We can only tell so many near death stories without bad luck catching up to us. I dodged that bullet that had my name on it again.
I originally wanted to describe an event that happened to me when entering the hospital. I wish I were an artist and could paint the picture that is in my head because I can make the words describe that sublime moment of humiliation. I manage tragedy with gallows humor, and that is very disconcerting to other people, so I save that sort of humor for a few people that I know can handle it. I have decided to break the tale down into short essays and see if I can return to the original story with a freshened view. I really want to tell it, but it must be more polished before I post it.
It is not a very sanitary story, so if bodily processes and gore upset you, go no further. You have been warned.
The Scrub Down
I had been in the emergency room around three hours as doctors irrigated out blood clots from my bladder. My body was shutting down when the ambulance brought me in. I was not aware that I was in such serious trouble. I just thought I was having the usual male curse of a swollen prostate.
Several doctors were standing around commenting on the huge clots. You know you are in trouble when one of the doctors say, “Oh my God!” as each huge dollop of clotting exited into the plastic bag hanging off the edge of my gurney. I was a star. Everyone stopped by to see the fluid draining. They had never seen that much clotting before.
But the release of the pressure was a blessed event, right up there with an epiphany as I laid there on the hard pad of the ER gurney. The doctors were still busy figuring out how to restart the kidneys and fighting the arrythmia in my heart. It appears the treatment for the two problems were in opposition to each other, and they were doing a ballet dance of controlling medicines and reacting to lab results. When I was stabilized some six hours later, they transferred me to their Level 1 Intensive Care where each patient had their own nurse, and the rooms were large enough to allow several medical specialties room to work on the patient at the same time.
Waiting around the bed were six nurses, each armed with an orange scrub brush mounted on the end of a short handle. I was very unsanitary at that moment, and I was really humiliated at the body filth. But this small squad of petite scrubbers did their work over every inch of my body with military-like efficiency. When finished they all turned at the same time and exited single file from the room. It felt good laying on the soft mattress and clean sheets, and I let my humiliation slowly bleed out. Modesty and dignity had to go into storage.