Hospital stay needed but can’t be too short
By Roy Ockert Jr.
From age 0 plus two days to age 79 plus a month, I managed to avoid spending a single night in a hospital. That ended last fall when I had surgery requiring an overnight stay at NEA Baptist Memorial.
I have a fear of hospitals, which may go back to the night when I was 8 years old and an ambulance pulled into the parking area of our apartment house. The crew went inside and brought out my beloved grandfather Tommy, the important male figure in my life then. I asked someone where he was going and was told, “to the hospital.”
The next time I saw him, he was in a casket at a funeral. Kids don’t get over things like that easily, and I guess I didn’t.
When I got older and had occasion to visit someone in a hospital, from the moment I walked in, I was looking for an exit. Even when my wife Pat was hospitalized to give birth to our children, I didn’t really want to be there. Thankfully, the Lamaze method, which allows fathers to “participate” in the birth of their children hadn’t become popular in the United States, and the nuns who ran those hospitals made it clear they didn’t want me there.
Our first daughter was born during an episode of “Star Trek” because I was told to go get something to eat. We lost our next child in an emergency premature birth, and I was sent to a waiting room at St. Bernards Hospital while the second daughter was arriving.
I’d like to think I’d have given Pat some comfort by being in the room, holding her hand and reminding her to breathe. I’d like to think that. She did all right with much better help than me.
I barely escaped a hospital stay in my late 40s, when a softball sliding wound became infected. Referred to an orthopedic specialist, he gave me a brutal diagnosis: “You’ve got a staph infection, Roy. This thing is dangerous; it can go straight to your heart; it can kill you.” He recommended going directly to the Batesville hospital, where overnight I’d be pumped with antibiotics. But he gave me an alternative: go to the hospital every four hours for a dose of the medication over two days. I jumped at that option.
That overnight stay at NEA Baptist was enough for me to procrastinate until recently on another needed surgery. My surgeon projected I would need to spend two nights in the hospital afterward. He was wrong about that — four days and three nights, which sounds like a vacation trip, but it wasn’t.
My surgery, so I’m told, lasted more than four hours. I don’t know; I slept right through it — mercifully.
I awakened, sort of, in a recovery room with a number of other semi-conscious people. Eventually I was taken to a hospital room, but it was some time later before I knew where I was.
For the first 18 hours or so I was in bed with an oxygen tube connected to my nose, a waste bag connected to either side of the bed and compression boots on each leg, squeezing and unsqueezing at a methodical pace, with ports for medication in each arm. I could not move, and my nurse was under orders not to give me any water or ice. My mouth became so dry I could hardly speak.
Saturday morning a young patient care assistant took pity and brought me a cup of ice. During the lunch hour a doctor subbing for my surgeon came in and ordered the bags off and specified that I could have clear liquids. Things were looking up.
By Saturday afternoon I was on the hospital’s meal list, and say what you will about hospital food, I was grateful to have anything. Pain medication allowed me to sleep some Saturday night.
I was hopeful of getting out Sunday, which happened to be the 58th anniversary for Pat and me, so I declined any further pain medication. My nurse and the charge nurse collaborated to get me out of bed — a major accomplishment. I could get to the side chair, which isn’t any more comfortable than the bed. However, the sub doc said I should stay another night. Pat and I had a brief celebration by watching an episode of the Netflix series, “The Four Seasons,” on my laptop.
Sleep that night came in snatches of minutes. I’m sure I saw the clock on my wall strike every hour. Monday morning brought a physical therapist, an amiable, funny fellow who connected with Pat and me, joked with us, then took me on a walk to the end of the hall and back. He pronounced me ready to get out.
The day wore on, though, and prospects for a dismissal looked dim. My nurse was concerned about my oxygen level and said she doubted I’d get out because of that. My surgeon, Dr. Dexter Rich, was back at work and would be doing rounds after getting out of surgery.
The clock passed 6 p.m., and I was about to give up, when Dr. Rich came in. “What are you doing still here?” he asked. I assured him I could recover better at home — in a comfortable bed, eating (drinking really) what I wanted, when I wanted it. He agreed, saying, “These hospital beds are designed so patients won’t want to stay any longer than needed.”
He started the paperwork, and in less than an hour I was in Pat’s car on the way home.
The medicine of being home worked almost immediately. My neck, back and chest pain eased; my breathing became easier and deeper; my oxygen level normalized. The recovery continues. A week after the surgery, I’m still on a liquids only diet, which is not for sissies. You see, nothing can have alcohol in it.
None of this is meant to disparage hospitals. To the contrary, I am in awe when I walk into the hospital or NEA Baptist Clinic, seeing what Dr. Ray Hall Jr. and some colleagues started years ago, when we were all young.
I’m also amazed by what has been done at St. Bernards, especially because I know that Ben Owens Sr. had a lot to do with it. I first met Ben in the 1970s, when he opened what became a great hospital at Batesville before moving to Jonesboro.
Along with Arkansas State University, the Jonesboro medical community has spurred the development of Jonesboro into the metropolitan center of Northeast Arkansas. Indeed, it’s a primary reason why Pat and I decided to stay here after I retired from The Sun.
It’s wonderful to have such facilities when you need them, and I’ve been attended by wonderful doctors, nurses and other staff members. I’d just rather not spend the night.
Roy Ockert is a former editor of The Jonesboro Sun, The Courier at Russellville and The Batesville Guard. He can be reached at royo@suddenlink.net.