Dear Unnamed Hospital in (near) New Orleans,
I’m going to go all Cee Lo here. It’s not aimed at most of the employees that work(ed) in your joint. Many were fine. Some were exceptional. Some of the nurses especially. Some were likely good and I’ve unfairly judged them.
- To the first overnight ICU nurse, who was 100% oblivious to how much pain Sarah had been in for the past 12-hours, which was obvious to me the first time I saw her…
- To whomever was responsible for the archaic ICU visiting rules that I eventually ignored, and convinced them all they weren’t going to keep us from ignoring…
- To the nurse who argued about washing her hands when entering the room while Sarah was in general population…
- To the doctors and nurses in general population who couldn’t quite decide whether Sarah’s blood-oxygen levels were important or not, alternatively taking off and putting back on the monitor…
- To the respiratory therapist who left the room during the night rather than perform breathing treatment, because Sarah was having a hard time getting out of bed…
- To the doctor who wouldn’t come back in to the hospital to check on Sarah’s breathing, and the hospital that wouldn’t allow another doctor to look at her, until I was screaming on the phone at him while looking for a wheel chair to take her to the emergency room myself…
- To the doctor that later told me we were “lucky he decided to come back in to check on her breathing”…
- To the respiratory therapist who opened the seals on the breathing equipment with the blue ball-point pen she had in her back pocket…
- To the ICU nurse who told me to leave when they brought Sarah back in…
- To the same nurse who told me they would put restraints on her “if she keeps acting like a child” while she struggled against that forsaken BiPAP machine while half-conscious…
- To the doctor that would speak clear English when delivering good news or just checking in, but could become undecipherable when delivering bad news (or, in fairness, was tired)…
- To the group of doctors that showed up in their fancy outfits to talk to us in the waiting room, telling us how lucky we were they were paying attention to us, essentially framing their CV’s and presenting them for our bowing pleasure, after I requested the group pay more attention to Sarah, rather than depending on just the one doctor…
- To the same group that then paid no more perceivable attention to Sarah, relying still on the one doctor…
- To the resident physician who told me “medicine by committee is no way to treat a patient”…
- To the doctor who consistently and repeatedly ignored our answers about whether Sarah was habitually taking any medicine they were unaware of prior to surgery…
- To the doctor (or group, I honestly can’t remember), who told me they’d “only had one patient die”…
Three years ago I was living in your hospital. I’d run across the street to buy new underwear, t-shirts, or shorts, because I could do that in 5-minutes rather than do laundry. I ate every meal in the cafeteria or Subway across the street. Many others in the family did as well. The kids last saw their mom in that miserable general population room, struggling to breath, with everyone trying to figure out what to do next.
I have absolutely no doubts that the surgery part of the stay was a resounding success. I know Sarah did everything she was asked to do beforehand, and to the best of her ability while she was awake post-surgery. I have no real idea if any of the above played a part in the final outcome. I know I’m still unbelievably pissed off and have exactly no more delusions that the outcome was right, just, or fair.
I drove about 3 hours the other day from Nogales to Phoenix, AZ…. All I did the entire drive was remember your hospital. I didn’t mean to, it’s just how it was.
Don’t do any of that shit to anyone else. None of it. The resident is lucky I didn’t throw him out the window at the time. I can’t think of anyone whose opinion I less valued at that moment and they clearly needed all the help they could get. As is the jackass who told me they’d only had one person die. I know it’s hard. I know it’s work. I appreciate that you’re certainly generally trying to do good. Remember that the people in the waiting room know the patient much better than you’re ever going to.
Remember Sarah, and do good.
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