Hospital Hell

The last few weeks have been hell.

My dad had a heart attack. He's 67 and has Parkinsons. With my husband, he forms my base. Two rocks that are hard, firm and something you can anchor yourself to when storms blow.

The whole time I was growing up he was never sick. One time the dock roof at City Transfer, back when Forrest Vaughn owned it, fell on his head. He got stitches and took one day off. His dad was a longshoreman. My dad and mom had four girls before little boy blue was born, on dad's birthday. We played flag football with the little squirt since we were old enough to form a "defensive squad". We played so hard it turned him into quite the tough football player. Small and not a great runner during practice but get his adrenalin going and not much could stop him. We often got his adrenalin going. Four older sisters making life hell. And a father who's only other outlet than family was coaching little league.

Mr. B is what Brian Tarabochia of Salmon for All tagged him with eons ago and Mr. B he has been for generations of kids. People I didn't even know would come up to me and tell me what a great coach he was. He loved teaching kids the dynamics of baseball. He loved basketball too, and often helped me with my basketball teams.

Sister Daintry was the best known athlete of the family. She was the last baby Dr. Fowler ever delivered so my mom let him name her. With that name it was decided no middle was needed. She has a PhD now and is in administration for the State of Hawaii working with the mentally challenged.

Of us kids, though, my sister Sarah was the "natural". If she wasn't so shy she could have gone to college on a sports scholarship. Absolutely anything she put (and still puts) her mind to do she accomplished with what seemed to be utter ease.

But, back to me. This is my blog not theirs (love you #3 & #4)! #1 and the one to stay home, man the home fires, and watch my father struggle as his body goes in different directions than his mind wants it to.

The day before his heart attack we were clearing shrubbery and finding that which was covered. A true nightmare of what can happen in the woods when sticker bushes find your discarded items that will "eventually" make it to the dump. He picked up TWO ceramic toilets, tanks intact, and put them on the wheel barrow. Shortly thereafter he said he wasn't feeling well. He had been having spells of tiredness for the past two months and when we told the parkinson's doctor at the VA hospital/clinic we were just told Dad had to either start exercising more or submit to the loss of muscle usage and give in to the tiredness.

He was on Metoprolol for an unspecified, unusual but untraceable EKG. When he was in Japan for my brother's wedding something happened which they thought could have been a heart attack however the EKG kept giving different readings and when they did an angiogram nothing unusual showed except that he had an unusually thick heart wall (what?).

The Parkinson's doctor did not question whether his unusual fatigue was due to his heart. He increased his Sinemet and Mirapex and said exercise more. We exercised him more. Walked more often and asked him to help more around the house getting it ready for sale.

He was life flighted to St. Vincents in Portland. Watching your father flown off in a helicopter to a hospital towards God knows what is really surreal. I couldn't believe it was happening. I was the one to drive him to the ER room at 4 am because of his arm going numb and chest feeling like an iron band was squeezing it. The VA hospital refused to take him if an ambulance brought him. I had been told that by a nurse before. If at all possible we needed to bring him in ourselves because they won't refuse you then but they ALWAYS refuse if another hospital calls.

Bart drove and I called everyone on my cell that I was supposed to. My mom and my son called their lists of people they were responsible for. In our family whoever you call first you are responsible to keep updated. I still owe phone calls. And I am so tired of the horror story that follows.

DO NOT EVER allow a loved one to go to the hospital alone. DO NOT EVER allow a loved one to go to the hospital alone. My father lost his dignity and his pride at St. Vincents by a sadistic nurse and one I should have known not to leave him alone with. 20-20 hindsight.

Another day, maybe? Am I really going to finish this here. This is long enough and I am sick at heart. I have spent the last few days filling out forms, writing letters, trying to get records transfered, checking on all of his meds, consulting with the pharmisist to see which ones conflict. Reading to see when to take which for the best effect. Parkinson's meds can't be taken with protein or they bind to the food and flush right out without taking effect in the body. His heart pills must be taken with food or they will make him nauseous.

When he left that ward he walked out. They didn't even offer him a wheel chair. The night before they had had security guards in his room because they thought they might have to take him to the psych ward because the nurse said he was having delusions! My father said he had peed on himself and the nurse refused to give him a clean gown. He peed on himself because the plastic urinal was full. The nurse was pissed that he couldn't hold it until he got to him and asked him if he liked laying in his own piss. My dad told me he wished my brother was there. He knows he would have punched him. I feel sorrow I didn't stay that night.

I was tired, so tired and went over to the guest house even though the nurse bugged me, sneered when my mother tried to joke with him and barely nodded when we left. The one saving grace was that I told him I was worried that my father's Parkinson's meds weren't being ministered on time and he seemed disorientated. If there were any problems, even if it was 2 am I was to be called, no restraints or other drastic measures were to be taken.

Did he treat my father like that because he could get away with saying he was delusional? I understand delusions in the hospital. I was there with both my grandparents through numerous operations and understand how narcotics can play havoc with the mind. In this CCU ward it is supposed to be one on one care. The nurse had three patients. When my father was wheeled out of surgery I was the one that held the compress on his groin where the angioplasty had been incerted for 45 minutes because the nurse had to prep another patient for a "very tough surgery" and she also had another patient to check on. She didn't want to use the belt because it is painful. She kept on gritting her teeth and barking at my father to "stop shaking your leg, your going to rip open your incision". And no matter how many times I told her he had Parkinsons AND restless leg she would just say, "he has to try harder"!!!

OH! I am so angry. His VA clinic GP NEVER, EVER returned any phone calls. Still hasn't. And dad is supposed to be going to see him sometime next week, according to hospital discharge papers, for a follow up. In another week he is supposed to go back to the heart surgeons. He said it will be a cold day in hell before he steps through the doors of St. Vincents again.

When I got called to his room at 2 am and got him calmed down I went out to talk to the nurse. I was calm, he was all sweetness and light. Didn't know what came over my father, he just went off! I said that he had mentioned that two of his meds were refused him. The nurse said, "Oh, it was just his Parkinson's meds and it was just his 10 oclock night time one and his midnight one". May I please have them, thanks. Going back to my father's room I felt so cold. If he was right about the meds, how much of the rest of the horror story was delusion and how much was real? How would we ever know? I know this man gave me the creeps when he came on and I told my mom, "I'm too tired to break in another nurse and this one looks like a real prick. Do you think dad will sleep through the night?" She said we can hope so and leave our names with the nurse. You aren't supposed to sleep in the room or be in the room after 9:30 PM each night but we stretched as long as we could to keep him from being agitated.

The tears are burning down my face now. I don't like hospitals. I know, I know. I know it all, the pluses the whys and the wherefores. My sister-in-laws are hospital administrators, nurses, and my daughter is studying to be a nurse. It probably just means I know that much more to keep me scared and sad. If he has another attack he says he won't go in. I don't know what I am going to do.

Two arteries to his heart were completely blocked. He had stints put in. One person coming through doing some sort of paperwork asked if we knew why they waited two days before doing surgery on my father. We said what? With this type of blockage, shortly after the sonogram shows the problem, apparently, they usually do the "procedure" (no longer known as surgery). Did we know why there was a two day delay. No, we just thought they were stabilizing him.

What was that about?

If you've stuck around this long, thank-you for "listening". Here's to a brighter tomorrow and a prayer that no more trips to a hospital will be needed. Ever.