A little about yesterday

Day 2 block 2

This’ll be kind of a long post. I was going to write this kind of tongue-in-cheek, but you can’t go to the same joke too many times. Although this situation kind of begs for it … ah hell … I can’t resist.

Serial Disruptor Cools Heals in New Ward

Newark, Del. – Saying it’s just a coincidence, the Christiana Hospital announced yesterday that serial disruptor Bill Potter had been admitted for chemotherapy and put in the Bone Marrow Unit where access to his shenanigans is limited.

“We all love Bill Potter here,” said senior housing director Vinny Boombotz. “We didn’t have a bed for a male in the usual cancer ward, so we sent him one ward over to 6C.”

Potter began his second round of chemotherapy last night and is pretty pleased with the set up.

“Kind of freaked me out at first,” he said. “When you hear, Bone Marrow Unit your first thought is, ‘what the hell happened, am I sicker than I thought?’ After they explained it all to me it’s a good deal. I’ve got a private room, with a window where I can see the sunrise, I’ve got great nurses, and I love hospital food!

 “It’s like being in 6B, only way quieter. I like the quiet – I always have. I don’t like a lot of noise; it’s way too distracting and unsettling. It’s just a bed down the hall from before – that’s all.”

Even though he is being housed in the Bone Marrow Unit, he can still have visitors and generally be the nuisance people seem to love.

Potter will be at Christiana Hospital receiving chemo for about five days.

Visiting hours are from 11 a.m. to 8:30 p.m. and Potter’s room number is 302-733-6127.

A little about yesterday.

I arrived at Christiana Hospital at about 7:20 or so. I went up to what had been my cancer ward and met Liz, one of the higher ranking nurses.

“What are you doing here,” she said.

“I’m here for chemo”

“I don’t have you on my list.”

“That’s not good,” I said.

Liz reached for the phone, dialed it, and cradled it in her neck and began furiously typing, hoping – I guess – to pull up some Potter data.

“Do you have a patient name Potter,” she asked. “Oh, okay. Then he’s coming back here? Thanks. I guess you’re going to have a Hickman put in and then come back up here.”

“I just wanted to drop off my overnight bag before I went downstairs to the surgical unit.

Liz took the bag.

Getting to the Surgical Unit through the hospital was like walking through the business end of a large hotel or supermarket; all the glitz is gone.  Drab hallways are decorated with photos of employees who received one type of an award or another and the floors just don’t have same glassy sheen as the ones in the main lobby.

Still it was well marked and even I could find my way. 

The Surgical Prep Unit is a beehive. There are hallways of individual rooms, or more accurately cells, kind of like one would expect at a modern monastery. Nurses are taking vitals signs, clothes are being bagged for movement to the recovery room, patients are getting wedding rings taped, and others patients are moving to the ER holding area.

If the prep unit is like a beehive, than surgical hold is like an air traffic control tower.

Patients roll in on beds from hospital rooms or walk in – like I did – from the prep unit.  Regardless, each patient ends up on a bed stationed in a little bay with an alphanumeric code like an airplane gate. High on the walls of the holding are huge flat screen TVs continuously updating the arrival and departure of patients, and the status of the many operating rooms. Who’s finished? Which doctor is on, ahead, or behind schedule? Which patient is ready? Which is not?

As the control tower monitors schedules and patients, nurses check and make sure the right patient is in the right spot, going to the right destination. Doctors come and go double and triple checking patient info to make sure everything is right.

“What are you here for?” One doctor asked me.

“I am having a Hickman installed,” I said.

“What are you here for?” Another doctor asked me.

“I am having a Hickman installed,” I said.

“What are you here for?” a nurse asked me.

“I am having a Hickman installed,” I said.

And on it went.

At some point, an anesthetist came in, checked my IV hook ups, and gave me a shot. It was actually very relaxing whatever it was – I wish they gave it at airports it would make waiting for flights way mellower.

Sometime later they roll me into an operating room.

It’s not like TV. The OR is very austere -- just the necessary equipment needed for procedure seemed to be on hand. Doctor’s and nurses introduced themselves, explained what was going on, and who was going to do what throughout.

The next thing I know I wake up in recovery area, very similar to holding bay I had been in earlier.

You’ve already the faux news story above so you know about the room change.

When I get to the room my old hardware (a multiple port IV line a.k.a. PICC) is removed and the chemo begins almost immediately.

First though I get the Benadryl and Demerol cocktail to prep me for the Rituxan, which appears to be step one in any chemo treatment for me.

I guess that’s it for now. I wanted to get something out before it got too late.