Wednesday June 17. I woke up refreshed. I actually slept a few hours. Bright and early, breakfast arrived. I lifted the lid for a look. I think it was some sort of small quiche-ish thing, along with some fruit (a familiar hospital staple, diced peaches swimming in syrup) and decaf coffee and juice. I replaced the lid and took a few swigs of coffee.
I clicked on the TV. More on the Reflecting Pool. Elsewhere, someone was deciding whether to love it or list on HGTV. (Could they do that with the pool in Washington?). Andy was solving problems in Mayberry. Breaking news: The weather was hot in Florida.
One of the nurses walked in and asked if I was ready to try walking again. “You bet,” I said. I asked about some morphine to help me along. She agreed that would be a good idea and put in the order. There followed the usual routine: draw blood, take temperature, measure blood pressure, drain various things attached to me, tell me to have a great day.
I reached for my phone and clicked open Morning Prayer. My eyes fell on these words from Habakkuk:
“Decay invades my bones, my legs tremble beneath me.
I await the day of distress
that will come upon the people who attack us.
Suddenly, I felt really bad for my physical therapist.
But then there was this:
“God, my Lord, is my strength;
he makes my feet swift as those of hinds
And enables me to go upon the heights.”
Okay, I thought. That sounds like a plan. I’m ready to go upon the heights. Let’s see what happens.
The nurse returned with the morphine and told me the therapist would be coming soon.
I turned to my default prayer. Again. And again.
“O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee…”
The therapist appeared at the door and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. “Sure. I’m ready. Let’s go,” I said. She explained how this would work: I’d make the trip with a walker, and she would follow me with a chair equipped with wheels (not, really, a wheelchair…this was a comfortable armchair).
With a little effort and very little pain (thank God and morphin), she managed to get me on my feet. I gripped the walker. She gathered up all my equipment, wrapped my gown around my butt, and we headed out the door and into the hallway.
I entered a brave new world. There were people milling about. They were chatting, walking, scurrying, delivering, checking charts and pushing carts with food and meds. The universe was going about its business. There was some ooh-ing and ah-ing as the nurses saw me and welcomed me to my first stroll on the 4th floor. The therapist and I walked about half the hallway. “You’re doing great,” she kept saying. “Excellent. Good job!” We turned around and returned to my room.
She acted like I’d completed the Boston Marathon and climbed Everest, all in the same five minutes.
“Excellent,” she said. “I think you’re ready to go home.”
She got me back into bed, told me to have a great day and then she disappeared out the door.
A little while later, a doctor popped in to ask how I’m doing. I hadn’t seen the surgeon since the operation; this doctor explained that he was another urologist who worked with him. We chatted about pain, digestion, gas – all the usual fun topics that come up at any cocktail party in Florida. He seemed satisfied. He shook my hand, and continued on his rounds.
To make a long story short: after visits from a few other members of the nursing staff – taking the usual measurements and saying the usual things – they told me they were working on my discharge papers and that I’d be heading home later in the afternoon.
I have to share two nurse stories.
On Tuesday, one young lady stopped by to check on me. I introduced my wife, Siobhain, sitting on a couch across my room. The nurse instantly knew the name — and even how to spell it. She explained that her mother was Irish and her father was Italian. “Really?,” I said, “are you Catholic?” “No,” she replied. “My parents were Catholic. I’m Southern Baptist.”
On Wednesday, a nurse popped into the room to check on me and asked where I lived. I told her, and she said her family attends a church in Winter Garden. I knew a lot of young women like her and so I asked, “Are you Filipino?” “Yes!,” she said. So I had to follow up with: “Are you Catholic?” She laughed. “No. 99% of Filipinos are Catholic. I’m part of the 1% who isn’t.” We laughed. I told her what I do. She was intrigued and wished me well.
Wikipedia tells me about 7% of the Diocese of Orlando is Catholic — compared to 30% of the Diocese of Brooklyn.
Welcome to Florida.
Around lunchtime, Siobhain arrived and I updated her on everything. She was thrilled. A nurse came in and gave the two of us a brief tutorial on dealing with the various attachments connected to my body. And then it was time to get dressed.
I thought, “This should be fun.” Moving from a hospital gown into underpants, pants and a shirt proved to be a new adventure. I’d packed a couple outfits, for different scenarios. I posed a question to the nurse that I never thought I’d be asking anyone. “Give me your professional opinion. I’m not expecting to spend a lot of time gallivanting around the neighborhood. Large urine bag or small?”
The nurse recommended large, and suggested shorts would be easier to deal with. Done and done.
They ordered painkillers for me at Walgreen’s, and a few moments later a wheelchair arrived and it was time to go.
I didn’t realize how impossibly, incredibly, bewilderingly HUGE the hospital was. (A nurse at one point told me they had 5,000 rooms. I believe it.) It was a long, breezy ride to the elevator, and then to another wing, and then downstairs to the entrance closest to the parking lot. Along the way, I noticed we sped by a set of small stair steps, obviously designed for therapeutic practice. I thought, um, maybe we should have tried those? But before I could say anything, suddenly, I was outside for the first time in three days.
It was drizzling. The air was fresh, hot and heavy. Siobhain pulled up our car and hopped out to help them get me in. I discovered another exciting new challenge: seatbelts. I managed to get myself strapped in with minimal pain (but some effort) and we waved goodbye and said thank-yous to the staff that had gotten me that far.
And then we were on our way.
St. Christopher, pray for us.
Next stop: home.
