Counting My Blessings Part II

[The doctor told me stem cell therapy is not available at the VA Hospital in Puerto Rico; maybe we’d need to go to Indiana. Ok, that’s a thought; would that we could.

After the conference with the vascular surgeon, I headed to my friend Adri’s house in nearby Pinones. Looking forward to a shower, visions of stem cell therapy danced in my head. Traffic in San Juan was heavy this time of day. I hit a pothole that went damn near to China. My car died on the expressway with traffic whizzing around me and beeping at me like I could dematerialize for them. Scared out of my wits, I called 911, “Hola, digame.” So many times I’ve wished my Spanish was better, but never more fervently, and then I didn’t know where the devil I was. They asked me for land marks. In a city with billboards everywhere, the best I could do was a sign or a little laminating company. I thought I was still on rt. 26, but no it was 22, or was it the other way around. The 911 operator comforted me, saying that the police would find me soon.

Danny from Escobar Towing, 787 530-3423, pulled up alongside, gave me a questioning look. Yes! Yes! We called 911 back to let them know I was safe and on my way. Danny’s friendly smile and easy way relaxed me just as soon as I was in the cab of his truck. Apparently that pot hole has been very good to him.   

The remainder of Friday afternoon I researched Dr. Michael Murphy, MD and Indiana University School of Medicine for contact information. By the end of the day we had application forms in hand. Monday the surgeons will take toes off and fill out Kirt’s application for stem cell therapy. It feels good to have a shot at saving his leg after the failed femoral bypass.

After all we’ve been through to leave the cold Midwest, Indiana here we come- maybe. So far it looks like Kirt meets the criteria for inclusion in the study. 

Counting My Blessings Part One

Around 5 am a pack of surgical residents assembled at the foot of my husband’s bed. Kirt covers his head with the blankets lately. He no longer wants to hear most of what they say. The graft failed. The big discussion centers on how much lope to lob off, a toe, a foot, maybe midway below the knee. Gee, I wish I had covers over my head.

Just yesterday morning I was ticked with everybody who gave me a cock and bull story about why Kirt was sweating profusely. I mean wet gown and bed clothes sweating. It’s not a high temperature. It’s not low blood sugar. Then it’s that he has too many covers on. Oh, please, how sick do you have to be to sweat the bed wet under the covers? Duh, do you really think I believe that?  I was insulted to be told that tale.

When I came back to see Kirt in the afternoon, he was wringing wet. I told the afternoon nurses, who all said, “Yes, it’s a side effect of the pain medication he’s taking. We’re going to wash him off and change his linen.” Ta-Dum! Nothing satisfies like the truth. Kirt won the bonus round with nurses who took good care of him; no, excellent care, putting ointment on his hinny and joking with him while they worked.

My eternal gratitude goes to the hospital for allowing me to sleep on a cot by my guy’s bed. He’s well medicated and sleeps soundly. It’s just good to be with him.

In the night, while surfing the net to educate myself, I found info about stem cell research revascularizing legs that otherwise would have been amputated.  Hmm, a ray of hope eased my mind. I curled up on my little cot, trying to crack my neck to get rid of an intense headache.

And here we are back to 5 am. Without a cup of coffee, I may not have a pulse. Needless to say I didn’t have a functioning brain; hence no discussion of stem cells, just cutting, more or less, was the question. The next couple of hours sitting in silence were agonizing. Kirt said he didn’t want to talk about it. My head throbbed. He needed time to grieve for body parts.

Later the vascular surgeon laid out the facts surgically, if you’ll pardon the pun. I asked her about the stem cell therapy for revascularizing legs. She said she wasn’t familiar with it. Something new from Indiana University, I could see the excitement in her eyes. She said she would know more about it by the end of the day!

Hope, thank you God for hope; I’ll keep the rest of you posted. Please, pray for this.  

Hospitalized in San Juan

Tell me that the usual causes of profuse sweating do not seem to be the culprits. Tell me you don’t know why my husband is sweating so much his gown is wringing wet, why his body is outlined with a sweat ring on the bed and his pillow, but DON’T tell me it’s because he was too covered up by his blanket that he’s wet with sweat. Everybody knows that if you get too warm under covers you kick a foot out or your arms and you cool off. No way you lie there sweating like a hog, and this is normal.  

At my insistence the intern came in to look at him. Ok, whatever caused the profuse sweating seems to be over, that I can accept, but now clean him up and change his linens.

The floor nurses are kind, loving people, who usually do a good job. I hate to be bitchy, but this is my one and only husband. So today if he wants a shave and his teeth brushed it’s up to me. After his bed bath, the nurse handed me his bowl and a couple of towels. I wonder what they do if the patient doesn’t have family present to his tidying them up?

The femoral bypass surgery done on Friday has failed. The doctors are planning to remove a toe this coming Friday. Hmm, yes the fifth toe that was pink when he came in two weeks ago is black as a lump of coal. The fourth toe, the one that was blue is the same. Don’t know if that’s good or shades of things to come.

Any day of the week great things happen in a hospital, but the same can be said for bad things. If they don’t do a graft revision, the prognosis is not good for his leg. It’s worrisome when I hear from the residents that the man made material used in the bypass grafts doesn’t work well, so they don’t want to use it. The literature I’ve read gives a better outlook than what I hear from these docs, so I have concerns. 

Hospital Nightmare in San Juan

“Yelling at my husband in Spanish won’t help him understand you. He doesn't speak Spanish,” I informed his intensive care nurse. “Habla la lengua del pais.” She angrily said to me as my husband held his head.

“Why are you holding your head, does it hurt?” she shouted like she was taking to a deaf man. My love thrashed in pain, just hours after a femoral bypass operation. “Time to go, now,” Nurse Maria barked at me. I pleaded with the angry young nurse to let me see my husband relax after receiving his pain medication who said she would have to call security if I didn't leave NOW. My seventy year old darling became agitated. He pulled at his gown and bed clothes. My heart ached to stay with my husband of forty-five years, until he was comfortable again.  

This woman, who seemed intelligent and efficient, told me to get out so she could do her job. She would not give his medication until I left. My husband kicked reflexively with the leg she told him to hold still. She again ordered him in Spanish to not move his leg. She ordered me out in Spanish with un-called for vehemence.

Did she take offense because I told her that my husband needed to be elevated in bed? The foot of the operated leg was pushed against the foot of the bed. His toes have turned black since his admission to this hospital. I can only imagine that dying toes hurt on a good day let alone the day he has surgery on that leg.

I treat the staff with courtesy and respect. The floor nurses in the ten days he’s been in the hospital have been amiable. Some of them have had difficulty with English. I speak as much Spanish as I know. I like the language, looking forward to becoming proficient. We worked it out amicably. The surgical floor staff was wonderful to us.

The SICU nurse’s lack of compassion caused me worry for my honey’s well being. I sensed her competence at her job, but she lacked empathy. I told her I had to bring in her patient’s snore machine. His surgeon specifically said he wanted him to use it. I walked out to the car to get it, when I returned. No one answered the bell. It was after hours, but they knew I was coming back with it. I had to walk back to the other building in the emergency department to have someone call to get her to come to the door of SICU to take the machine. I wished her a good evening. Have a good night while taking care of my love.  She was working until 6 am she said before. She replied something in Spanish as she grabbed the bag.

I honor that Puerto Rico is a Spanish speaking country. I am learning the language, but the VA Hospital in San Juan is still a federal facility and my husband is still a veteran.