Bedpans, Bingo and Blackjack - Chapter 1

Never in my life did I think that I would be spending the first few months of 2008 in nursing home.  But I  believe that nothing happens in a vacuum or without reason. 

December 12, 2007 marked the 40th anniversary of my adoption by my maternal aunt and uncle (both of my birth parents had died by the time I was 6 years old).  I knew that this day would be significant, but I was not sure in what way.  I wanted to commemorate it, perhaps by visiting the graves of both sets of parents.

Alas, that was not to happen.  On the evening preceding December 12, I left work early and went to my sister's house to crash and hopefully feel perkier in preparation of a Chanukah party that I was invited to that evening.  I ended up sleeping all day and never quite made it to the party. 

Waking in the middle of the night with an overwhelming thirst, I got out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen where I got a Sprite from the refrigerator.  Being very tired, I was quickly heading back to the bedroom when I fell in the living room.  Veering to the left to walk around a chair, my right knee buckled, causing me to fall on my leg.  In spite of the pain, I was so concerned that the soda would spill onto my sister's expensive Oriental rug, that I never heard the snap in my ankle !

I tried to get up, but suddenly realized it was impossible.  Crawling over to one of the upholstered chairs in attempt to lift myself up, again being more concerned about not getting soda on the furniture than my injured leg, but by then I realized that I could not get up.  Stubbornly, I tried yet again to pull myself up by the arms of the chair, but could not move.  At that point, panic set in, but ironically, I did not cry or scream, which truly surprised me, because I usually get freaked out by everything.  Perhaps because I was alone in the house my reaction was in a manner that has been termed 'mature'.
 
I did not know what to do, so I crawled back to bed, and laid down for awhile.  I thought I would take a Motrin to alleviate the pain and that would be fine, but... I had to go the bathroom, so I tried to get out of bed again.  Not being able to move.  I ended up doing something I never did - I called 911 - and within 10 minutes, the police, the EMT's and the doorman from my sister's highrise building were in front of my sister's apartment.  I was so embarrassed.  I could not get up from the floor to let them in.  I had to crawl back to the door, but this time it was harder for me to crawl, so I slithered... Picture a 300 lb woman slithering... What a site !  I also forgot that I had chained the door, so I had to try to get up to unchain the door, and then let everybody in.  I could not imagine these men trying to lift me.  I am a heavyset woman; it could have been a nightmare or the best of a dream; being lifted by 2 handsome technicians.  They lifted me and wheeled me out of the building in the middle of the night, into the ambulance, and en route to the hospital. 

I was brought into the emergency room, and was put on a gurney which was so uncomfortable.  It was after several x-rays that it was determined that I had fractured my ankle severely and would need emergency surgery.

That evening, after 13 hours in the emergency room, as the last operation of the day, 4 screws were put into my right ankle, and I was told that I would not be able to 'put weight on my right leg'  for three months.

And that is where the saga begins.

After being in recovery for a period of time, I was transferred to one of the rehabilitation floors of the hospital.  I do not remember much from that night, except that I was in a lot of pain.  I still had to go to the bathroom, but since I could not put any pressure on my right leg, I had to be put on a bedpan.  How humiliating - but a part of the hospitalization and immobility process.

Finally falling asleep, I hoped that I would not have to use the bedpan for another 3 months.  Well, hoping is....

I woke up the next morning in the hospital, looking at the cast that was covering most of my right leg.  It was such a heavy item, making it even harder for me to move.  I could not do anything except lie in the bed and watch television.  Despite my periodic couch potato status, how much television can one watch. 

Within a day or so, the physical therapists brought a walker to teach me how to use my leg again - not that I would actually be using my leg - since I could not put any pressure on it - but they did not want it to be completely immobile, so they had me hopping around with the walker.  Seems easy - far from it - given my obese and out of shape status, it was really difficult.  But I was determined.  Yet hopping the few feet from the bed to the door of the room seemed daunting.  It was frustrating - and the hospital's physical therapy staff was not completely up to snuff, so I did not get a lot of time each day.  I was told that for better rehabilitation, I would have to be transferred to a rehabilitation facility for the latter of my recovery. 

I was not quite thrown out of the hospital, but the social services department had to go through an in-depth research process to find a place that would accept me - and work with me to get me back up on my feet.  I did not realize that this would be so difficult.  In the time that they were doing this research, I was transferred to a couple of different rooms, and finally for the last few days, felt sufficiently comfortable in a bed by the door of one of floors.  (There were two beds in each room; one by the door and one by the window).

A facility was finally found, but in another borough of New York City.  I was really upset.  I thought that none of my friends and family would come to visit me.  (Actually as time has passed in my recovery, I have been happy by the limited number of visits that I have had.)

I did not know what to expect.  I was getting resigned to the fact that this was to be my life for the next 3 months.  On the day of my transfer, I was moved by stretcher into the ambulance by two EMTs.  They were not the cute kind that had initially answered my 911 call, but rather a petite woman and a somewhat stronger man.  I was put on the stretcher, which could barely fit me, and put into the ambulette that would take me to the new facility.  I was sure they were going to drop me, and began reciting the Jewish version of 'Hail Mary'.  They insisted that they were not going to, but, me in my usual self, believed otherwise. 

I did not get dropped, but was waiting for the next big excitement to hit me for the day.  I arrived at the facility, and was impressed by the lobby area.  The staff in all its form at entry seemed nice, and I was taken upstairs.  When reaching the rehabilitation floor, I got off, and realized that I was the youngest person on the floor -and that in effect this facility was a nursing home.  I freaked out.

The EMT's brought me to Room 413 where I would be in a bed by the window with a woman named Lillian.  I thought that would be OK - or whatever I was trying to define OK as these days.  Lillian was an older woman with attitude, but no right leg from the knee down.  It made me re-evaluate why I was acting like such a petulant child.  But it did not stop me.  I cried and cried. 

I was told I could not get out of the bed until my physical therapist came to see me.  But who was my physical therapist?  Nobody knew.  I knew that I was assigned to a social worker with a name.  So I tried to get information from her.  But I did not know how to find her.  Her name was Evita and she was a young woman who could technically be my daughter.  And she was supposed to be taking care of me, along with 40+ some odd other patients.  I was freaking out again.  Not to mention I was getting hungry and I had to go to the bathroom.  What was I going to do?  Some good luck came, in the form of an older African American man named Tony, who was the wheelchair expert.  He provided me with a wheelchair; a specially made wheelchair for people who are as heavy as me.  Just what I needed to hear.  Along with being thoroughly depressed about being stuck in this 'hellhole', I was being stigmatized for my weight.  But that is a whole different story.  At least I could get out of the bed and pee.

Yet that was not going to go without a problem.  Getting my oversized wheelchair into the bathroom proved to be a major production, as the doors were just so, and there was a french curtain door that you had to maneuver to get in.  What a nightmare.  To make matters worse, there was so much furniture in the room that I had to make a maze out of the whole thing before I got there.  In this attempt, I banged into Lillian's bed a few times, making her groan in an undertone.

To be continued....