My hospital visits are always epic–in fact, any time I travel, I expect some comedic element to pop up.
In the morning of Thursday July 6th, at 0:dark:30, my entourage assembled for the procession to Hospital Militar. The Southron was accompanied by Borko, Santiago, and our newest assistant Oscar. I was wearing my usual very stylish sweat suit with a fishing vest for added protection against the cold. My entourage was all in coats and ties, and the four of us looked as if people should be addressing me as Godfather.
The trip for the house to the hospital should have been easy. However, since the Land Rover decided to start overheating 12 hours before, we decided it was more prudent to go in two taxis. Consequently arrangements were made for a relatively large taxi. It was big enough to accommodate Borko, Oscar, my wheelchair and me. Santiago had prudently asked the taxi driver who brought him to the office to wait and take him to the hospital as well.
The trip to the hospital was uneventful; though we saw an entirely new route there. The taxis took advantage of the fact that we were the only people awake in the whole city and flew through side streets that provided the most direct approach to the hospital, but which would have been unthinkable had anyone else been on the streets.
We arrived at the hospital unscathed and ahead of time. (I am not sure that there is a word in the Spanish-language for being early–it is simply not needed.)
For some reason there is no interior connection for the public between the two sides of the hospital complex that merge at the Emergency Room entrance. The door to the right leads to the lobby and the tower on Avenida Centenario where the examination rooms and administration offices are located. The door to the left leads the tower on Avenida 8 de Octubre where the patients’ rooms and operating rooms are located.
The Portera answered the bell and let us into the Octubre building. Then Santiago went back out so he could go into the Centenario building to get me checked in with the administration offices. A few minutes later he returned with a nurse’s aide, who escorted us all to my room.
The reason they send an escort is to prevent missing persons reports being filed on people wandering lost through the maze: down a short hall, turn left, go to the end of the hall and turn right, go past the steps to the elevator and go up a couple of floors, get out, turn left wander down the hall a piece, take a dog leg to the right into a large corridor, turn right into Sala 6 and take another elevator up a few more floors. Then I got worried. If my Spanish was even half correct, the sign said I was going into the maternity ward—hmmm…
We finally reached the nurses station at which point Santiago entered into a colloquy with the nurses. After some discussion, Santiago and a very attractive blond nurse wandered down the hall looking for a room into which they would lodge me.
After an indecent interval, Santiago beckoned and our waiting trio sauntered towards room 17. It was now 0645 and I was due in surgery at 0715. We had time to spare.
At 0705 I began to worry—we had been told the operating room was booked solid the rest of the day after me.
At 0720 Santiago decided it was time to see if he could find out what was going on. Ten minutes later he was back.
Doctor Piazze and his team were waiting for me in the surgical suite—we were waiting for them in my room. The people who were supposed to transport me from the one place to the other were nowhere to be found.
I took an executive decision and had Borko push me to surgery—after one abortive attempt in the surgical ante room to load me onto a gurney that cracked and sagged dangerously; all agreed that Borko would take me to the operating room doors and shove me through them into the waiting hands of the operating room staff.
Dr. Piazze introduced me to everyone and after an exchange of pleasantries I clambered up onto the operating table, which gratefully, did not sag or even creak. I settled onto my left side, a needle was put into my right hand for the anesthetic, a plastic bit was put into my mouth to keep it open wide for the procedure, and the last thing I remember before going out was something resembling a garden hose being shoved down my throat.
I don’t remember getting back to my room.
Later, I heard people talking about a garden tractor and trailer in the halls, but decided I really did not need to know.
I slept most of the rest of the day. I did not feel any pain. There was an obvious mix up in food services—I was left 4 dry saltines for dinner. (Had I been in the States I could have tried to eat them and then sued the hospital when everything went wrong.) Instead, Borko got me some peach juice and that seemed to suffice.
The next morning the Doctor checked me and said I could go home. Since then I have done pretty well. I have had a few problems with vomiting—more with a feeling of being bloated—lots of gas and loss of appetite.
Maybe the maternity ward wasn’t a mistake…
Southron,
Don’t wish to pry into private medical information, but was this by any chance a Lap-Band procedure you underwent?
>>No, it was a temporary procedure in which a balloon was inserted into my stomach. In several months it will be followed by a stomach resection.
The Southron
Left by futurexpat on July 17th, 2007
Hey Compatriot Southron! Hope you’re feeling better and are on the road to robust health and happiness.
I always enjoy reading your posts, even when they’re sort of “deja vu all over again” - your account of finding your way through the hospital maze reminds me of Roper Hospital down in Charleston.
Also, I had to laugh out loud about the uselessness of the word “early” in Spanish - one of the first Spanish words I learned was on the big refrigerator clip that looked like an old fashioned clothes pin, which my father used to accumulate his bills - it was labeled in large type “MANANA” - which my Dad correctly pronounces “manYAAAHnah”.
Anyway, good health to you, and I’ll ask my church fellowship to include you in our prayer list.
Left by Sandlapper on July 18th, 2007