I’m home for the moment. They fixed the symptoms that were causing my problems, but they didn’t fix what was causing the symptoms. That’s next. In the meantime, I get a break from the hospital, which was very consummately helpful, in terms of treatment, though as a physical structure, it was somewhat Motel Sixey. I was told the place was built in 1920, to which I immediately snarked “As a hospital? Or what there bowling?” Sometimes, I’m not appropriately grateful.
As a patient, the symptoms you “present” can suggest various causes. To me, my symptoms suggested “acid reflux”, which I’d been told a couple of years earlier I had a mild case of. My symptoms last week, however, weren’t mild. That should have been the tip-off that it wasn’t “acid reflux.” I had trouble breathing when I was lying down. Something else was going on.
You go to the hospital when at least one possibility suggested by the symptoms is serious. That’s why I spent five days there – narrowing down the possibilities. Half of my time was spent in the Intensive Care Unit, which, for me, was efficient and painless, but judging from the sounds emanating from nearby rooms, it seemed more like hell with a bill.
I don’t know about “hospital stories.” They involve other people and I have no right to exploit other people for material. I probably will, but that’s because that’s what I do. I did notice, however, that on my second day in the hospital, I asked Dr M to bring me a pad and a pen. The impulse is definitely there.
Though not necessarily to share.
As I await the next phase of my treatment, I will leave you with one observation:
Hospitals are a great place to see women from other countries. (Whom I happen to be partial to.)
If you act particularly needy, you can get a hug.