For lack of inspiration – and since I don’t believe the Muses actually exist – I’m going to search out a prompt…in the dictionary. Why? ‘Cause I’m a word nerd. I know, I know, you’re shocked.
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Word: Informed Consent (okay it’s two words, but it’s in the dictionary…)
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Informed consent, in the medical field, means that a patient has been made to understand the risks of a treatment or procedure and given their consent. It means signing papers, but it doesn’t really mean that the patient understands. Hospitals, doctors offices, they’re all intimidating…at least they are if you aren’t familiar with them. If you’ve been through enough the mysticism surrounding the scrubs, the white sheets, and the somehow generic attitude of the place vanishes.
Standing in the hall outside of a hospital room is like standing in the middle of an airport without looking like you have someplace to go: you get ignored or you get looks that imply you’re either an idiot, or suspicious. Nurses seem to have perfected the ability to be brisk, efficient, and drone-like in their ability to keep going without really noticing the environment around them. The newer ones aren’t like that yet…but it happens, and I doubt they realize it. That lack of awareness, and the necessity of a certain lack of compassion seems inhuman.
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Standing outside of the hospital room, I heard the doctor asking questions of my mother in a low monotone as he looked her over. I couldn’t quite make out the words, and at this point I was grateful for that. She was lucid this time and I didn’t need to answer all the questions for her. No known drug allergies, but a list of medications that could produce an array of reactions if you so much as gave her a whiff of the wrong antibiotic. At this point, we had the list printed out with all the details so the nurses or interns could just make a copy for the files whenever we saw someone new.
This surgery had, in my opinion, been put off for far too long. It was not an especially complicated procedure, but the patient was extremely likely to have complications. Despite that risk, the doctors seemed to consider it nothing at all. They showed no hint of concern. I knew hospital procedure pretty well at this point, so when they got ready to wheel her into surgery I made sure I was allowed to follow them down in the elevator and stay with her in the little curtained pre-op waiting area until they wheeled her back for surgery. I went into the waiting room off to the side, and spent about ten minutes glaring at the little phone on the table at one end of the stylish, but very uncomfortable couch, that was provided. Then I started to pace. Honestly, I wished I’d been able to put on a set of scrubs, wash up, and go into surgery with them even if all I did was sit in a corner. At least then I would see, I would know what was happening and possibly I could get a running commentary instead of the solid wait.
It was like this every time. I stayed cool and collected until the nurses were out of sight, smiling and being confident for as long as my mother could see my face. Once I got to the waiting room I always, always hated the phone, the couches and chairs, and the way I had to struggle not to hyperventilate. It wouldn’t do for me to become a patient. Not when I would be needed so shortly. It could be two hours or six, depending on how everything went. It could be much less if she died on the table from the simple mistake of not getting air, or someone not monitoring her blood pressure closely enough. It would be easier if she could’ve been sedated instead of put under, but some things you just need to sleep through. As “safe” as surgery is, it’s still major trauma to your body.
All these thoughts were going through my head as I waited, and more random thoughts interspersed themselves with them. Did I remember to feed the dog? the fish? I couldn’t remember locking the front door, but surely I did. I needed to mail out birthday cards to my twin nieces, because I really did love them even if their father was the most useless older brother I could ever have dreamed of and their mother was a twit.
I decided to go see if the hospital cafeteria was open. I never could remember when or if they ever closed, but the last time I had managed to get a wonderful tasting slice of pie. They must give the dregs to the patients, hospital cafeteria food was never all that bad. It wouldn’t do me any good to stay cooped up in this little room, going stir-crazy. I could eat in peace and be back in ten minutes – and that stupid little phone never rang for me anyway.