Once
again,
I am prompted
to speak out on a subject that weighs heavily on my mind. No, not my weight, my health. (Yes, the two are at times interchangeable, but not here.) Perhaps I
can keep this discussion brief, and to the point. Or not? Since we all know
that’s a near impossibility, take a few moments, grab a cuppa and I’ll wait for
you here.
Some days I am my own worst
enemy. No, It's true!
As
some already know, I was recently hospitalized at our local medical center, the
Baraga County Memorial Hospital, and Spa. (I made that last part up, but in a
perfect world...).
My
unscheduled stay at BCMH wasn't entirely of my own doing. Or choosing. Without
really trying, I managed to procure my very own case of pneumonia. As bronchial
misadventures go, this was a doozie.
As
a typical male in good standing, I made every excuse in the book to avoid a
trip to the doctor. It’s fair to say my main concerns were avoidance of all
things medical and, without putting too fine a point on it, a lack of health
insurance.
Let’s
face it. Money’s tight. And I know ours isn’t the only household facing this
choice. One big medical bill and our economic house of cards will collapse. For
good, or not, this choice was made for me. Not by me.
Here’s how it went down
For many weeks I suffered a nagging cough,
and an inability to draw in a breath deeper than a paper cut. I was at the
point where I might have to declare defeat in the management of my own
healthcare. Wallowing in self-pity, and producing enough phlegm to float a
small armada, I finally gave in and admitted to my beloved that I was, in fact,
sick.
Which,
she of course already knew.
After
unwillingly pulling my aching body into the passenger side of the Escape, we
coasted down to the weekend clinic. After being poked, prodded, and doused with
x-rays, the doctor returned with the good news.
“Mr.
Schutte”, the good doctor said, “you are very sick.” He then bandied about some
medical jargon and a bit of digital hocus-pocus. With a flourish of his fingers
across the keys of his laptop, a script for an antibiotic raced through the
ether to the pharmacy. Only then was I was returned to the care of the good
nurse Katy.
That
turned out to be a huge mistake. For me.
Within
eight short hours I was in the emergency room, soaked in my own sweat, feebly
trying to convince the doctor, my wife and the attending nurse, that it was all
some kind of cosmic mistake. If I could just go home, crawl under the covers
and sleep until spring I would be just fine.
Apparently
it doesn't work that way.
Somewhere
after rolling into, and rolling out of Radiology, I discovered I’d been
kidnapped and stuffed into a semi-private room. My arm was taped down to an IV
drip. (Note to self, call broker, invest in 3M.) There was no mention of a
ransom. (That came later, after I was discharged.)
It
would be unfair at this point not to mention the great care I received during
my stay at BCMH. The nursing staff and attending physicians were good friends,
as we're the kitchen staff and housekeeping. They all looked out for me.
Later in the game
It’s
been many months since that nasty bacterial infection took up housekeeping in
my lung. Without so much as asking
permission or paying rent. Not surprisingly, I was not fully recovered from the
wee beasties that took up residence there. They refused to be evicted. Eminent
domain my ass, maybe I should sic the Supreme Court on ’em.
There
was the requisite follow-up after leaving the hospital. I endured a couple more
x-rays. (I was starting to glow in the dark). Then, after six weeks supervised
release into my wife's care, I was declared relatively cured. The term 'cured'
being relative here.
Final
diagnosis? The almost three-day stay at the Baraga County Memorial Hospital and
Spa, drove home the alarming fact that I’ve become more of an old goat and less
a spring chicken.
When
did that happen?
Mopping up
After
all that, one thing troubles me. Okay, more than one, but this first. Why is
it, now that I can’t, or shouldn't, I have this almost primal urge to light up
a bourbon-soaked stogie?
Perhaps
for very same reason I craved a large meat-lovers pizza with extra cheese
during my entire stay at BCMH. Which, by the way, clashed horribly with the
heart-healthy diet prescribed by, and don’t quote me, the attending ER
physician. (With sign-off by my wife, I'm sure.) The same wife who conspired
with the doctor to admit me, while I was unable to make important and possibly
life-altering medical decisions for myself.
That’ll
learn me!
Note: I have made financial
arrangements with the hospital regarding my stay (as well as other past due bills for tests, etc.). However,
another stay, for any length, for any reason, without proper health coverage,
will be devastating. Financially, or otherwise. I'm just saying. - js
