Stories that might be true: My post-operative nocturnal trolley rides through the hospital

 

My nightly post-operative activities in the hospital included late-night rides through the halls and departments, with my bed decked out as an old-time trolley car. I know it sounds unbelievable, but I think it happened.

I'm not sure how or when the staff managed to decorate and trick out my bed; I know for certain that they worked their magic some time after administering my evening medications. I recall that the travel and departure routines were nearly the same each night. 

It worked like this: Just as I was about to fall asleep, the room lights would flicker and go out. Then another set of lights would flash on. These were fixed to a framework fixed to my bed and resembled a trolley car, complete with window frames. I was propped up in the bed, which suddenly lurched forward, and we rolled toward the open door of the room and out onto the floor of the intensive care ward, where my hospital-wide journey would begin.

My bed moved at a steady pace, a train bell clang, lights flashed, and the O'Jays' "Love Train" blared from speakers as I rolled through the hall.

Nurses who cared for me and the doctors who had operated on me lined the hallways each night, cheering and waving to me. So did the women from the Physical Therapy Department, and the entire crew from the food service would turn out to wave and applaud. 

Why, even that tall, stunning blond in the knit dress from Radiology would stand provocatively in the doorway as I rolled passed her office. Each night she'd look at me and mouth the words, "Get on aboard the Love Train, the Love Train." 

Every night it was the same joyous ride. I would cruise Pediatrics, the Stroke Unit, Labor and Delivery, even the psych ward. Everyone was excited to see me, they gave me a warm reception, and it never got old for me. 

Then one day, my doctor told me he intended to discharge me that afternoon and send me home. My hospital stay was coming to an end. My wife provided wonderful care at home and I made steady progress in my recovery, but the nocturnal train rides ended with my hospital medication treatments. Imagine that.

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A story that might be true: How I got old man hands

 I entered the hospital in late December for a quadruple-bypass following a heart attack. The seven-hour procedure went well, and I was sent home after nearly a week of post-operative hospital care. 

It was while recuperating at home one morning that I noticed I had old man hands. Just weeks before, prior to entering the hospital, my hands had been firm but warm. Now they were weathered, wrinkled, withered, even a bit shriveled, and cold, always cold; now that I thought about it. 

I held my hands up in front of my eyes and stared at them in disbelief. These are not my hands, I thought. These are not the hands I have carried with me through life thus far, I told myself. I was certain of it. The fingernails look familiar, and the knuckles, too. The skin, however, was definitely different. No question about that. 

These were not the same hands I had on hand when I entered the hospital, I declared. And that was when it occurred to me. The doctors. For some reason the doctors must have surgically removed my original hands during the heart procedure and replaced them with the old man's hands I now looked upon. 

Yes, that made complete sense. While they were harvesting arteries from legs to stitch around my heart they also took the time to remove my young and supple hands and replaced them with a pair of wrinkled and weathered hands, ones suited for a man well beyond my years. Why they would do this I could not explain, perhaps for their sick amusement, maybe to kill time in the operating room. A reasonable explanation escapes me to this time, but the fact remains that they clearly replaced my hands and managed to do so without leaving any sign of a surgical scar, none whatsoever. 

So here I sit, recuperating at home with a newly rewired heart, so to speak, and a set of old man hands. And I give thanks for both.

-- Thank you for reading. Your comments and questions are always welcome.

A story that might be true: My hospital visitors

 

This might have happened during my post-operative hours, but probably not. 

I woke up on a bed in a dimly lit room. There was much movement all around me. Voices spoke in hushed tones. I recognized that one or two of the individuals were medical staff, probably nurses. I couldn't identify the others in the room, but I understood that their voices sounded faintly familiar.

I could hear only pieces of the conversation. It seemed lighthearted, humorous, and even engaging. Suddenly, I recognized one of the voices. It belonged to Gomez Addams, a character portrayed by actor John Astin in the 1960s TV comedy "The Addams Family."  

Why was Gomez Addams in my hospital room? 

I had little time to ponder the question. I was due in the operating room for a procedure that was scheduled to take hours to complete. While prone on my back and with a limited field of vision, I searched for a nurse. I needed to remind her of my procedure.

My surroundings changed. The spacious room shifted and narrowed. It now resembled the interior of an airplane, with a narrow aisle to one side and a line of hospital beds on another. I could see a bed at the foot of my bed, but not the patient in it. The aisle was empty, but I could hear people moving around behind the head of my bed. I could now hear them talking in clear, distinct voices. A few even stood over me and looked down at me.

I saw Robert Conrad, the TV actor known for "The Wild, Wild West." And the character actors Paul Gleason and William Atherton, both of whom were popular in the 1980s (Paul was the school principal in "The Breakfast Club" and William played the EPA inspector in 1984's "Ghostbusters"). Each smiled at me as they passed, but none spoke directly to me. 

I noticed it was growing dark in my room. The sunlight was fading. The hour was growing late. How could the medical team possibly perform my procedure so late in the day, I thought? Would the doctors perform the surgery at night? Oh, where were the nurses, I wondered. 

Still, a parade of chatty character actors passed by bed, making eye contact with me, but offering nothing directly, not even a, "Good day to you, sir." 

I saw Dean Stockwell, Miguel Ferrer, and Judd Nelson. And the line of actors continued. It included both the living and those who are no longer with us.  

In frustration and desperation, I shouted out that someone needed to help me. Someone needed to move me to the operating room so that my doctor could perform my procedure. 

Abruptly it was quiet in the room. A figure pulled a chair up in the aisle near my head and sat down. It was Bradford Dillman, the award-winning character actor whose career spanned more than three decades and included work on Broadway, movies and TV.

"What's on your mind, old man?" Dillman asked in a voice long familiar to me. 

I explained I was scheduled for a surgical procedure, and I needed to get to the operating room as soon as possible, before the operating team went home for the day. 

"You must help me," I said.

"Relax. That procedure was completed hours ago. It was a success and you're now in a recovery room. You're doing fine," Dillman said.

I looked about me and realized I was in fact in my room in the intensive care unit. The door to my room was open and I could see nurses and other medical staff busy at work stations just outside my room. I turned to my visitor.

"So the operation is done, and I'm going to be OK, Bradford Dillman?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "They wouldn't allow me and my friends in here with you otherwise," he said, flashing a warm smile.

I looked again at the busy nurses outside my room, and then turned to thank Bradford Dillman, but he was gone, leaving only an empty chair near my bed. 

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