It is another day and another day in which a doctor decides my coughing and shortness of breath are worthy of a hospital admittance. Upon arriving at the admissions desk, I am told there are no hospital beds. The admissions department closes shortly; I will have to go to the emergency department to wait for a bed.
Upon arriving at the emergency department (ED), I am gasping, wheezing and coughing. As soon as the triage nurse sees me, she immediately tells the ED receptionist she is taking me directly back to triage. The nurse asks a few questions, takes my vitals and tells her colleague she is taking me straight back to the emergency department. When I arrive, the nurse frantically searches for a room for me. A man on a gurney is being rolled out of room 24, which is located immediately to my left. The nurse grabs a housekeeper and asks, “Can you quickly clean this room?” The housekeeper says she goes on break in 5 minutes, just enough time for her to clean the room. The triage nurse runs to find a clean bed across the ED. Upon arriving back at my side, the nurse has me transfer to the bed. The housekeeper quickly cleans the tiny ED cubbyhole. The nurse then wheels me into the ED cubicle.
Things move very swiftly. I am given Ativan (a sedative) to calm down my breathing. I am given fentanyl for my pain. I am started on IV antibiotics. I am given a dose of versed (another sedative). Precedex (another sedative) is continuously dripped through my IV. After 30-40 minutes, my nurse tells me he is going to give me another dose of Ativan and fentanyl. I am completely exhausted from my doctor’s appointment and trip to the hospital; my brain cannot comprehend all the drugs which are being injected into the two IV lines (one in each arm).
I spend a whole night and the next day in the ED waiting for a respiratory intensive care unit (RICU) room. The night is muddled. I remember having to go to the bathroom. The nurse gives me the first round of Ativan. I clumsily make my way to the ED toilet down the hall. As time passes and IV fluids are given, I have to go to the restroom again. I am too drugged to move. A while later, I awake from a drowsy stupor. I lie in my bed in a pool of my own urine. I am too sedated to be humiliated. I managed to slur out to a random ED staff member that I had urinated in the bed. In a haze, the guy takes off my pants, undergarments and hospital gown and places on me a clean hospital robe. The man changes the disposable pad beneath me, but the urine has soaked through and soiled the sheets underneath. Not able to move or think, I collapse back down onto the wet linens.
Night and day drift in and out. I am so groggy. I am grateful to be getting sleep while spending nearly 24 hours in the ED. When I finally get a room and am transferred to the RICU, the drugs from the ED finally start wearing off. I am gripped with fear and anxiety. Where am I? What happened to last night and today? I want to scream and cry. I do not like losing control. I do not like being lost in time. I am usually so diligent—I meticulously regulate every drug which enters my body. But it seems, the one time I do not insist on managing the ED chaos around me, I am sedated into unconsciousness. I am grateful God watched over me and protected me. However, knowing this could happen again makes me want to never step across the threshold of any hospital ever again. Praise be to God for His mercy and compassion. May He continue to guard and guide me through every day of my life. It is only with Him that I pass safely from trial to trial.
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