By Staff
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; be it ever so humbling, there's no place like a hospital.
My porch sitting took a back seat to lying on a hospital bed last week.
This was a planned visit, not an emergency situation; therefore, I was prepared.
Having been reared by a mother who always insisted that we (my sisters and I) put on clean underwear before going grocery shopping (in case we were in an accident and had to be taken to the hospital!), I made sure the underwear was in order - my flight bag was carefully packed: a crisp white tee shirt, SpongeBob SquarePants pajama bottoms, non-skid sandals, toilet kit (including a manicure set), Rosary beads, Episcopal prayer book and two novels (one of them by Sara Paretsky).
No holes in my underwear! I was ready.
As soon as I arrived at Memorial Hospital in South Bend, I wound my way past numerous drinking fountains and delicious odors wafting from the cafeteria kitchens (mind you, I'd not had any food or a drop of drink since midnight) to the elevators that would lift me to the eighth floor, my well-equipped flight bag in hand.
The staff immediately ushered me to a temporary room where I exchanged my street clothes for a fashionable, unisex gown of white and blue checks with multiple ties, snaps and straps.
My flight bag remained untouched.
And I didn't have to worry about undergarments, with or without holes!
An attentive nurse began preparing me, first with instructions on how to control the bed and television, and next the IVs were started.
Soon, another medical specialist found me and shaved and sanitized my shoulder.
Things were moving quickly and there were rumors that surgery was ahead of schedule.
But my wife was out shopping!
The nurse connected with her via cell phone and my ride began.
My flight bag, along with the clothes I'd worn to the hospital, were left side by side in the now empty room.
The ride down hallways and in and out of elevators (I was not in control) reminded me of rides at Disney - this time I was in The Medical Kingdom, dressed in a regal gown of blue and white with fly-away strings, sashes, and a few snaps, seated on a black naugahyde chariot.
I didn't have to do a thing.
Just like at Disney, doors automatically opened at the right time, people (were they actually automated, too?) appeared, smiled and disappeared along the route.
By now, I'd lost track of my flight bag (where was my manicure set?). And my wife was nowhere to be seen.
My ride came to an abrupt pause in the holding room; there I was transferred to a narrow transport vehicle and identified by the name of my anesthesiologist.
One by one the rolling beds holding other patients left the staging area and disappeared into parts unknown.
My wife soon appeared from her interrupted shopping trip and we waited my turn for the next segment of my Medical Kingdom adventure.
My doctor arrived, made sure all systems were "go" and off I went.
Now powered by an athletic, energetic nurse who warned, "Keep your elbows inside the guardrails," my transport bed started to roll into the depths of The Medical Kingdom.
We picked up speed through swinging doors, around corners - whew, I was getting dizzy!
And then the final door opened into a strange world of lights and wall-to-ceiling instruments.
A dozen masked faces turned as my speeding bed came to a sudden stop.
A dozen pairs of eyes looked at me without speaking.
And then I remembered I have a clown phobia!
Perhaps this wasn't the Medical Kingdom at all, but an adventure into "The Twilight Zone."
By the way, there is a point to my story. Later.
to be continued