CHAPTER 217: FORTY DAYS IN THE WILDERNESS 2020
I couldn’t believe I had a stroke. Everything seemed to be working just like before. I could talk plainly and nothing seemed impaired. I didn’t really believe them. I have since been told most people don’t remember having a stroke.
considered to be in part of North Wilmington, although I don’t consider the area Wilmington at all. This would be my home for most of the summer. The day was July 5, 2020
Again an ambulance ride and paramedic pushing me and a gurney through hallways I really couldn’t see. All I saw were the overhead lights.
It was a large room with two beds, but I was the only patient. I had the bed next to the window.
“Well, isn’t this luxurious,” I thought. But I found out I was alone because all new patients were in quarantine due of Covid. It was also a Sunday, so only a Skelton staff was on duty. There were no Therapists at all, they are never here on weekends.. It was nice while it lasted. However, I couldn’t walk; I couldn’t even stand. I was stuck lying in bed trying my best to figure out how the TV hanging above my head worked..
Zilch.
I looked the list over and Arcdia on Silverside Road seemed the closest to my home, so I picked it.
On Monday, about 9:00 AM a women in a mask appear by my
bed. She hadn’t come to rob me but came to teach me how to transport from the bed to a wheelchair. ( She didn’t look like the one in this photo. She was a good-looking, slim, young and tall person, almost my height, and very friendly.)She would be my physical therapist during my stay. By the time she left me that morning I was able to slide to the edge of the bed and swing my bottom over in a chair. After she got me doing that, she had me running the chair back and forth in the room, at the end of which I was actually able to get myself back into bed.
She was there to catch me if I didn’t quite make it. First thing she had done was put a big belt about me that she could hold me up if necessary.
Trying to sit or get up from an
unlocked wheelchair is a disaster ready to happen. The chair will tun away from you and you will not sit in its cushy cushion but on the hard unforgiving floor, while the chair sails gleefully across the room away from you. This was a lesson I learned the hard way more than once.
I am a risk taker, I know. Once the therapist showed me I could transfer from bed to wheelchair, I had to try it out for myself, even though I was told not to do this unless someone was with. I had to see if I could wheel around the room on my own, and I saw I could. I also felt now I could go to the bathroom on my own.
wheeled near it, but it was like that park bench. I could get up near the seat, but I couldn’t; sit down. I circled around a bit and then lost my balance. I tried to grab the wheelchair seat to balance myself, but instead the chair went over backward and took me with it. I crashed on the tile floor helpless.
I slowly dragged myself across the floor toward the HELP rope rear hug down from the far wall and as I did this all inside me let loose. It was like C. Diff. all over and what was coming out was all over. All over the floor, all over my legs, all over my shorts, but none in the toilet. I reached the pull cord and pulled it.
I lay back exhausted gazing at the mess I made. A floor aide walked in. She kind of gasped. She called in another lady. The two of them cleaned me up and got me back in the uprighted chair. They got a mop and pail and scrubbed the floor. The shorts I had on disappeared and I would never see them again.
tucked in. She wasn’t happy with me at all. “You are not to get our of that bed without help.” She said. If you need to get up or anything, call us. That is what we are here for. Understand?”
“Yes,” I nodded my noggin. “I understand.”
And I did. I did not make any more unaided transfers or scoot about on my own.
On Monday my rehabilitation began in Ernest. I awoke Monday morning to find the tall, rather good looking young woman standing next to my bed. She would be one of my Physical Therapists during my stay. She would be followed by an Occupational Therapist and a Speech Pathologist. They came in one after another like Scrooge’s Spirits and they came everyday I was there, except weekends. Therapists did not do therapy on the weekends. (There would be many Therapists in my future.)
The Occupational Therapist was not there to teach me a new occupation. She was here to show me how to the mundane tasks of life, which had now become difficult. How instance how to cook a simple meal. As a Medicaid Member I would be receiving Mom’s Meals. These are precooked packets, similar to dozen dinners, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Actually they are not at all bad.
plastic seal, put back fro another minute, take out and discard the seal and eat. One day I pretended to cook a toy tractor.
We went to the bathroom and simulated getting a shower. I was shown how to carry my walker up steps in the gym. It is not as easy as you think
When you are in one of these kind of places there are two things you look forward to: the visits from your Therapists five days a week and meal times every day. Surprisingly, the meal were very good.
My meals were brought to my bed because of my mobile
problems. I had breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed. Meals were served pretty much at the same time daily, but you could hear them coming by the heavy rolling of the cart. Now aide are supposed to prep the meals; that is, cut the meat, peel off any lids or seals and start tearing packs, such as ketchup. Some aides remembered to do this, some didn’t. It was bad for me if I got someone who didn’t do this. With my ALS I couldn’t open things or cut food. Things might say so easy a child can do it, but this not true when you have Lou Gehrig Disease.
two young ladies in scrubs showed up and said I was being moved. My quarantine was over. They were packing up my things and transferring me to a wheelchair. No more private room. I was getting a roommate.
The man was curled up on the top bed nearest the hallway door. He was an old black man. Those hauling me in introduced him and I said hello but he said nothing back to me. When I was alone in quarantine, I could hear a number of patients gathered in a hall somewhere. They seemed to have a little nightly get-together outside of their rooms. One thing I noticed was a get ten screaming. I thought I’m glad I’m not near him. He was aways screeching about something, But this occurred in the distance, up a hallway far away from me. When I was moved, guess who my roommate was? This howling man!
summoning a nurse. (I was always calling it the Cow Bell.) He never used the bell. He wanted anything he just screamed for it, over and over until he got attention Most of the time his bell was on the floor under his bed.
In late evenings he would begin to chant. He would turn his TV loud after lights out. Many time he would be talking to people not there, One morning he was instructing some imaginary person on preparing a boat for sailing. My Therapist would come in to treat me and wonder how I stood it. These therapists took pity on and went to management on my behalf.
The next day two young women in scrubs came in.
“Good morning, Mr. Meredith”, they said. “You’re being moved.”
Unfortunately they dropped my
glasses transferring me to my new bed, so I had no glasses the rest of my stay.
As they whelled me to my new home they told me not to worry, my new roommate was quiet. Indeed he was.
same age as myself. He introduced himself as Frank. This made it easy for me to remember. My high school nickname had been Frank. His name was Francis Castelli and he had been assistant superintendent of the Brandywine School District when he retired. (My maternal grandfather’s name was Francis and so was my paternal uncle.)
Dr. Castelli, he had a P.hD in Behavioral Science. He also had a B. A, in Biology and a Master’s in Education. He was once the state’s teacher of the year in Biology. He was quiet and he and I got along famously. We could talk intelligently to each other and had many conversations.
when the food was delivered and no one was looking, he would wheel out to the little condiment cart and take several packets of salad dressing. These he would bring back to his bed and drink the contents.
This was my routine.
I woke up always very early. I tried to be quite so as not to disturb my roommate. It was not possible to go for a walk in a park as had been my pre-ALS habit so I would turn on the TV and watch with the sound off, using the closed caption. Once I though it was safe to masker s little noice I would transfer to my wheelchair and roll into the bathroom. I could brush my teeth and such.
the place was to do what the therapists told me to do. I was also glad when I could transfer out of bed to my wheelchair safely and able to urinate in the bathroom toilet normally and not in a bottle. The aides were suppose to empty these urine bottles anytime they passed through your area, but some of them failed do so. When the urine bottle got two-thirds full in was almost impossible to use. You haven’t experienced life until you’ve poured cold urine across your groin. Not pleasant.
I watched a lot of films on Turner Classic Movies and
American Classic Films. I watched a lot of old films I had never before seen, including almost all of Charlie Chaplin’s. I had never watched these because I didn’t see what the fuss about Chaplin was. Now I do. Other than watching films not much else was available. There were no activities being held because of Covid. People could not gather.
Skelton crew at the center. Families couldn’t visit, no one could because of the pandemic. We did have some things, such as Christmas in July where some staff member dressed as Santa came to each room and headed out little gifts. There were cupcakes and staff sang carols.
I talked on the phone to my wife every morning and also my friend Ronald.
Frank and I talked a lot.
I would spend 40 days in rehab. I went into it in late June and came home on August 13.
Frank and I had both been admitted to Acadia Healthcare about the same time, but I was discharged before him. He wanted to be discharged so badly, but he struggled with what he had to do. He resisted much of the treatment and was threatened with being moved
into long term care. He would complain about the therapists, especially physical therapy, who often took him to the gym to work out on the bars. This was to help him regain his ability to walk, but he grumbled it always made him mess himself.
He was admitted because he had a urinary track infection. This had totally messed him up. He couldn’t walk. He needed aide to transfer from wheelchair to bed and vice versa. He had to be helped to dress and even to go to the bathroom.
After I left I wondered if he ever got out of the place. I have discovered he died in 2020 at the age of 80 one month after I was discharged.
wheelchair, a new chair I was allowed to keep, in the back of the van. All I could think about were the many comedies I had seen where the patient comes loose, goes out the ambulance rear doors and rolls down a street against traffic.
No comments:
Post a Comment