[Editor’s Note: When Clifton began this column in May, we suggested he visit local events and institutions through the eyes of someone new to the area. The emergency room was not on the list of spots we mentioned. See his past work at www.pickensprogress.com.]
As I brushed my teeth and shaved one recent Saturday morning, I sensed that all was not well. My belly felt like a miniature, fire-breathing monster from a Japanese horror flick was jump-roping and blowing smoke-rings inside it.
Upstairs, my wife was fixing us some breakfast. I was wary that the another shoe (not my slipper) was about to drop. After eating, my abdomen started rumbling like the 1906 California quake. It felt as though bolts of slow-motion white-hot lightening were cutting through my abdomen; I doubled over with pain. Little did I know that only hours later doctors would be standing over me under a bright light discussing crucial topics like, “bowel obstructions, possible emergency surgery,” and, “who ate all the donuts in the doctor's lounge?”
As the day progressed, so did my illness. Around 1 p.m., the pain in my gut was an agonizing 10 on a scale of 1- to-10, and a new symptom was introduced. Nausea is a funny thing. Well, not really, but it has an interesting range. The spectrum includes a minimal sensation experienced in stressful situations, and a sudden gag response, like when an inexperienced father can't hold his breath long enough to change a diaper.
In my case, it came in the form of thirteen hours of projectile vomiting accompanied by severe cramps that suggested the next thing to come up would be a few feet of my small intestines.
Still, I refused to seek help. After taking my long-sick mother to many emergency rooms in Tampa, and my wife to still another one there, I learned that some hospital emergency rooms can do more harm than the medical malady one is experiencing.
However, by 11:30 p.m., the wife was using words and phrases like: ”911; hospital; emergency room; need a doctor;” and, “did you make it to the commode this time?”
It was about midnight when I succumbed. Crawling back upstairs after a particularly painful episode, I saw panic in her eyes as she attempted to help me up.
“Call them,” I moaned.
A few moments later, as I crawled back up the stairs for the hundredth time that day, red strobing lights pierced the shades and danced across the living room walls. My wife and two young paramedics rushed over and helped me to my feet.
On the porch, one of the well-meaning paramedics asked if I could make it to the gurney. The gurney was three steps down from the front porch, or, in my tortured state, several hundred yards through a swirling, black, spinning vertigo where up means down, and round, and round....
“Uurrruuuppppearrrrguuugghh!!!” I answered, with a heavy splash on the porch.
Once in the gurney, the other paramedic queried whether I could “hold it” long enough that they could strap me down and load me into their ambulance to administer anti-nausea and pain medication. The comedy and irony of that question still lingers.
Upon arrival at Piedmont Mountainside Hospital, I fully expected to be wheeled into an obscure hallway where I would either heal myself, pass on, or lay in excruciating pain and misery for many hours. That's the status-quo, the standard for hospital emergency rooms in Tampa where my wife and I relocated from a few months ago.
Doctors and nurses in a typical Tampa Bay emergency room must respond to the constant turmoil of drive-by shootings, stabbings, head-on collisions, drug overdoses, illegal-alien-doctor-visits, and a myriad of other high-priority situations.
The emergency rooms are constantly overwhelmed and understaffed, especially on Saturday nights. The doctors, nurses and other care-givers often become immune to personal trauma, hardened by the nature of their own circumstance. Until hours after arrival, when your name is finally called, you are just another face in a sea of pain and misery. Nothing personal.
At Piedmont Mountainside Hospital, there was no obscure hallway waiting for me, only speedy, competent care that extended beyond the Emergency Room to my entire two-and-a-half day hospital stay. Even through the fog of pain medication, I was surprised to at once receive immediate care, including a room with real doctors and nurses asking me pertinent questions while sticking me with sharp objects and prodding me with their latex fingers.
As the shot(s) lifted my pain, it occurred to me that this hospital was different than Tampa General and others in large metropolises.
At Piedmont Mountainside Hospital, the phrase “emergency room” denotes a need for the patient to be treated before the next shift-change. It involves relieving a patient from their pain quickly, whenever possible. It means a friendly hospital staff treating patients with respect. It is a place where there is the ambiance, as well as the means, for healing. At PMH, your health and recovery are taken personally by doctors and staff.
Even so, I have no plans to return anytime soon.
[Clifton, and wife Leigh, recently relocated to Burnt Mountain from the Tampa Bay area where he spent 25 years selling building materials to major accounts. Throughout this year, he will be sharing his experience as a newcomer with Progress readers.]
|
|
