Medical TV dramas were always my favorite. I loved the intense pace, hot doctors and compelling life or death situations—with everything wrapped up (most often happily) in an hour. The reality, in case you haven’t been to an emergency room, is nothing like what you see on TV.
Friday found me waiting in an ER with my dad for over 5 hours, while his bowel impaction was addressed. Most of that time he spent lying back, occasionally dozing, waiting for the next nurse or doctor to come by, while I sat or stood there reading my Kindle. A few attempts at conversation went by the wayside. Once, asking Gene how he was doing, he shrugged. “Bored,” he said.
Clearly, his situation wasn't critical so the more serious cases were dealt with first. The elderly woman next to us had fallen down “chasing spiders with her grandson,” breaking her wrist and sustaining a nasty cut to her head. Three people down the hall had cardiac issues; an old Chinese man was obviously sick but unable to communicate with anyone. The pace picked up over the afternoon; the staff were all busy, but efficient and organized—no shouting of orders or other disturbances. Now and then a security guard walked through, as did a sweet though persistent volunteer who kept offering refreshments to family members.
My prevailing thought was that all this could have been avoided if either my dad (or Jeannie) had been on top of the situation, which had been building for several days. But she was caught up in a social whirlwind—family members were in town; she was going out to dinner, shopping for clothes with her daughter, enjoying the county fair—and amid all the excitement, my father’s complaints were ignored or minimized. When I asked him how he felt about the lack of attention, he said, “I resented it.”
About an hour after we got to the hospital, I called Jeannie to give her an update. She launched into a tirade about how Gene “needs to stick to a regime,” repeating that several times, making it out to be entirely his fault, and complaining about his lack of consistency. She rhapsodized about probiotic yogurt and vegetable laxatives; at no point did she ask how he was doing. I found that a little surprising, given that she’d been out socializing when I came to take him to the hospital, and didn’t know until coming home where we were—but on second thought, I wasn’t surprised at all.
Finally—just like in the TV versions—he was released, shaky but better. After a quick stop at the pharmacy to pick up some heavy-duty laxative, we headed back home where he went straight to bed. Jeannie asked me to help open her new box of white zinfandel. I wouldn’t have had any even if she’d offered…but a real drink that night would have been just what the doctor ordered.
