The hospital has been quiet this week – a breath from the past month’s madness. Perhaps the surgeons went on vacation and left us with fewer people whom they cut and diced who need a bit of tender care to heal a nice scar. Perhaps the warm weather has made for less falls on the ice, less hip fractures, less battered bodies. For all of this, I am thankful.
Each day brings with it a handful of unique stories amidst hours and hours of routine. Over dinner, often with wine, sometimes with a gourmet spread, but today with pizza, I relay these stories to Caleb who often comments simply “So, blog it.” Each shift contains a funny or heart breaking character, the witness of a beautiful familial moment, too much physical and emotional pain, a lot of morphine, and most likely a frustrating moment with a fellow nurse.
Today contained all of these factors. I will write only about one, but have vowed to do a better job consistently reflecting in writing:
Yesterday I sent home a 30 something year old Brazilian man. A construction worker by trade, he had just undergone a total hip replacement due to pain and arthritis. I had worked with him each shift since his operation over a week ago, and we had developed a nice rapport. Desirous of being macho, but succumbing to the unexpected and constant pain that comes with a joint replacement surgery, I had medicated him, helped him out of bed for the first time, and encouraged him to walk as much as possible. Each time I asked him if he had pain, he would respond – “This is Craaz.” Indeed, there are many things about being in the hospital that are crazy. Yesterday, on Martin Luther King Day, with his family by his side carrying his belongings, he crutched his way out the door towards home.
Today he phoned the hospital asking for me. He said that even with instructions to mention his recent surgery, he was unable to get a physical therapy appointment any sooner than next week. I called the rehab space and conferenced him in by three way call, insisting that he have a sooner appointment. Magically, one appeared and he was certainly thankful. After the third party hung up he said to me: “thank you. You have only done the best for me. Let me tell you though, if you do not speak English in this Country you can’t get anywhere.” While I know technically that’s not true, it was a potent reminder of prejudice that manifests its self in hidden ways today. The day after MLK day, he brought into light one of the many ways this country still has mountains to cross before true tolerance, as dreamed by Dr. King, abounds.
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