Category: RETIREMENT IS NOT WITHOUT HASSLES (Page 4 of 201)

The next few days in the hospital were like “Groundhog Day” with the exception of two more room changes. My wife slept dutifully in the chair beside me, while they carefully monitored my progress. I was finally able to poop and began to eat the tasteless meals they served, learning quickly to generously add the artificial sweeteners and syrups provided. Every morning at 4a an oriental woman would swoop into my restless dreams and extract more blood. I struggled with pneumonia and numerous x-rays were taken. A heart-shaped pillow held tightly against my chest was supposed to ease the pain of coughing.

At some point, I began to read the hundreds of messages on my phone and angrily filled-out the Westin survey. I began to walk the hallways, learning to properly use my new friend, “Sky Walker,” and not slumping my shoulders or looking at my yellow socks. I referred to them as “Chiquita bananas,” not realizing that Chiquita was the physical therapist’s name. The catheter was also removed and I was forced to pee in a plastic urinal, once again insulting my dignity. I could walk but was restrained by a network of wires and tubes. Plus, the call button for nursing assistance was often never to be found. Urine, sweat, and food stains made my gown even more uncomfortable.

And so it continued until Tuesday when they wheeled me down the seemingly endless hallways to have an EKG, pending my release. I was going home after 8-sleepless nights at Tampa General Hospital, waiting patiently in the Departure Lounge for a friend to drive me home. An athletic woman named Bernadette wheeled me out of the building and positioned me safely for the ride back from Tampa.

We were made aware that our small Lexus convertible would have been too small and potentially hazardous for transport, so my wife drove home by herself while I sat in the back seat of an SUV, providing fewer worries of an air bag exploding on my chest. Both my wife and I had concerns about how I would function in our home without 24-hour nursing assistance. Coughing made it difficult to converse on the way home and the bumps in the road were painful, but I was soon miles away from those obnoxious beeping monitors and eventually peacefully snuggled in my own bed.

Little did I know how uncomfortable I would remain at night, even at home. Pain pills, more Lidocaine patches, and muscle relaxants helped some, but I would toss and turn until morning light finally dawned. I often got up to read but had difficulty focusing on the content. My brain was functioning slowly, with lapses of memory loss. My chest was on fire, feeling as if I had a floor or sun burn. I was finally able to look at my scars in the mirror but touching them was difficult. Surprisingly, there were few stitches with only glue and wire mesh holding me together. Most all of the once loose threads had been trimmed away but the foot long incision was evident from where they reattached my breastbone all the way to my stomach. All I could think of was the “Z” of Zorro emblazoned on my chest or the “Y” brand of Yellowstone, and then I laughed realizing it really looked more like an “L.” The surgeon’s name was Lozonschi – perhaps he signed his work like Vincent van Gogh. The surrounding skin remained sensitive as nerve endings begin to rejuvenate.

There was a scary moment that next morning while sitting at my office desk. The room was spinning and I thought I might pass out. Out of instinct, I dropped to my knees in case I lost consciousness so I wouldn’t hit my head on something hard. It was the wrong thing to do, as I felt the painful strain on my breastbone. I then slowly rolled into the living room with my arms firmly at my side within the imaginary protective tube around my body they taught me, while the dizziness passed. I just needed some water due to dehydration from the Lasix diuretics I was taking -it was nothing more.

A nurse or therapist visited nearly every day, monitoring blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels and pulse. They provided guidance and exercises while encouraging me to walk and regularly utilize the provided breathing devices like the spirometer and vibratory mucus clearer. Sky Walker and I traveled a little further down the street every day, accompanied by my wife and cheering neighbors. May the force be with me and not so many bills!

My first big outing was to the Fort Myers Airport to pick up my step-daughter and her husband on Saturday, 5 days after being released from the hospital. For the four previous nights I had dozed in and out of a restless daze, thanks to Tylenol and other prescribed pills. We went to Laishley’s for a sushi dinner, my salt content strictly monitored by my wife. It was just enough variety and exercise to get an initial decent night’s sleep. After longer walks the next day I slept relatively well again, without the muscle relaxants. I still flip-flop with shoulder pain frequently under the covers, get up too many times to use the john, and feel a burning in my chest, until daylight finally comes. Tally is my first walk each morning before she goes to the dog park and afternoon naps aren’t quite as frequent. 

Another trip to the doctor, two weeks after the first surgery, as healing time slowly passes. I sometimes wish I could fast-forward, but don’t want to miss out on life like I did for the first two days of unconsciousness. My wife’s cooking, even without the seasoning, started to become more appealing as my appetite began to return to normal. There were more blood tests, an EKG, and chest x-rays in preparation for the surgeon follow-up in three days, once our company leaves. I’m now officially cleared to abandon the walker, hopefully someone else will find Sky useful – farewell to the force.

Day 3: January 18, 2024

I asked what day it was and was shocked to hear it was Wednesday. I remembered nothing about day 1 or 2 and couldn’t recall the names of my care staff. The one I called “Lexus” may or may not have been correctly identified on my part. A woman came into my room, claiming to be my god daughter. I did not recognize her, blaming it on the surgical cap she was wearing. The nurse said that she worked for the hospital but didn’t know who she was while my wife claimed that she had simply wandered into the wrong room. It would be hours later, that seemed like days to me, before the mystery was solved. In that timeframe, I was focused on my friend from Indianapolis whose daughter called me “The Godfather.” However, she was not in a medical work role, but her sister was, adding to my confusion. I also thought they had left me in the hallway and forgotten me, but instead I was still in my same Intensive care room with doors open and curtains pulled back. More confusion! An attendant gave me my first shave and shampoo so I would be ready for guests. I vaguely remember my wife being there before she left for the first time after three long days to drive back home and my son came to visit, clarifying the whole “Godfather” episode. The mysterious visitor was indeed my ex-wife’s sister’s daughter that I hadn’t seen since she was about two years old. We had a nice visit. At the same time, I do remember feeling obsessively upset and helpless once my wife told me about the Westin room screw -up. They then got me on my feet for the first time.

The first night of consciousness was filled with annoying monitor beeps, probing nurses, and what I thought was a loud party that went on for hours. I couldn’t believe how disruptive they were or that no one came to check on me. I could not sleep, eat, or feel anything but touched my chest for the first time, thinking of the potholders I used to weave as a child. Untrimmed threads of yarn were protruding from my wounds and I certainly didn’t want to look. Tubes of various sizes ran out through my neck and ear areas, closest to the carotid artery. There remained a soreness in my throat from the breathing tubes that were removed just after surgery.

Nurses and doctors were concerned that I had yet to poop and began to fill me with laxatives. The pain drugs were causing the constipation, although my wife was convinced it was all the cookies I consumed the previous weekend, worried they might be my last. One health professional jokingly mentioned “Mount Vesuvius” and I was worried about making a mess for days. I was already humiliated by flashing everyone with my loose-fitting gown. I didn’t want them to have to wipe my butt, as well, after removing the smelly diaper. I kept calling for a commode but nothing was happening. Fortunately, I was wearing a catheter, so I didn’t have to also worry about peeing the bed.

The catheter was a surprising relief, after trying to imagine the discomfort of a tube up my shriveled penis. With prostrate problems and months of getting out of bed nearly every two hours, it was a savior in the first few days of recovery, although at times it felt like I was soaking the sheets. A man in the next room moaned and prayed for hours. I tried to watch basketball but the players moved like molasses. A few days later the football playoffs were on but I couldn’t find the right channel. Thankfully, I couldn’t watch two IU basketball losses to Purdue and Wisconsin. 

I was convinced that they quickly moved me out of Intensive care on Wednesday eve because they didn’t want to deal with the stench of Vesuvius. I vaguely recall being uncomfortably positioned on a table in a room full of monitors with a pan under my butt. They were monitoring my Afib and I was surrounded by students and visiting physicians asking questions, hoping that my angry bowels wouldn’t explode. I felt like I was on display as a specimen to the medical world. An attendant brought me dinner but I had no interest. I just wanted to poop. I also remember being moved to another area where it seemed like they were painfully pressing BBs into my neck muscles. This combined with the bowel discomfort was unbearable. Neck pains became my greatest discomfort going forward, applying Lidocaine patches to ease the strain. Finally, I was wheeled to my hospital  room where they said was a real toilet but I was wired to get only to the commode next to my bed. My wife settled into the chair beside me after returning from home for another long night of beeping and poking.

I somehow needed to get through the fog of yesterday’s first post-surgery post. It feels like a major victory after eventually composing just a paragraph at a time over three days. Hopefully, I can move much faster now that I’m not having to correct each and every word written. My finger strokes are approaching normal while my sluggish brain is better cooperating. It’s much like running when it takes a number of steps to settle into a coordinated rhythm. Just another foot forward!

With any major surgery, you need to get your house in order. Updating wills/medical directives, planning for pet care, pre-paying bills, arranging transportation, packing and making lists are some of the basic steps involved. Since my surgery was in Tampa, two hours away, and in the early morning, I also needed hotel accommodations. The popular Gasparilla Festival was going on to further complicate these plans. I began making reservations two-months in advance, trying to utilize points, and searching convenient locations nearest the hospital. We wanted the comfort and familiarity of what we fondly refer to as, “Mother Marriott.” This is why I have a hard time digesting what ultimately happened! I ended up making two separate reservations through Marriott at their Westin location. My wife was justifiably upset with me that I couldn’t get the smaller, closer Marriott properties and more nights.  I had apparently waited too long to do this, but in my defense, the points would not be available in our account before mid-December. With all the pending medical expenses, I admittedly was trying to save a few bucks. This came back to haunt me! 

We went to Texas Roadhouse the Sunday eve of surgery for my “last meal.” I didn’t have much of an appetite, so my wife took ribs back to the room. I had just gotten my final instructions from the surgeon to be at the hospital at 5a for 7a surgery, at least the events would not be delayed for a few hours as once thought. We double-checked at the Westin front deck to be assured that my two reservations were linked together and that my wife would not have to switch rooms. No problem! It was a hotel we had stayed at several years ago for Santana/Earth, Wind, Fire concert that would celebrate my 70th birthday. We ended up being a year early! (See Post #1786).

Before going to bed, I thoroughly scrubbed my body with the prescribed disinfectant cloths, a process I would repeat after finishing a mile-plus on the treadmill at about 3:30a. It was consecutive run #5,497 and the end of my running streak. The Westin was a little further than we hoped from the hospital parking and no more than a five-minute drive since no one else was on the sleepy, dark streets. All went smoothly through check-in, and I was soon sedated for two full-days, unaware of what was happening back at the Westin after my wife returned for her second night – this time alone. 

Surgeons were texting her throughout the day with updates on my condition, and she got back to the room, knowing that I would not regain consciousness until the next day. A second day of surgery was necessary to fix “the roots.” I’m sure she was exhausted and on pins and needles while eating her warmed-over ribs. She had just gotten to sleep when she got the first phone call on the room phone at 12:30a. It was confusing to her why that phone was ringing and not her cell phone, so she ignored it in the process of searching her mind for an explanation. A few minutes later the phone rang again and the banging began on the door. She was terrified that someone was about to break in or that something was wrong with me, but could hear the muffled words, “It’s Security…Who’s in that room?”

Continued…