He spread his arms and looked up once more. 76. The woman across the room coughed again, her lines jumbled. The numbers increased.

A new one was wheeled in. He had only one red sock, the bandage covering the other foot was half the size. The red sock twitched almost all the time. When he moved he made sounds, rhythmic, musical somehow forged deep inside his chest. He clenched his teeth and moved, like there was sand in his bed. He told the nurses his foot hurt him terribly.

The nurses left the old man alone, and he sighed, relaxed. A new lady told him there would be no delay, he would have to stay just a little longer. He showed no expression, but his eyes gazed at the ceiling, roving around the room lackadaisically.

The old man was wheeled away, an old santa claus took his place. His skin was pale, except for the bruises on his arms. Feeling cordial I asked him how he was, and he laboriously expelled air from his lungs, pointed to his throat, and shook his head. He laughed as if it was a joke. I laughed a little too. The nurse came and spoke to him, quietly.

The coughing lady fell asleep, and her numbers slowly descended. I had no numbers yet.

A very large black lady next to me complained about privacy while a young Indian man with neatly trimmed facial hair asked her simple questions about stairs, her home, breathing, and chest pains. She understood him sometimes. The man got frustrated, and an older man, a nurse questioned her. Her numbers were wrong. The curtain was drawn and I could only hear bass notes and shuffling feet.

A very tall black man came and stuck a needle in my arm, I winced at how much I knew it was supposed to hurt. He spoke in a lilting accent, as though he only learned to sing English.

Several people came in to talk to me. Open your mouth. Are you allergic? Cats. Do you have asthma? As an infant. No problems since? None. When did you last drink water? 10 o’clock. Open your mouth. It says you have asthma. I was an infant. Did you drink after 12 last night? 10.

While looking at the trail of clear plastic, I wondered when I would begin to experience things I would not remember. They would only happen once, unable to be relived through memory. My thoughts would be like pennies dropped into a dark ocean, covered in the silt on the bottom. A bald guy plunged something into my IV and said it would relax me. It did.

I woke up in 20 different rooms simultaneously. I felt like I was watching a film in which someone had cut out 4 of every 5 frames, motion and sound jumped. I thrashed about. Michael, Michael, move.. the… Michael, listen… I nee… move your… shif… Michael.

I woke up to numbers. 88 BPM. Curtains shielded me, I heard someone making sounds, deep and musical, like a sung prayer. Rhythmic, he was keeping a beat and moving. Leg… cut… ampu.. good… please? Many voices, many people. The monotonous ding ding ding ding of someone’s numbers spoke to everyone. I felt the pain very sharply. I asked the nurse for more morphine. How bad does it hurt? As bad as before you gave me morphine. 8 ½ out of 10. I guess I just didn’t give you enough. She plunged two things into my IV, and I dreamt mostly after that.

I walked with a friend of mine in Italy. He was from my childhood, and his mouth opened and he made conversation with expressions and gestures, but his mouth opened and closed as the man made sounds from his chest.

I saw my dad, and he explained to me that there was nothing wrong with me. The doctor went in and there was nothing to fix.

I saw cool blue clouds of sound enveloping me. Nurses spoke, I found a plastic tube under my nose.

My eyes opened on the clock, it was later than I expected. I closed my eyes on the green numbers.
I dreamed more about sounds and people, and my dreams could not escape the recovery room.
I ate food, the most delicious food, pastries, chalupas, shrimp, and steak. It was better than any meal ever. My meals were interrupted by sounds that did not work. My steak beeped. I dropped my fork and it moaned. Still I had to close my eyes, otherwise the morphine did not work. If I moved my eyes, the room would keep moving after they stopped. With closed eyes, everything moved and sense was made.

We found you a room. You ready to go? mumble. Arright, Lemme find you an oarderly.
On the way to my room, I closed my eyes when we stopped and felt movement anyway. My dad wasn’t there at first. It was an accomplishment to move myself from the gurney to the bed . The nurses seemed surprised that I wanted to (and did) move myself. After my butt met the bed, it did not move significantly for another seven hours.

I was still conscious and exceedingly hungry when my dad arrived. He gave me a hug and a menu. I gave him a peace sign. I was famished after eating the delectable imaginary food. Looking at the words representing actual meals, my stomach turned.

I feel sick. Morphine makes some people sick.
My dad was on the phone with my mom. I talked to her, then she talked to dad some more. I’m gonna throw up. I've got to go. There’s a trashcan behind you. Let me get you a cold cloth.

After that, I was in and out of consciousness the way a Philly cab driver changes lanes. I slept so much. Even with my eyes open, I couldn’t tell if I was awake. Really I remained in the same state, day-dreaming, until about seven pm. Dad went home at ten. He deserved sleep.

The hospital was very quiet. There was so much white noise, like snow muffling the busy clamor of a city. I became aware of the hospital’s sounds. I heard soft words of conversations in the hall, but interpreted no meaning. I distinguished three buzzes from the static background. From a patient’s numbers emanated a solemn ding, ding, ding. The quiet was comforting: in this place quietness was not the absence of noise, it resonated within walls. Little noises slipped through. I heard footsteps and ruffled pages, sirens followed by sirens, followed by silence.

Two nurses woke me at 4:30. One worked a double shift, I had said goodnight to her at 12:00. They gave me pills and confirmation that I was alive. 107 over 70, 82 BPM. Thank you. Goodnight.
Two doctors entered, asked to see the incision. Everyone wanted to see the incision. I didn’t care as much; hospital privacy means curtains when you’re naked. I wanted my jeans back.

I felt a certain amount of peace, that morning. This was somewhat new to me. People I didn’t know understood fully that I had an injury; they wanted to make it better. I ate well, slept well, and conversed well. I got pills to make me feel better. It was as though all my difficulties with my injury, the questions, the painful mornings, the inabilities, were documented and then reparations were paid in the hospital bed. I wasn't worried about time or food or homework or people. Everyone worried about me. I knew I was becoming whole again. Part of my life was given back to me in the form of a new revitalizing pain, pain that would make me better.
Now, in a hospital room on the 19th floor above Philadelphia, I feel a freedom like I have not felt in six months. I am healing. I am on my way back.