Grateful Patient Day

 Monday morning I take my crutches instead of the scooter to my appointment, which despite my efforts at padding it is still tearing up my knee. I can’t bring myself to deal with the wheelchair on the bus. 

     It feels strange to be here this early, and on a Monday. Check in is smooth and by the time I make my way upstairs I’m still fifteen minutes early. 

     At 8 Shelley comes out and says the doctor is in a meeting and won’t see me until 8:30. I tell her it’s fine; I should still get out in plenty of time to put in a half day at work. 

     As I wait, I get an email from the chief philanthropy officer for the hospital.

You just missed Grateful Patient Day, but it is never too late to honor our exceptional caregivers and the exceptional care they provide. 

We wanted to re-send yesterday’s email to make sure you know that you can still show your gratitude for excellent care and invest in the health of our community by making a tax-deductible gift today.

With gratitude,

Are these the same exceptional caregivers who had to go on strike because the hospital refused to pay them a decent wage? I guess I should be grateful it’s not another one of the past due notices they keep sending me. I wonder how Luigi is doing. 

A pretty but severe looking woman with green-tipped hair wheels an old man out of the elevator. She deposits him then sits down behind him so that they’re not facing each other. They don’t say a word as she types on her phone. Finally she asks, “When did you retire, dad? I’m filling out the long forms for tomorrow’s appointment.” He tells her and she goes back to typing sternly.

They get called in and then it’s my turn. Vicki leads me to the first room, where KC is waiting excitedly with the saw. “I haven’t done one of these in a while, I hope I remember how!” She cackles. I roll up my pant leg. “Where’s your cast?” She asks. 

“I’m getting my first one today.”  She looks crestfallen, and wheels the saw away.

She returns to take my vitals and measurements, which Vicki enters in the computer. She says that Sally in hyperbaric says hi. I ask KC what she did this weekend and she says she took out her yard debris bags. I tell her I didn’t know she had a yard and she says she doesn’t.

Her and Vicki watch a video of a doctor putting on a total compact cast. “This guy’s the cast guru,” KC says, clearly in awe. 

“He’s so fast,” Vicki whispers.

Hesitant to break the mood, I ask, “Are there wound care conventions?” 

“There’s a yearly one in Vegas, and another one that moves around,” says KC. “Oh and a local one at Skamania Lodge. I’ve never gone, it’s really expensive.”

“It’s free for me,” says Vicki. “I go every year. Well, not last year. And not when COVID was bad. But other than that.”

“Wound care nerds,” I say. They both smile proudly, then leave. I don’t feel as miserable as last time but I still feel haunted and hollow. I hear the sound of the saw start up in the next room over. Be gentle with yourself, the curtain reads. Nurture strength of spirit. Your balance is now ready to be viewed. Thank you for your donation. 

After a while the curtain is pushed open by Dr Baylor, the blandly perky substitute doctor, followed by Vicki and Shelley. I’m relieved to have a break from Taggert. She asks how much drainage there was and they say medium to large. 

“Maybe we should wait until next week to do this.” Baylor says. “I don’t want to risk the infection getting worse. If there is an infection. The x-rays showed no osteomyelitis at least.”

“He’s coming back Thursday.” Says Shelley. “He should be fine until then.” Vicki agrees, but the doctor seems apprehensive. Finally she gives in and leaves Vicki to prepare the cast. 

I haven’t had one since… when? January? It all comes back to me as she lays out the supplies. First she pulls on the stocking, then lays a flat sheet of padding along the front of my leg and two a disk of cotton on either side of my ankle. She wraps my leg in sheets of batting, which she tears from the roll with a soft, pleasing rip. Then my favorite part: the box. 

The box is actually just a thick sheet of gray foam filled with holes, sticky on one wide and covered with ribs of  foil on the other. She folds it across the front of my foot to make what looks more like a silvery taco than a box. She cuts off the excess on either side with an L-shaped scissors. I find this whole part of the process oddly satisfying. Perhaps I’m becoming a bit of a wound care nerd myself.

While she’s doing all this, I ask if the guys still work here. She says no, that “It’s just us women now, aside from Tim. Do you know Tim? He’s our fill in.” She says that Aaron left to do what she calls “more hospital type work.” She doesn’t mention Sjon and I don’t ask. 

We talk about the weather, which leads to her talking about her son’s recent wedding in Virginia, where it was so humid everyone was drenched with sweat for the pictures. This somehow leads to her saying she’s going to see Neil Young with her husband in sun river. I try to get her to talk some more about Neil Young but she isn’t interested. I hear the saw going again. 

Baylor returns in gloves and a gown, and Vicki unwraps the first foil packet of casting and drops it into a bucket of water that reads Essity on the side along with a list of products. Everything is advertising. 

The doctor unrolls the yellow Fiberglas around my foot, my ankle, my shin, following it by two more rolls. When it’s done she isn’t happy with how little coverage there is over the box, so she tears open a fourth roll. I hate when there’s a fourth roll, it makes the cast even bulkier. Sure enough, when she’s finished I can barely squeeze my pant leg over it. Vicki gives me a new shoe and I take my first step. I had forgotten just how fucking heavy these casts are. 

As I leave, I clomp past KC, who is standing right in my way on her phone. I ask if they’re not keeping her busy enough.

“Not today, it’s a little boring,” she admits. “I’m indulging in some Amazon therapy.” I tell her to get me something nice. 

My bus comes right away, I make my connection with no problems, and am at work by 10:30. I lean my crutches against the wall and collapse in my chair, suddenly exhausted by this first step of what is going to be many months of this same routine, every week making the dull, plodding journey across town. It all went pretty smoothly, but, ungrateful patient that I am, I’m sick of it already