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.

-- Thank you for reading. Your comments and questions are always welcome. And feel free to email me at kbotterman@gmail.com.

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.