Lenore & Me (Part 2)

“A Hospital is no place to be sick. ” ~ Samuel Goldwyn

A woman was crying, the sound of it drifted aimlessly through thick, antiseptic air and flickering halogen lights.  The sound was pathetic, it indicated pain and fear, it whined and begged for help but was hopeless at the same time.  I wanted to help her, but my brain was filled with fog as I tried to remember where I was, what day of the week it was, something that would tether me to the real world.  My eyes were so tightly shut that it hurt to pry the lids apart, and as they opened a flood of hot tears fell down my face as a tearing sensation ripped through my belly.

“Why are you crying?” A woman’s face was close to mine. She had short bushy ash blond hair, blue eyes and wore a white lab coat. She repeated the question, “Why are you crying?” as she tapped my cheekbone, my chin, my wrists. I slowly realized I was the one producing that mewling noise. It came to me in a flood of memories. I remembered being prepped for surgery that morning, my mom at my side making jokes with the anesthesiologist about how I had always been scared of needles from a little girl up to now. I recalled that the woman tapping my cheek was one of the student doctors that had participated in my surgery. I couldn’t answer her because the tube they ripped out of throat left it sore and scratched up. In a thick Russian accent she said, “Well, you probably have more pain than usual, because we originally thought you only had one fibroid at the back of the uterus but once we started the surgery we found that you had 22 fibroids and one ovarian cyst. Basically, we performed what is called “female reconstructive surgery,” which means we had to dissect the uterus, remove the tumors and clean up scar tissue and then reconstruct it, not to mention the abdominal cut, which we just opened the scar from your previous surgery. So you have many more sutures than we could have anticipated when we started.

Now, we sent the cyst in for a biopsy and everything is fine, you don’t have cancer so don’t worry about that, it would have gone away on its own, even without surgical intervention. I believe we only gave you enough painkillers for a single myomectomy, which must be wearing off by now, which would explain why you were crying in your sleep. Don’t worry, I’m going to get you the right amount of pain medication so you can rest and recuperate properly.”

“Hmm.., sleeping on the job again? Jesus Christ, I never seen anyone so lazy as you! GET UP AND HELP ME! Don’t you work here?” The sarcasm and nastiness woke me up unceremoniously from my dream as Lenore’s words bombarded me through the open curtain. My mouth was clammy and throat was dry. A heaving cough made my sutures vibrate with pain. My skin felt greasy and sticky, I craved a nice hot shower, but knew they wouldn’t allow it until the bandage was removed from my incision. I was confused, I thought I had been talking to the Russian doctor, but quickly realized that I must have been dreaming about my conversation with her yesterday after my procedure. Through all these thoughts, my crazy old roommate was shouting at me, “You’re not a patient here, I never seen a patient look like you! Now, get up and help me!” As best as I could, gripping my stitches, I yelled back, “ I don’t work here Lady! Leave me alone!”

The Nurse’s Aide from the previous evening, a short, dark skinned, Indian man with a receding hairline, walked into our room pushing a cart in front of him. The sight of him made Lenore gasp, she stared at him with her mouth open as he bought his cart to a stop at the foot of her bed. Slipping a pair of disposible gloves on, he took at thermometer from the cart and then placed a plastic sheath on it. He held it daintily between his fingers as he walked towards crazy Lenore. She started to squirm and shrink down into her bed, as if this would make her disappear. The C.N.A. bent over her and directed her to open her mouth so he could take her temperature. Lenore let out a high pitched scream, which made the poor man jump back in fright. “What’s the matter ma’am?”, he asked her. “You’re not a doctor, so why you trying to put something in my mouth? I been asking for my doctor for 2 days now, they operate on me, they want to do another operation tonight, now you trying to put some medicine in my mouth… Jesus Christ! You don’t look like a doctor to me! I never seen a doctor look like you! Where you from, anyway?” In response to her tirade, the nurses aide tried to explain, “A thermometer is not medicine, ma’am, it takes your temperature, also you have not been here for 2 days, you just got her last night and you have not had surgery yet, so please calm down ma’am. “Where are you from?” Lenore demanded again. “I’m from India ma’am, now can I take your temperature?” “India! You’re a foreigner?”, she asked in total disbelief. “Get me my doctor, NOW! No, I’m not opening my mouth for a foreigner, I want my doctor! You trying to give me medicine to put me asleep so you can operate on me again! No! I want my doctor!” The little man began putting away the thermometer, throwing away the sheath and the disposable gloves as if she wasn’t carrying on like a madwoman. I was impressed by his reserve. He rolled the cart to my side of the room, drawing the curtain closed as he did so, which barely muted Lenore’s confused mumbling. He shook his head and smiled at me as he took my temperature. He announced that “… today you are going to eat something, is there anything you would like me to get for you…?” I told him that I needed to clean myself up, at which he took from the cart a small kidney shaped plastic dish which contained a cheapie toothbrush, travel sized toothpaste a washcloth and 2 folded up hospital gowns. He took the stuff out of the dish and filled it with water from the tap and placed it on my bedside table with a cup of water. “Please to wash (pronounced as “vash”) yourself with this vater and brush your teeth with this vater, vhen you finish brush teeth, please to spit into this bowl, not the cup, vhen you pull the curtain I come back, ok?” He left and I started to “vash” myself, remembering three years ago when I was in St. Mary’s Hospital in Brooklyn that I had been given sponge baths by a female nurse’s aide so that I wouldn’t have to strain myself while recovering, after my first multiple myomectomy. The energy it took to clean up almost made me faint. I pulled the curtain open to let him know I was finished freshening up and he appeared with his cart again to collect the dirty gown, washcloth and used toothbrush.

Lenore finally leaned back into her pillows and sighed as if she had run out of the steam she needed to continue making my life a living hell. The silence from her side of the room was so encouraging that I turned on the TV and tried to find CNN.

(To be continued…)