My Calling: Driving Hospital Staff BonkersWell it’s the day before my “emergency” operation at the Downtown Hamilton campus of St. Joseph’s Hospital. I have been relocated there from the King Street, Stoney Creek campus because the latter is on a two week vacation period; operating with a skeleton crew only. Everyone in their system is referring to my procedure as an “emergency” one. Whatever, it sure is making me feel like the important guy with the cigar in that old muffler commercial.
This morning I had to go in for my pre-op everything.
The first person I saw was the clerk who made a brand new hospital card and put together a file. Once I had verified the details on my new card, I was told to go to a waiting room. I had a sense that this was all going only too well! When things in a hospital seem ultra efficient, you JUST KNOW the boom is about to fall.
The wait wasn’t bad at all, and yes, I got smacked full in the face with the first passing of the boom. A clinician soon came to the waiting room and called my name, telling me to follow her.
When they call out your name in a crowded waiting room with an authoritative voice, isn't it just like getting called to Contestant’s Row on The Price is Right?!?!
I meekly followed her to a chair in the hallway where I was told to sit. She took my heart rate, (63), and blood pressure, (high because I had just walked a long hallway), but I guess I passed. On we went, down the hall some more. We soon arrived at a weigh scale in the middle of a high-people-traffic hallway and she told me to get on. I asked if I should remove all my clothes first to get an accurate reading, putting her on official notice that she was now being challenged. The Grand Tour continued! She then asked me to follow her once again, (evidently she had not read the chart that I am half blind), and took me to a height chart on the wall.
Why can’t they just ask for your height! I mean, I’ve been the same height for 40-something years and have always passed that question with quite a good and accurate mark! What's more, she failed! She was so much shorter than me ... that when she laid papers on my head they bent downwards against the chart, cutting at least half an inch from my official height.
On we went ... she next led me to a private room. Here she put me on an electrocardiogram machine. I guess I passed that one … she simply grunted as she pulled off the sticky things, painfully removing half my body hair, (they should give you a general anesthesia for that test!).
With that she instructed me to go back to the waiting room to be called upon yet again. Having toured what seemed to be half the hospital with that one tekkie, my mind was now busy formulating an efficiency report. If they put a weigh scale and height chart in with the heart machine they could process the patients twice as fast instead of giving each one a global-sized tour of the cavernous hallways of St. Joe's!
The Pink Registered Nurse had asked for my complete history of operations. Beyond a tonsillectomy as a 12 year old and a repaired Achilles tendon from trying to play sports to too old an age, that cupboard was bare. I waited until she was off that page and had shuffled that sheet back into the thick deck; then said, “I forgot an operation”.
In the smallest little voice I could muster I replied, “Circumcision.”
For what seemed an eternity she just stared at the sheet, with no clue on how to proceed. She knew that I knew I had the upper hand here now; that I was finally in charge of this interview; that I had delivered the TKO.
After an eternity she meekly asked, “Can you remember when?”
Firmly and in control I replied, “Yes, it was on April 23rd, 1950”
“How on earth do you remember the exact date!” she whispered, trembling and now definitely in awe.
“Cause I was two days old!” I triumphantly ordered, as she penned in the date.
Before long the anesthesiologist, Doctor Bilos, called me into his office. He was a very nice chap, wanting to know my history with anesthetics, allergies, possible current illnesses, and a host of instructions to follow before the operation. He made sure that I will be spitting out all the water when I brush my teeth tomorrow morning … I thought about it for a fleeting moment, but then decided not to go there! After all, he hadn’t told me he was a registered doctor.
So I’m home right now, half blind, and thinking about tomorrow’s operation, praying for the best.
Let’s hope so!
This morning I had to go in for my pre-op everything.
The first person I saw was the clerk who made a brand new hospital card and put together a file. Once I had verified the details on my new card, I was told to go to a waiting room. I had a sense that this was all going only too well! When things in a hospital seem ultra efficient, you JUST KNOW the boom is about to fall.
The wait wasn’t bad at all, and yes, I got smacked full in the face with the first passing of the boom. A clinician soon came to the waiting room and called my name, telling me to follow her.
When they call out your name in a crowded waiting room with an authoritative voice, isn't it just like getting called to Contestant’s Row on The Price is Right?!?!
I meekly followed her to a chair in the hallway where I was told to sit. She took my heart rate, (63), and blood pressure, (high because I had just walked a long hallway), but I guess I passed. On we went, down the hall some more. We soon arrived at a weigh scale in the middle of a high-people-traffic hallway and she told me to get on. I asked if I should remove all my clothes first to get an accurate reading, putting her on official notice that she was now being challenged. The Grand Tour continued! She then asked me to follow her once again, (evidently she had not read the chart that I am half blind), and took me to a height chart on the wall.
Why can’t they just ask for your height! I mean, I’ve been the same height for 40-something years and have always passed that question with quite a good and accurate mark! What's more, she failed! She was so much shorter than me ... that when she laid papers on my head they bent downwards against the chart, cutting at least half an inch from my official height.
On we went ... she next led me to a private room. Here she put me on an electrocardiogram machine. I guess I passed that one … she simply grunted as she pulled off the sticky things, painfully removing half my body hair, (they should give you a general anesthesia for that test!).
With that she instructed me to go back to the waiting room to be called upon yet again. Having toured what seemed to be half the hospital with that one tekkie, my mind was now busy formulating an efficiency report. If they put a weigh scale and height chart in with the heart machine they could process the patients twice as fast instead of giving each one a global-sized tour of the cavernous hallways of St. Joe's!
So back to the waiting room and to the same bunch of today’s contestants waiting to be interviewed, questioned, poked, prodded and tested. We had just begun trading war stories again when a lady in a very smart pink lab coat asked me to follow her. She even had her own office where we stayed put. She introduced herself and added, (no kidding), “I’m a registered nurse.” Impressed, but not wanting to outrank her about my actually being a rocket scientist, I simply replied, “How do you do, I’m a registered patient”. Her look indicated we had not gotten off on the right foot. I also felt that inevitable feeling of wanting to challenge authority.
And then the questions started! She should have simply gone page by page with me through Grey’s Anatomy. I could not believe how many diseases exist to man. She wanted to know everything about me. She seemed genuinely unhappy that she couldn’t find something terminal about me, so I decided it was time she was challenged too!The Pink Registered Nurse had asked for my complete history of operations. Beyond a tonsillectomy as a 12 year old and a repaired Achilles tendon from trying to play sports to too old an age, that cupboard was bare. I waited until she was off that page and had shuffled that sheet back into the thick deck; then said, “I forgot an operation”.
Holy Operating Theatre! The look of triumph was telltale on her face. Her inquisition had indeed unearthed something sickly about me. It was evident in her eyes that I was no longer the Poster Child of Health I had tried to establish. I was setting her up ....
She finally and triumphantly found the sheet and scrolled with her pen downwards until she reached the box containing “tonsillectomy” and “Torn Achilles”, with their respective dates. Without looking up she asked, “What was your other operation?”In the smallest little voice I could muster I replied, “Circumcision.”
For what seemed an eternity she just stared at the sheet, with no clue on how to proceed. She knew that I knew I had the upper hand here now; that I was finally in charge of this interview; that I had delivered the TKO.
After an eternity she meekly asked, “Can you remember when?”
Firmly and in control I replied, “Yes, it was on April 23rd, 1950”
“How on earth do you remember the exact date!” she whispered, trembling and now definitely in awe.
“Cause I was two days old!” I triumphantly ordered, as she penned in the date.
She was now almost a basket case. When she asked me how my hearing was I replied, "Pardon". That went right over her head like a Jumbo Jet on takeoff and she asked me again! Next, she asked how my eyesight was. Here I was sitting across from her, totally blind in one eye and registering with her for a vitrectomy eye operation; sporting dark sunglasses so huge I looked exactly like a pale Stevie Wonder.
Moments later she asked me to go sit and wait at the end of the hall for the interview with the anesthesiologist. I'm sure she was headed to the pharmaceutical department for a Valium hit and Prozac chaser. She had finally met her match!Before long the anesthesiologist, Doctor Bilos, called me into his office. He was a very nice chap, wanting to know my history with anesthetics, allergies, possible current illnesses, and a host of instructions to follow before the operation. He made sure that I will be spitting out all the water when I brush my teeth tomorrow morning … I thought about it for a fleeting moment, but then decided not to go there! After all, he hadn’t told me he was a registered doctor.
So I’m home right now, half blind, and thinking about tomorrow’s operation, praying for the best.
Let’s hope so!
