Another Day at the VA San Juan

Last evening about 9 pm concerned nurses called the rehab doctors, who informed them that Kirt had been seen about 3 pm and antibiotics were ordered; get them started. I won’t bother to rag about lack of communication or that I was in the day room making a phone call for five minutes when they buzzed in and out. By this time Kirt had a low grade temperature and much more pain. This shift of nurses did a fine job of getting him settled down for what promised to be a better night.

About 2 am Mother Nature called. Kirt transferred from the bed to the wheel chair with a fair amount of skill. The physical therapy paid off already, well, not too much. He got stuck in the bathroom, so I had to call in the night nurses. When he yelled, “I’m getting out of here tomorrow,” I wanted to cry. Once back in bed he writhed in pain holding his leg above the amputation. One of the nurses told him to stop squeezing his leg, that he was making it all red.

Where the hell do you go with a stupid comment like that? She kept insisting that he was responsible for the inflammation in the stump below the knee. I should tell him to stop doing that. Sometimes there’s no point in arguing, so I told her I’d get on that right away.

Just a little sleep and we’d feel better, but that wasn’t to be Kirt ripped his IV out when he dozed off. There was blood all over the sheets, in his hair. He needed a bath and linen change.

With all of the pain and negative experiences it’s easy to over look the really great nurses and care that he is getting. I don’t want to do that because some of Kirt’s nurses have been tremendous; Ada, the kind and gentle, Felix the great, Eileen, the love have tended to him, when he was at the end of his rope. My darling’s recovery will be in no small part due to these wonderful and gracious nurses.

When he recovers all the difficulties forgotten, we’ll remember this time more kindly. 

Today at the VA San Juan

After five weeks of sitting by my husband’s bed in the VA Hospital in San Juan I went home for a couple of days to pay bills, wash clothes and sit on the porch looking at the lake. The rehabilitation team introduced themselves in such a positive way; surely he was in good hands.

His first physical therapy came on Saturday. He did exercises for upper body strength. Reports from our friend Adri about his good spirits helped me relax. Tuesday morning when I arrived I expected Kirt to be headed for therapy, but no. His pain had increased; the amputation was cherry red and oozing. Around 9 am the nurse informed me that the rehabilitation doctors put in a consult to the surgical team for evaluation.

Kirt waited in pain, holding his stump, so I stalked the medication nurse from room to room until she came with the pills that promised relief. Slouched posture and I sure as hell don’t want to be here demeanor spoke volumes as she scanned my husband’s wristband. The first pill she popped out of the bubble wrap plastic. He was unable to take it, so with her long painted fingernails she scooped it out and plucked it into his mouth. Now, it’s been a very long time since I went to nursing school, but as I recall contaminating a patient’s medication is a no-no. She opened the second pill, I pulled out my cell phone and caught the photo of the long nailed vixen handing him the other pill. In between she pushed the hair back from her face, so in complete disgust, I took her picture. It’s too bad her hair fell forward again before I could snap it.

By late afternoon even the rehab doctors were annoyed that the surgeons had not shown up. They ordered that an IV be inserted so Kirt would be ready, if the surgeons ordered IV antibiotics. We waited some more. While a nurse checked his blood sugar I noticed the fingers on his right hand were bloody. I asked the nurse if she knew where the blood was coming from, the short answer was no, and then she left. I washed his hand and pulled back the blanket. His arm was bleeding from where he pulled out the IV. I walked into the hall with the needle and wad of tape, presented it to the nurse just in case anyone wanted to know where the blood was coming from other than me.

A little later another nurse came in the room while I was taking pictures of his stump. She curtly informed me that no picture taking was allowed at the VA. “Did I understand that?” I informed her I did not wanting to be escorted out by security. Police power is an intimidator.

As of this writing it’s now 8 pm and a still no surgeons. The redness is covering a larger area of the stump. Again I asked the nurses to call the doctors and was told they could not call the surgeons that it was between doctors. Either the surgeons will come tonight or in the morning. I’m afraid to cause too much of a ruckus because I want to be able to spend the night with him. I realize that it’s by the good graces of the staff that I’m able to stay to watch my husband’s condition deteriorate this night.