Hospitals are No Place for Sick People

“Hospitals are no place for sick people.” A coworker said those words years ago and I thought it was such an odd thing to say. Where else would sick people go? But I get it now. I really do. So, Jim, if you’re reading this, I hear ya, man. You were absolutely right. 
I just returned home from a four-day hospital stay. It wasn’t my choice to visit. I wasn’t secret shopping their services or anything. And my sincerest condolences to anyone who ever gets that type of assignment. In my case it was kind of a "go to the hospital or die” kind of thing. So, what’s a girl to do?  
Fortunately, I was able to skip the whole ambulance ride part of the experience. My family assured the doctor they could get me to the hospital pronto, and they did. I might mention here that I have the best family on the entire face of the earth, but since I could write an entire blog post on just that fact, I’ll save that for another time. 
We pulled up to the emergency entrance and my daughter helped me out of the car. She needed to. I couldn’t have gotten out of the car and into ER without her help. Believe me, I’m stubbornly independent. I don’t like to rely on anyone for anything, ever. I recognize this is a character flaw. Nobody’s perfect. If there was any possible way I could have physically walked through those front doors unassisted, I’d have done it. Like a boss. Head held high. Maybe even with a bit of swagger. Instead, I was leaning against my daughter like the Eiffel Tower, head slumped, shaky as a newborn calf. Not my finest hour. Oh, and for all of you trolls out there who want to know where my husband was, he had to pull the car away so other cars could pull up, so suck it.  
Anyway, my recollection of exactly what happened as we walked through the doors is a bit scattered, but I remember someone saying, “there’s usually a ton of wheelchairs here”. Somehow my petite daughter summoned the inner strength of Atlas and was able to hold me up until they found a wheelchair. I was then wheeled up to the check-in where a bored and borderline rude attendant checked me in. Her focus was on chatting with her work peeps, rather than on the barely living human in front of her. I don’t think she knows how lucky she was to escape the wrath of my daughter, who did the actual checking in on my behalf since I was pretty much out of it. I’m certain the attendant was only spared because my daughter didn’t want to risk slowing down the process.  
The doctor had called ahead to let the ER know we were on our way and sent us with a packet of information, the bloodwork they’d just completed, etc. We hoped that would expedite things when we arrived. It didn’t. We sat in a packed waiting room the size of a postage stamp. Me, lolled over in the wheelchair like a dead mackerel, while seemingly healthy people were called in, one after the other. I’m sure they weren’t truly healthy, but they didn’t have the same deceased-fish-look thing going on that I did. 
Luckily by the time we were called back, I was still conscious. Barely. But progress came to a standstill when the triage nurse discovered the rude check-in attendant had entered my first name as my last name and my last name as my first name. Friends, you can’t make this stuff up. Apparently, it’s difficult to get the latest drama from your coworkers and enter patient information into the right fields, all at the same time. The triage nurse wanted to at least get my vitals while they waited for the name issue to get sorted. Unfortunately, modern technology wouldn’t allow her to even move forward until my name mix-up was resolved and a new ID bracelet with a new bar code was generated.  
It didn’t take long after being triaged to be told I would be admitted. An IV was started, more blood taken, some medication for nausea started. I was impressed with the speed of the CT scan and X-Rays being done. The staff for both were professional and efficient. The wheelchair didn’t have a place for your feet though, so I had to hold my legs out straight for the ride from the ER to the scanning machine. Maybe I’ll get a discount on my bill for that. Insert eye roll here. 
The next couple days were an experience. I was in two different rooms and had approximately 300 different nurses. Ok, bit of an exaggeration, but the room and shift changes did expose me to many different nurses. Some were good. Some were awful. Seems like having compassion and a positive attitude would be a requirement when dealing with sick people. But I guess with staffing shortages being an issue, you take what you can get. And I’ll admit, I wasn’t the perfect patient. I accidentally hit my nurse call button twice by mistake when trying to turn on the TV. They really should put those buttons further apart. 
The staffing shortages also seemed to be the reason one of my blood draws required three different needle pricks and three different people before they could get my blood. I learned later that there wasn’t a phlebotomist on that night, and taking blood was evidently not my nurse's jam. Nor the second nurse that she called for help. She did tell me she usually has better luck drawing blood and, in all fairness, I was running out of places to stick a needle. The first two nurses tried taking it from my hand. Their attempts were unsuccessful, but the side-by-side bandages on my hand did look like Mickey Mouse ears. Nobody laughed when I pointed that out. 
Being able to sleep, which most sick people really need, does not happen in the hospital. You must be woken up for the middle of the night vital checks, medication administration and blood draws. I realize some of this must happen to keep you alive, but damn, don’t sick people need sleep? Could there be a better way? Like, if the patient happens to be lucky enough to fall asleep, let’s adjust our schedule a bit to let them sleep? Probably not an option, staffing issues being what they are. 
Lastly, let’s talk cleanliness; cleanliness of both the facility and the patient. I’ll admit I’m a bit of a germaphobe. Yep, another flaw. But I feel like pillows should have pillowcases. I really didn’t want to lay my head on the same pillow someone else had laid theirs on without a clean cover. And bedding? Mine was never changed during my four-day stay.  
The bathroom, germ heaven, seems like it should be cleaned at least daily. My preference would be at least twice a day. I mean, YUCK. A guy did come in with a rag and wipe it over the walls of our room. A small section of wall. But no thorough wipe down of all surfaces or anything. Hours before I was discharged, day four, someone did come in and ask if I’d like to bathe. Yes, I would have liked that. Day one, two, and three would have been nice. I finally asked for a toothbrush on day two so I could at least brush my teeth. Day one I was just too sick to care.  
In my opinion, hospitals should be pristine. I know it is a constant battle with sick people all over the place mucking things up, but germs should be attacked non-stop. After my stay I now understand why so many people end up with an infection while hospitalized. We need to do better.  
For my friends who live outside of the United States, I’m curious if things are better in your hospitals. For those of us in the US, why aren’t things better? How do we improve the current situation in our hospitals? Shouldn’t more of the money we pay in taxes go to better care? In the meantime, I implore all my friends to be informed and prepared. Maybe keep an emergency to-go bag at the ready with hand-sanitizer, disinfecting wipes, toothpaste/toothbrush, deodorant, dry shampoo and a pillowcase. Oh, and perhaps a name tag clearly showing your first and last name proudly displayed, in the proper order. Finally, if you’re lucky enough to have a kickass family to act as your medical advocates like I do, thank your lucky stars. I’m definitely thanking mine.