Released at Last

Dr. Schultz came in at 7:30 a.m.   It was Day 2 after Paul’s hip replacement surgery but not even 48 hours post operation.  He checked the incision, reviewed Paul’s vitals, asked where the incision drain was (“I pulled it out last night,” Paul said, no apology in his tone), and wondered where the strapped foam was that was supposed to separate the legs at night during sleep.  Paul had an answer for that too:  “That blue foam thing?  I can’t sleep with that thing strapped to my legs.  I can’t do that at home, can’t I use a pillow or something?” 

Doc looked him in the eye.  “Yes, you can use a pillow.  You ready to get out of here?”

“YES I am,” Paul said firmly.  At that the doctor said the words we wanted to hear:  “You can go home today, I’ll write the prescriptions and write up the release paperwork.” 

While PT assistant Gee came in to get Paul ready for his last PT session at the hospital, I began fielding the constant phone call and texts  -  yes, we were going home today, no I had no idea when.

I left around 9 a.m. to go home and get the house ready to receive a post-hip replacement patient.  While there, two guys from our church family dropped off walkers and toilet extender seats for our bathrooms –  it pays to have friends older than you are.  We were set – a walker for downstairs, one for upstairs, and one for the truck to help bring him home.

Back at the hospital – driving Paul’s truck this time instead of my low sedan – I checked on my anxious husband and began chasing nurses to get our release docs, prescriptions, final PT orders.  Nurse Lani told me she’d check on that, and before she left the room I asked her what to do about taking our stuff down to the car, hoping for the offer of a cart or something.  She smiled sweetly and said, “Just  grab what you can, take it to the car, pull around front.  I’ll have Paul wheeled out by a nurse waiting to meet you.”  Onto my right shoulder I hoisted my Vera Bradley bag that contained laptop, clothes, snacks, toiletries, and Paul’s incidentals.  Then I grabbed the huge vase of gorgeous flowers sent by our work, the unwelcome blue foam leg pillow, and my coffee. 

I turned to Paul.  “Look, I think I can get all this except the portable urinal.  We can donate the small plant to another patient who has no flowers, and if you’ll just remember to bring this plastic urinal we are set.”  He assured me he could do that, and asked me to just get him out of there.

So, loaded to the gills with my bag, the flowers, the blue foam growing larger by the minute and my coffee, I set off to the truck.  Out the door, saying goodbye to the nurses, down the hall to the elevators, down 6 floors to ground level, through the cafeteria and the maze of hallways leading out to the emergency entrance and south parking lot.  I’d had to park on level 2 of the parking garage, and being so used to stairs I hadn’t a clue about the location of the elevator.  A nice young man in scrubs was headed up the stairs to Level 2 and opened doors for me to get to that level.  “Thanks,” I said, as I spotted the truck and hurried to unload. 

I set the vase down on the ground, unlatched the truck bed and unloaded, then figured out what items could ride in the bed (none), what could go in the back seat but not impede the passenger seat ability to recline, and what I had to hold (the flowers).  Then I took a swig of the much needed coffee, put the truck into reverse and headed to Exit. 

The ticket lady had trouble making change but eventually I was free of the parking garage and out into the sunlight - so different than the day that had brought us to this place.  I drove around to the front of the hospital and spotted my husband curbside in a wheelchair, a tiny Asian female nurse at his side.

Paul had only one job.   Sit in a wheel chair and hold a plastic urinal, empty weight approx.3 oz., and wait for me to pick him up.  But no, there he sat holding a plant.  I decided not to say anything because we weren’t that far from home and he had to be in pain, even though he wasn’t showing it. 

Nurse Tiny opened the passenger door and said, “Let me just help into the truck.”  I shifted into Park and told her I’d be around to help.  Paul had already figured out the two of us gals weren’t going to easily lift him up into the seat so he suggested Tiny move the wheel  chair and let me help him up.  After two failed attempts on her own she acknowledged the need for help.  Paul  marshaled his arm strength and with our help made it into the passenger side.  “Good luck!” Tiny said, quickly wheeling the chair away.

Belted into the driver’s seat, I put the truck in drive, ready to be home.  At that moment Paul said, “I gotta take a leak.”  “Where’s the urinal?” I asked, impatiently.  He steeled himself for my response.  “I forgot it.  The nurse wanted me to hold the plant.”

Not trusting myself to say anything, I put the truck in Park and left it running at the front of the hospital, my husband sitting wordlessly in the passenger seat.   I trotted through the maze up to opposite side of the 6^th floor and down the unfamiliar path from front entrance to 6^th floor -  not from the back parking lot.  Nurse Tiny saw me arrive breathless at the nurse’s station and I told her we forgot the urinal.  After only a few minutes she appeared with two of them.  “Thanks,” I said and began my trek back to the truck.  Only this time I was so turned around I didn’t know where to go after taking the elevator down to the ground floor.

Nothing looked familiar.  I asked people, “Which way to the front entrance, the north entrance?”  Twice I asked and twice was given wrong directions.  I was so turned around I got lost and ended up exiting outside the familiar south entrance.  By this time the only thing I could think of was to walk outside all way around to the front.  Where my husband still sat in the parked truck.  Unable to move, certainly unable to drive, and wondering where in the heck his wife was. 

I opened the door and tearily explained my delay.  He was magnificent.  “No problem, I waited, thanks for bringing these.”  He didn’t cock his head and ask incredulously, “Why did you walk halfway around the hospital to get back to the truck?” or roll his eyes or grumble, the way I likely would have done.  It was a real lesson in humility for me.  Sniffing back tears I told him we’d be home soon.  Where my brother, an EMT and recovered from a serious knee injury in recent months, waited to help me transition him home.

And then, in the midst of my tears, I thought of a silver lining.  Now we had two urinals, not just one.  Just like we had two stories at home.  Mom was right, there is always a seed of something good out something bad.  This was a good thing.