A Post-Surgical Update

The bicycling photo of my sister, Carol Gay, dates from 1969, when she was fourteen. In case you missed my last post or two, I’ll mention that Gay died on Friday. She was 71.

Peggy’s doctor failed to order the patient controlled narcotic pump he promised, so her pain level was six and rising when I reached the hospital at 7:00 p.m. Friday. While walking the stairs to the seventh floor, I got the call that my sister, Gay, had died, but didn’t answer it.

Peggy is not one to cry wolf, but Sophie, her busy and distracted nurse, had to be reminded repeatedly to call Peggy’s doctor, and even then we couldn’t be sure that she had done so because she was nowhere to be found. By 8:00 o’clock, Peggy’s post-surgical anesthetic had worn off, and she was crying and moaning. I called Peggy’s doctor myself, but his answering service wouldn’t put me through because, “Your wife’s nurses are supposed to control her pain, and if they can’t, it’s their responsibility to call her doctor.”

Peggy then demanded to see a hospitalist (a doctor on staff at the hospital), but was told that her surgeon hadn’t okayed it. Twenty minutes later, Sophie brought her two oxycodone tablets which Peggy refused to take, saying that they weren’t nearly enough; that her nasogastric tube made it impossible to swallow; and that she’s 74-years-old and has trouble swallowing pills on her best days. When Sophie offered to turn her tube off and kept urging her to “give the pills a chance,” Peggy asked to speak to the unit’s charge nurse. A half hour later, Sophie injected morphine into Peggy’s IV, and her pain level slowly dropped to 3.5. At 9:00 o’clock, Melissa, the charge nurse, came by to say that Peggy’s doctor-on-call had ordered a Dilaudid-powered pain pump and had authorized an IV injection of Dilaudid to tide her over until the pump was installed (Dilaudid is many times stronger than morphine).

I’ve spoken to Peggy twice today, but won’t visit her until tomorrow unless some new calamity arises. Although I spent much of today sleeping, I’m as tired now as when I went to bed last night. I am also finding it ever harder to power my way through situations that I can’t do much to remedy. Peggy told Melissa that she didn’t blame Sophie for the fact that she had spent two hours in horrific pain, but I mostly remember Sophie repeatedly saying “I’ll be back in just a minute,” before disappearing down long and empty corridors for twenty minutes at a time as Peggy’s pain worsened. Assaults on healthcare providers are a growing problem in America, and I had fleeting fantasies of running amuck myself because of Sophie’s emotional detachment. God help anyone who trusts her caregivers to stay on top of things.

Since coming home, I’ve bounced between obsessing both over Gay’s death and the world’s suffering, especially the suffering of animals in vet clinics who can’t tell their providers how much they hurt, and of wild animals who have no providers. During America’s Civil War, the Union blockade made it impossible for the South to import morphine with which to ease the pain of wounded soldiers (among them my relatives), and then there were the thousands of wars that were fought before morphine even existed. Peggy suffered increasing agony for two hours, yet I never lost faith in the thought that, if we persisted, she would eventually receive the help she needed even if I had to knock on doctors’ doors at midnight, but what if she had been in Gaza? What happens when the unbearable must be borne? Where is the justice? Where is the mercy? Even if a case could be made that our sorry species—from infancy on—deserves to suffer, how does this justify the suffering of dogs, cats, and polar bears? People who are more religious than myself have much to explain.

The photo to the left was made of myself, my half-sister, Anne, my half-brother, Jim, and my sister, Gay, on the day of our Mother’s funeral in 1988. I’m leaving the arrangements for Gay’s funeral to our eighty-eight year old sister, Anne, although when she guessed Gay’s age for an obituary, she was off by twenty years. It’s easy to tell myself that I should be doing more for Anne—and for Peggy—but making myself follow-through seems impossible when I can’t seem to stay out of bed. Today, though, I feel better than I did yesterday, and I will stay out of bed.

It is now Sunday, and Peggy’s  throat had recovered enough from being intubated that she no longer talks like Gay, a 55-year smoker. I will now breakfast, shower, and pay her a visit.

 

Diego’s plans to send Peggy home today (Monday) had to be cancelled when her always low blood pressure suddenly went high, so now I have no idea when she can come home. For her part, she wants to stay in the hospital another night because she worries that the BP meds will drive her pressure so low that she will become dizzy.