It would have been funny if I’d been in good health, but this was my first excursion since being moved from hospital to a rehab facility, and I felt weak and vulnerable. The whole thing was a surprise for everybody involved. I was in my room having just finished picking at a disappointing lunch which included a ham sandwich that had been put through a grinder (bread and all) and turned into an unappetizing mound of mush. I ate some canned pears and decided to wait for suppertime and hope it included something more appealing.
I was talking to one of the therapists when a nurse came bustling in to tell me that my ride had arrived. What ride? Nobody (including me) had, apparently, been told that I had an appointment with the wound doctor back at the hospital.
Since the rehab facility used a different system for draining my open wound, I was to take, along with some paperwork, a packet of supplies for cleaning and re-dressing my incision as well as the pump that I was tethered to. Still in a nightgown, I was bundled into a wheelchair and hustled to the door where a wheelchair van awaited me.
In the haste and confusion, the paperwork and supply packet were forgotten, and just as the driver was ready to drive away, someone remembered that I was to travel with an oxygen tank as well, so one was hastily put aboard, even though I wouldn’t need it. It was a hot, humid day and the air conditioning in the van wasn’t working. I hoped the van would be a more comfortable ride than had been my two trips in an ambulance that needed a much better suspension system, but the only advantage seemed to be that I was able to ride sitting up and could see where we were going.
The receptionist at the wound center was unaware of my appointment, but promised that I would see the doctor, since I was there. Nothing, however could be done about changing the bandages, so I was dismissed shortly and wheeled out to wait for my ride back to rehab. And I waited, and waited while other patients came and went and, after an hour or so, I asked when the van was scheduled to pick me up. The receptionist told me it shouldn’t be much longer and told me to be patient. I told her that, if patience was a virtue, it might be the only one I have.
I settled back to show her just how patient I could be, but another hour went by with no ride in sight. Tired and uncomfortable, I took a deep breath and announced, “I can’t call this patient abuse, but it’s getting d___ close to neglect.”
The receptionist jumped to her feet, went to a nearby office and closed the door. After several minutes, she returned, made a couple phone calls and told me that the van driver hadn’t been notified, but that the ambulance was just then bringing another patient to the hospital and would then take me back to rehab. Temporarily satisfied, I settled back to wait. Time dragged on and nobody came. It was approaching five o’clock and if my ride didn’t show up within the next few minutes, I would get back too late for supper, and after the skimpy lunch I’d eaten at noon, I did not want to miss supper.
Another phone call and I was assured that a ride was on the way — this time it had been verified. People suddenly seemed to have noticed me and hastened to make sure I had all the equipment I had arrived with. It was only then that someone checked the oxygen tank that had been sent along with me almost as an afterthought. It turned out that I had been supplied with an empty tank, so it was fortunate I hadn’t needed it. They replaced it with a full one just before the driver arrived, at last, to finally pick me up. Alas, I arrived back at rehab much too late for supper and there seemed to be no way for me to get something to eat at that late hour. One of the aides took pity on me and came up with two smallish tubs of vanilla pudding and a snack packet of Oreo cookies.
I don’t know how so many things could have gone wrong all in one day, I can’t blame the hospital, the rehab center or any of the overworked personnel who tried to put things right. But SOMEONE must have goofed up somewhere and neglected to record the appointment and make the transportation arrangements.
I’m just glad I didn’t need the oxygen tank on such a hot, humid day.
A former volunteer and substitute teacher in the Solon schools, Milli is an artist and a poet living near Morse where she also creates unique greeting cards and handmade books.