Tin Women
I am so tired that I would have gone to bed an hour ago, without dinner, except that I'm not supposed to take my anti-inflammatories on an empty stomach.
I sat here for a good half hour trying to decide whether to make myself a salad or fix a plate of cheese and crackers and apple slices or just have a glass of milk. I had promised my mother that I'd have a decent dinner, and I had every intention of keeping that promise. I even stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought some baby spinach, the last ingredient I needed for a hearty salad.
But then whatever energy I had just seeped out of me. I settled for the glass of milk and a couple of crackers.
It was a long day. The good news is that my dad was awake and alert by the time we left the hospital, having shed more than two liters of fluid from his chest cavity. The fluid had been pressing on his lungs, making it difficult for him to breathe.
The bad news is that he had to be put back on a ventilator overnight, and he's not ready to come off of it yet. Fortunately, he seems to be tolerating it well, at least so far.
We're not expecting a lot to happen before Monday. For one thing, he's still being evaluated. For another, it's the weekend (a holiday weekend nonetheless), and even though the ICU operates 24/7, there are fewer doctors around and the pace is palpably slower between Friday night and Monday morning.
And that, you could say, is why I am so tired.
I lay my fatigue entirely at the feet of a doctor whose bedside manner I would proceed to eviscerate had she had the courtesy to actually come anywhere near my father's bedside. Or his room. Or his end of the hall.
She managed, from the comfort of her chair, at a remove afforded by the counter of the nurse's station, to be condescending, dismissive, callous, impatient, defensive, and disingenuous, all within the space of 10 minutes.
This was in response to my request that she—or any other doctor—come to my father's room to brief us on his case, which no one had done in the 24 hours since he'd been admitted, had the fluid drained from his chest, and been put on a ventilator.
I did not demand; I asked.
I was calm, polite, and friendly.
I did not insist that it happen right that very second. I think the phrase I used was "at some point today."
The conversation that ensued was unsatisfying in every way. Her demeanor was completely unacceptable. And when I finally walked away, in tears, neither she nor the resident sitting next to her betrayed one iota of concern or regret—not for me, and certainly not for my father.
These were not quacks. I have no doubt that both women have excellent credentials and amazing technical skills. I am sure they are duly licensed by the State of New York.
But I fail to understand how—in the cardiac intensive-care unit, no less—there can be two doctors so clearly practicing medicine without a heart.
I sat here for a good half hour trying to decide whether to make myself a salad or fix a plate of cheese and crackers and apple slices or just have a glass of milk. I had promised my mother that I'd have a decent dinner, and I had every intention of keeping that promise. I even stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought some baby spinach, the last ingredient I needed for a hearty salad.
But then whatever energy I had just seeped out of me. I settled for the glass of milk and a couple of crackers.
It was a long day. The good news is that my dad was awake and alert by the time we left the hospital, having shed more than two liters of fluid from his chest cavity. The fluid had been pressing on his lungs, making it difficult for him to breathe.
The bad news is that he had to be put back on a ventilator overnight, and he's not ready to come off of it yet. Fortunately, he seems to be tolerating it well, at least so far.
We're not expecting a lot to happen before Monday. For one thing, he's still being evaluated. For another, it's the weekend (a holiday weekend nonetheless), and even though the ICU operates 24/7, there are fewer doctors around and the pace is palpably slower between Friday night and Monday morning.
And that, you could say, is why I am so tired.
I lay my fatigue entirely at the feet of a doctor whose bedside manner I would proceed to eviscerate had she had the courtesy to actually come anywhere near my father's bedside. Or his room. Or his end of the hall.
She managed, from the comfort of her chair, at a remove afforded by the counter of the nurse's station, to be condescending, dismissive, callous, impatient, defensive, and disingenuous, all within the space of 10 minutes.
This was in response to my request that she—or any other doctor—come to my father's room to brief us on his case, which no one had done in the 24 hours since he'd been admitted, had the fluid drained from his chest, and been put on a ventilator.
I did not demand; I asked.
I was calm, polite, and friendly.
I did not insist that it happen right that very second. I think the phrase I used was "at some point today."
The conversation that ensued was unsatisfying in every way. Her demeanor was completely unacceptable. And when I finally walked away, in tears, neither she nor the resident sitting next to her betrayed one iota of concern or regret—not for me, and certainly not for my father.
These were not quacks. I have no doubt that both women have excellent credentials and amazing technical skills. I am sure they are duly licensed by the State of New York.
But I fail to understand how—in the cardiac intensive-care unit, no less—there can be two doctors so clearly practicing medicine without a heart.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 7:15 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home