I’m Busting Out
Time seemed to slow to a crawl, even more than already crept past, the closer to my "graduation," date the calendar showed. The to do list, seemed to grow longer and longer. The calendar show four days remaining. I quickly overcome with anxiety.
1- I had yet to hear from the Infectious Disease (ID) team, to learn my fate, in regards to what antibiotic would accompany me home. The argument was whether I would be switched to an oral antibiotic, because I had completed the required fourteen days of IV medication; or if I would be required to undergo another quick procedure and have a PICC line placed.
2- I also waited for the Thrombosis team, to let me know my blood thinner levels were stable enough, so that I could have the femoral filter removed. This created extra anxiety, it would be necessary to undergo another procedure, in which they would go in exactly the same way, as when it was placed, to remove the filter.
3- The VA (Veteran's Administration) had to answer the request submitted, by my therapists, for all of the necessary medical equipment I would need to function at home. This was quite a list that included a wheelchair, crutch, and several grab bars. This also was a quick way to escalate my blood pressure. The medical staff at the hospital, wouldn't discharge me unless everything was dress right dress, and safe for me to move forward.
4- The neurology team needed to remove the random staples, and bailing wire stitches, from the washout surgery. Which would only take ten minutes, but they were waited for the ID team to clear the infection was under control, and the ID team waited for the neurology team to verify the washout surgery was successful.
Basically my last week at the hospital was spent; Trying to rob Peter to pay Paul, and without the ability to walk or run away, my escape was futile.
The clock kept ticking and pays kept passing, still no response from anyone. The thrombosis team was the first to respond, to schedule the filter removal. I was again put on the mandatory fast, so that the procedure could take place, the day before I paroled. But just like the first go around, sit around and wait, until it was my turn. Of course I'm having PTSD, from episode one. I told the anesthesiologist to again keep me light, but a bit deeper wouldn't be argued either. I was again conscious, and nervous with anticipation, but it went just as planned, no blood splatter. I was awake and functioning even before I was off the table. I was able to look around the radiology surgical room, pretty cool actually.
I was returned to my room just in time for another "awesome dinner." But still no word from the other medical teams.
The nurses came back to my room an hour after dinner, all smiling. The ID team was scheduled to meet with me at 8am the next morning, and the neurology team finally responded and was scheduled at 10am. The nurses optimistically told me I should be ready to escape before lunch was served, so there was no need to look at the menu, which had been memorized for weeks.
The ID team showed as planned, but still with no real answer. They decided to move ahead with the IV medication and to place a PICC line. Come to find out later, there was no real plan in any other direction. There were too many doctors working my case, who couldn't agree. So that was scheduled at 2pm, the day I was "supposed" to be leaving.
The neurology team did infect come when scheduled as well. But instead of removing everything, they popped out the staples, and since it was a one of the Physician's Assistants and not my actual neurologist, they decided to leave all of the bailing wire stitches, until my first follow up. This quickly became known as my tiara.
the radiologist showed up late, of course. Nothing like emergencies when someone is trying to go home. But he came and was super quick. I was now leaving the hospital with a new friend, Pedro the PICC Line.
My poor wife and kids were "patiently" waiting for the great news that was finally given at 6:15pm. I was determined to leave the hospital on my own two feet. I "walked," out. Well I made it as far as the nurses station, and was very glad to get my wheelchair. But it wasn't actually mine. We were still fighting the VA, My Mom, Dad and Wife had spent several hours the day before, trying to get answers and all of the 100,000,000 new medications I took home. The only answer they were given, "The order has been placed. It is scheduled to deliver in three days."
With this information, my therapy team was awesome and allowed me to borrow a wheelchair and crutch, until mine arrived. I'm extremely grateful for this because non of my equipment arrived for over three weeks.
But that didn't matter, I was free!
- Nate Taylor
1- I had yet to hear from the Infectious Disease (ID) team, to learn my fate, in regards to what antibiotic would accompany me home. The argument was whether I would be switched to an oral antibiotic, because I had completed the required fourteen days of IV medication; or if I would be required to undergo another quick procedure and have a PICC line placed.
2- I also waited for the Thrombosis team, to let me know my blood thinner levels were stable enough, so that I could have the femoral filter removed. This created extra anxiety, it would be necessary to undergo another procedure, in which they would go in exactly the same way, as when it was placed, to remove the filter.
3- The VA (Veteran's Administration) had to answer the request submitted, by my therapists, for all of the necessary medical equipment I would need to function at home. This was quite a list that included a wheelchair, crutch, and several grab bars. This also was a quick way to escalate my blood pressure. The medical staff at the hospital, wouldn't discharge me unless everything was dress right dress, and safe for me to move forward.
4- The neurology team needed to remove the random staples, and bailing wire stitches, from the washout surgery. Which would only take ten minutes, but they were waited for the ID team to clear the infection was under control, and the ID team waited for the neurology team to verify the washout surgery was successful.
Basically my last week at the hospital was spent; Trying to rob Peter to pay Paul, and without the ability to walk or run away, my escape was futile.
The clock kept ticking and pays kept passing, still no response from anyone. The thrombosis team was the first to respond, to schedule the filter removal. I was again put on the mandatory fast, so that the procedure could take place, the day before I paroled. But just like the first go around, sit around and wait, until it was my turn. Of course I'm having PTSD, from episode one. I told the anesthesiologist to again keep me light, but a bit deeper wouldn't be argued either. I was again conscious, and nervous with anticipation, but it went just as planned, no blood splatter. I was awake and functioning even before I was off the table. I was able to look around the radiology surgical room, pretty cool actually.
I was returned to my room just in time for another "awesome dinner." But still no word from the other medical teams.
The nurses came back to my room an hour after dinner, all smiling. The ID team was scheduled to meet with me at 8am the next morning, and the neurology team finally responded and was scheduled at 10am. The nurses optimistically told me I should be ready to escape before lunch was served, so there was no need to look at the menu, which had been memorized for weeks.
The ID team showed as planned, but still with no real answer. They decided to move ahead with the IV medication and to place a PICC line. Come to find out later, there was no real plan in any other direction. There were too many doctors working my case, who couldn't agree. So that was scheduled at 2pm, the day I was "supposed" to be leaving.
The neurology team did infect come when scheduled as well. But instead of removing everything, they popped out the staples, and since it was a one of the Physician's Assistants and not my actual neurologist, they decided to leave all of the bailing wire stitches, until my first follow up. This quickly became known as my tiara.
the radiologist showed up late, of course. Nothing like emergencies when someone is trying to go home. But he came and was super quick. I was now leaving the hospital with a new friend, Pedro the PICC Line.
My poor wife and kids were "patiently" waiting for the great news that was finally given at 6:15pm. I was determined to leave the hospital on my own two feet. I "walked," out. Well I made it as far as the nurses station, and was very glad to get my wheelchair. But it wasn't actually mine. We were still fighting the VA, My Mom, Dad and Wife had spent several hours the day before, trying to get answers and all of the 100,000,000 new medications I took home. The only answer they were given, "The order has been placed. It is scheduled to deliver in three days."
With this information, my therapy team was awesome and allowed me to borrow a wheelchair and crutch, until mine arrived. I'm extremely grateful for this because non of my equipment arrived for over three weeks.
But that didn't matter, I was free!
- Nate Taylor
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