I recently have been through a week of pure torture and, as I love to share, thought I’d give you the details.
Saturday night, March 10, I was having trouble breathing. It got bad enough to scare me into calling 911. I won’t mention which hospital, but I do want to say that the emergency room was great. Good care, good physicians and not a long wait. They wanted to keep me “overnight” so I was checked into a room. That’s when it all started going downhill.
First of all, I kept on seeing these weird men. They called themselves doctors but, after being in the hospital for several days, I noticed that most of the other staff call them “hospitalers.” I looked up the term in my dictionary and couldn’t find it. I would definitely like to know the meaning because, truthfully, I didn’t think they were real doctors.
Second, why does the hospital ask you to bring all your prescriptions with you or at least a list of them, when they can just decide not to give them to you?
I was told they might want to change things around to better handle my current situation. No, thank you.
True confession time: After Jay died, my doctor prescribed an anti-anxiety drug. At the time he did so, he also said that I would never be able to come off them. That’s OK with me; I felt I needed them. After 42 years of marriage, it was hard for me to cope with that loss.
Well, apparently the “hospitalers” decided they could cut the dosage to one-third of what I’d been taking.
I don’t know what it’s like coming off drugs, having the DTs, or whatever it’s called. All I do know is that after being off them for three days, I crashed. And I mean I crashed hard. I cried for five straight hours. I thought for sure I was having a heart attack because the palpitations were unbearable.
The nurses did everything they could but were unable to give me the proper dosage without the “hospitalers’” approval.
After that initial five hours, they were finally “allowed” to give me the meds. But it still seemed to take forever for them to kick back in again.
The nurses on the floor were great. They knew what I was going through and did their best to get what I needed. They were a very loving group of people.
Then they put me on huge doses of Albutural and Prednizone, which caused my blood sugar to shoot through the roof, when the “hospitalers” decided I needed insulin which I’ve never had before in my life.
After finally being released, I went through a whole day of crying the next day. I truly believed I wasn’t going to make it. It’s over now and I’m slowly getting my strength back.
If anybody, and I mean anybody, knows what a “hospitaler” is please let me know so I can steer clear of them forever.
(Pat Fickle is a Martinez resident.)