On...Health "Care?"

It’s true that I am not a part of the medical community in any way other than I do teach private piano lessons to many a doctor or nurse’s children. I'm also not yoked with the relentless hustle-and-bustle of medical life or the constant ministering to people – veritable strangers – whose health and well-being I shoulder.

But I have, as a nursery school teacher, camp counselor and show choreographer been in charge of large groups of people of all ages and know how to interact and manage them efficiently and with aplomb.

I always knew how to be actively engaged and aware of any situation in which I was involved throughout its entirety and, above all, how to be consistently organized and compassionate. In short, I remained plugged in at all times and proudly brought my A-Game to my job.

I saw none of these characteristics on display by the hospital personnel the night I recently took my husband – the man who never-but-never acknowledges pain – to the Emergency Room of our county’s top hospital, after he admitted having “extremely severe cramping” in his abdomen.

It took ten – count ‘em, TEN – hours for the staff there to draw blood, take x-rays and administer an EKG before a P.A., Physician’s Assistant, handed my husband a dose of Mylanta for “food poisoning” and sent us home.

During that entire time, no one in scrubs seemed to be in a rush. Their vibe wasn’t “sure and steady,” but rather “complacent.” Some even telegraphed thought bubbles that read: “Gawd, isn’t it time to go home yet?”

This, as a phalanx of patients sat in an anything-but-hygienic area waiting for relief. Among them was a gunshot victim, a bike rider whose knee had been crushed by a car, a woman with a swollen and bloodied eye socket and cheekbone and another whose back was so painful that she couldn’t move the wheelchair she’d been given.

And this was just a sampling of those who’d joined us in the “overflow” hallway, far removed from the main lobby waiting room that could easily accommodate seventy people.

“Nightmare” did not even scratch the surface.

When any personnel shuffling by were asked – and this happened often – if they had any idea how much longer it would be until they’d get to see a doctor, the response was, “Sorry, no I don’t.”

In a nearby room where a patient was having blood drawn and lamenting that he’d been there six hours already, I heard the phlebotomist respond, “Yeah. Emergency Room visits usually last at least eight hours.”

The irony of that statement was almost comical. Almost. And equally unfunny was how it was entirely lost on her!

We dragged ourselves home at 6 a.m. (perk: we did get our parking garage ticket validated, so saved $10 there. Small consolation, though, in light of the subsequent, astronomical ER visit bill.)

Still, as bad as all this was, it ratcheted up a hundred-fold less than thirty-six hours later when my husband’s abdominal cramps returned.

Naively, we went back to the same hospital, imagining that, since they’d misdiagnosed us so recently, we’d jump to the head of the line. Nope. It was right back to: Spell your last name, what’s your date of birth and why are you here. As the comedians love to say: Déjà vu all over again. Except we’d left our sense of humor at home.

At hour five-and-a-half, a man near the door stood and shouted, “WE’VE BEEN HERE SIX HOURS, AND MY WIFE IS GETTING WORSE BY THE MINUTE! WE NEED TO GET IN TO SEE A DOCTOR!”

No staff member scurried – or even ambled leisurely – to his side. His plea was simply lost in the abyss. Apathy was all that was on duty.

My husband wasn’t doing very well all these hours later, either. I watched as he grew paler and grayer with each passing tick of the clock. Finally, I went to the reception area to inquire how much longer the wait would be and was told – this quote is verbatim – “I don’t really know. It’s based on acuity.”

To my credit, I did not say what immediately popped into my head, which was, “Well, Dear, hopefully not yours, or for sure I’m looking at widowhood.” I settled for an impudent smirk and contemptuous snort as my response, after which I collected my husband and drove to a hospital far from our home, but one I’d had good luck with myself two years earlier when I had a kidney stone.

It took “only” three hours there before Bobby was admitted to the inner sanctum, given a CT scan and diagnosed with an infected gallbladder. This was followed by his having to lie on a gurney in the ER hallway for twenty-four hours - with no food or water, though, mercifully, he had been given both an antibiotic and saline drip – until a bed in the main hospital became available.

There, he waited an additional two days before getting a gallbladder drain procedure. That device, Bobby was told, would be removed the same day as his gallbladder: IN SIX-TO-EIGHT WEEKS, the surgery center’s next available opening.

Until then, don’t let it get wet at the incision spot and flush it daily with a saline syringe. Okay; see ya! Have a good day!

These instructions were accompanied by a bill for tens of thousands of dollars. (So fascinating, isn’t it, where the efficiency/quick-response element of hospital life lies…)

I am horrified that this is the de rigeur method of handling medically vulnerable people. Where has the compassion and efficiency gone? And how do I do more than merely complain and shake my head about it? Where do I take this rancor and initiative to improve the situation for everyone?

Stay tuned, because I am now on a mission. And, unlike the medical community with whom we have just had to deal, I am capable, organized and a bulldozer.