As I pull my car into the hospital parking lot, there are two ambulances outside the main entrance. One is under the portico, not running, doors shut. The other is a few feet ahead of it, where three paramedics stand around a stretcher talking. The man on the stretcher is upright, belted to the stretcher, apparently a part of the conversation. I don’t get this. Are they waiting to go in? Why would they be standing around ? This building was once a regional hospital in the area and is now a five story building dedicated to mental health services. A newer hospital went in several years ago in a better neighborhood, no longer called a “Hospital”, but like most it is now referred to as a “Medical Plaza”, “Health Facility” or down in Dallas where the hospitals grow and stretch for miles, intertwining with doctors offices and surgical centers, they are part of what is called “Medical City”.
I take deep breath before I get out of the car. My brother is in there somewhere, having been transported from the nursing home he currently lives in. Apparently, he became violent with the nurses last night after a fall. There is no one at the reception desk when I enter. A sign next to an old style desk phone instructs me to dial “0” for assistance. I am told to go to the 2nd floor. I step off the elevator into a bleak room, with sage green walls and a bench bolted to the floor. There, on the wall next to the double doors is another phone with a sign to pick up the receiver. I tell the person on the other end of the line that I am there to see my brother. After about 10 minutes, a young woman in scrubs comes out and redirects me to the 5th floor.
This floor looks about the same, with the addition of bright orange signs warning visitors to avoid letting anyone out when they enter. HIGH ESCAPEMENT RATE they read. There are also dispensers for hand sanitizer and face masks. Great, I think to myself. He is in the Super Psych section.
I pick up the receiver and am connected to the nurses station. After a few minutes , I am escorted in and asked to sign in, hand over my purse, keys, and cell phone. I am then escorted around the nurses station to an open area where patients meander, all wearing the same bright yellow socks that have grip dots on both top and bottom. I am guessing that this is in case the socks twist around, nobody falls. My brother is in a combination recliner / hospital bed in the middle of the room. His legs are elevated, and he appears to be trying to sit up, but in slow motion. His head is lurched forward, his neck stretched behind him , his back curved. He looks like one of those old time cartoons of a turtle trying to move forward.
I approach his bed and say “Hey ! How we doing ?” He twists his head towards me slowly, eyes blank, and gurgles out “Purty goo”. A nurse scoots a chair over to his side so I can sit down. I ask to get an update and she offers to go find his case worker. I ask him if he remembers what happened, the fall, the way he swung at the nurses and got violent. He raises his hand and it shakes while he searches for the words. This is part of the dementia. Sometimes it takes awhile for him to respond. I wait. After a few minutes he gurgles out the sentence “They were being bitches”. It doesn’t come out clear like that, his words are slurred and messy.
I notice a young woman in a recliner in the corner. She looks like she is in her early twenties. I wonder what has brought her here, but I don’t have to wait long. An orderly, a young black man, approaches her and asks if she can talk. Does she want to tell him why she is there ? She sighs, then tells him she has four kids. She had gotten drunk the night before, out with a friend, and threw herself out of the passenger side of the car while her friend was driving. Shit. If I had four kids when I was in my twenties, I might have thrown myself out of a car, too.
The case worker arrives, fills me in on my brother’s care plan, and medications. He must be kept in “Line of Sight ” at all times, since he is a fall risk, so he does not have a room. They are managing his pain, monitoring his progress, and will keep me posted as to when they think he can be sent back to the nursing home. Visiting hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays from 1:00-2:00 pm only.
I feel the need to tell people his history. The nurses here, the administrators at the nursing home, the surgeon who repaired his broken elbow after the last fall. I have a desperate need to explain to them why this man, who looks like he is 97, but is actually 30 years younger. He was a musician, he played harmonica, he hauled equipment and jammed in with the likes of Bad Company, Aerosmith, and Lynrd Skynrd. He has had 13 fully invasive back surgeries over his lifetime as a result of him damaging his back during those year, moving speakers and soundboards. It will be a tidbit they can share with other nurses or their families when they go home, but it doesn’t really matter. He is one more diaper to change, one more chart to keep up with.
One the way out, I nab about four or five face masks from the dispenser on the wall. I don’t know why I do shit like this. I think maybe they will come in handy for a Halloween costume, or if I decide to dress the cats & dog up as doctors. Little do I know, that in about three weeks, these masks will be in high demand. The Corona virus will hit China, and then soon be headed our way.
The View from my Back Porch 