Monday, February 06, 2006
I Am Not a Ragdoll (or, Use the slide board, for the love of God!)
On floor 6A of the hospital I underwent ten sessions of radiation, any number of tests including X-rays and MRIs, and a liver biopsy, which were all terrible in their own way, but I'm going to spend a little time talking about transportation of people with hip fractures.
I know I've mentioned the unbearable, excruciating pain. They had to prescribe liquid morphine so that I could take something to make being moved bearable. There was also some kind of intravenous thing they were giving me that put me into a twilight state that was blessedly numbing. What they do to move a patient onto the transport table is that they get four to six people to grab the extra sheet under the patient (called the "draw sheet"). Everybody grabs an edge of the sheet and then they try to coordinate efforts and heave on the count of three. I found this method to be invariably awful.
On one of the occasions when I was to be moved, I started to cry and somebody promised that a "slide board," which is a slippery body-length board which the patient and draw sheet can be slid over, would make everything better. When the nurses and assistants and orderlies used the slide board, it worked amazingly well. There was no friction. My legs moved at the same time as my hips which moved at the same time as my upper torso...Unbelievable! The people in radiation were good at moving patients without causing any kind of pain (they're used to dealing with people who might have broken spinal things), but for the nursing staff on 6A to do it was amazing. I begged them to use it every time, but there were one or two people who insisted it didn't work or didn't make things any easier. The last example of this was the "kindly" man who directed my transfer when I had to go get my liver biopsied.
John was leaving to go back to Chattanooga, and I was already very sad about that. I don't see my brother often, and when he made plans to come and visit me in Detroit, I'm sure he didn't intend to spend the time visiting the hospital and packing books in my apartment. He looked at me funny when I said I was sorry his trip wasn't better.
Then, when the person directing my transfer made no moves to use the slideboard, I lost it and began sobbing uncontrollably, which never helps with the pain issue. "Now you have to relax," I was told. "It makes it worse if you don't relax."
What makes it worse, a**h***, is being told to f****** relax when you're about to heave and plop me onto a table, while telling me that if it hurts, it's somehow my fault.
Being moved was awful. I cried long after the pain subsided, though. I sat in the surgical waiting/recovery area and sobbed. Everything was awful. I hurt; John was leaving; I was frightened of the biopsy.
I was even more frightened when I found out that this is not something they knock you out for. It was an ultrasound-guided procedure, and I guess they needed me conscious so that they could tell me to not inhale at a certain point, since they insert the biopsy needle in between a couple of ribs.
That's right. They stab you in the chest while you are conscious, and ask you to please not squirm around as they're digging for the right spot.
"Don't worry," the anesthesiologist told me when I appeared apprehensive. "We'll give you a fentanyl drip and you won't feel much discomfort at all. He was not happy when I told him I was already on a fentanyl patch...I guess either he gave me something completely different or reduced the dosage, and the biopsy hurt like hell.
I will never again submit to such a procedure. They'd best not plan anything involving stabbing and searching unless I am totally unconcious for the procedure, because I will resist to the utmost of my ability, particularly if they try to claim that I "won't feel a thing!"
Liars.
They had to try separating my ribs twice, because the first time they jabbed, the needle bounced off. Then, after more careful poking and prodding with the fingers, they jabbed me in a gap between two ribs and inserted. They told me internal organs don't have nerve endings, so I shouldn't feel pain, but I swear I could feel the resistance as the needle encountered different kinds of tissue. So I experienced pain from the initial stab wound and knew exactly when it encountered the liver. I could feel it, and they had to work the needle around a bit to find the "right" spot indicated by the ultrasound.
After it was over and I was back in my room, the radiation team came to get me, but I refused to go. I'd had it; I didn't want to be moved any more, and I exercised my right as a patient to refuse treatment (they did make up for it later).
The next day, the doctor and his accompanying doctorlets were shocked to find out that the biopsy was very painful and that my chest still hurt where the needle went in. To his credit, the doctor was very concerned that I seemed to have anxiety about being seen by them, and that they weren't really able to do much to help me. I said what would help would be if they could always use the slide board to move me, so he agreed to write it as an order in my chart. Being moved was much better after that; I no longer dreaded being moved, I didn't have to take the liquid morphine as frequently, and I started having some positive feelings about the doctor and his interns.
Also, I stopped feeling shy about being moved with the slideboard. I vigilantly reminded people that it was there, and that they were to use it or I wasn't going wherever they wanted to take me.
To be continued...
I know I've mentioned the unbearable, excruciating pain. They had to prescribe liquid morphine so that I could take something to make being moved bearable. There was also some kind of intravenous thing they were giving me that put me into a twilight state that was blessedly numbing. What they do to move a patient onto the transport table is that they get four to six people to grab the extra sheet under the patient (called the "draw sheet"). Everybody grabs an edge of the sheet and then they try to coordinate efforts and heave on the count of three. I found this method to be invariably awful.
On one of the occasions when I was to be moved, I started to cry and somebody promised that a "slide board," which is a slippery body-length board which the patient and draw sheet can be slid over, would make everything better. When the nurses and assistants and orderlies used the slide board, it worked amazingly well. There was no friction. My legs moved at the same time as my hips which moved at the same time as my upper torso...Unbelievable! The people in radiation were good at moving patients without causing any kind of pain (they're used to dealing with people who might have broken spinal things), but for the nursing staff on 6A to do it was amazing. I begged them to use it every time, but there were one or two people who insisted it didn't work or didn't make things any easier. The last example of this was the "kindly" man who directed my transfer when I had to go get my liver biopsied.
John was leaving to go back to Chattanooga, and I was already very sad about that. I don't see my brother often, and when he made plans to come and visit me in Detroit, I'm sure he didn't intend to spend the time visiting the hospital and packing books in my apartment. He looked at me funny when I said I was sorry his trip wasn't better.
Then, when the person directing my transfer made no moves to use the slideboard, I lost it and began sobbing uncontrollably, which never helps with the pain issue. "Now you have to relax," I was told. "It makes it worse if you don't relax."
What makes it worse, a**h***, is being told to f****** relax when you're about to heave and plop me onto a table, while telling me that if it hurts, it's somehow my fault.
Being moved was awful. I cried long after the pain subsided, though. I sat in the surgical waiting/recovery area and sobbed. Everything was awful. I hurt; John was leaving; I was frightened of the biopsy.
I was even more frightened when I found out that this is not something they knock you out for. It was an ultrasound-guided procedure, and I guess they needed me conscious so that they could tell me to not inhale at a certain point, since they insert the biopsy needle in between a couple of ribs.
That's right. They stab you in the chest while you are conscious, and ask you to please not squirm around as they're digging for the right spot.
"Don't worry," the anesthesiologist told me when I appeared apprehensive. "We'll give you a fentanyl drip and you won't feel much discomfort at all. He was not happy when I told him I was already on a fentanyl patch...I guess either he gave me something completely different or reduced the dosage, and the biopsy hurt like hell.
I will never again submit to such a procedure. They'd best not plan anything involving stabbing and searching unless I am totally unconcious for the procedure, because I will resist to the utmost of my ability, particularly if they try to claim that I "won't feel a thing!"
Liars.
They had to try separating my ribs twice, because the first time they jabbed, the needle bounced off. Then, after more careful poking and prodding with the fingers, they jabbed me in a gap between two ribs and inserted. They told me internal organs don't have nerve endings, so I shouldn't feel pain, but I swear I could feel the resistance as the needle encountered different kinds of tissue. So I experienced pain from the initial stab wound and knew exactly when it encountered the liver. I could feel it, and they had to work the needle around a bit to find the "right" spot indicated by the ultrasound.
After it was over and I was back in my room, the radiation team came to get me, but I refused to go. I'd had it; I didn't want to be moved any more, and I exercised my right as a patient to refuse treatment (they did make up for it later).
The next day, the doctor and his accompanying doctorlets were shocked to find out that the biopsy was very painful and that my chest still hurt where the needle went in. To his credit, the doctor was very concerned that I seemed to have anxiety about being seen by them, and that they weren't really able to do much to help me. I said what would help would be if they could always use the slide board to move me, so he agreed to write it as an order in my chart. Being moved was much better after that; I no longer dreaded being moved, I didn't have to take the liquid morphine as frequently, and I started having some positive feelings about the doctor and his interns.
Also, I stopped feeling shy about being moved with the slideboard. I vigilantly reminded people that it was there, and that they were to use it or I wasn't going wherever they wanted to take me.
To be continued...
Labels: biopsy, doctorlets, fentanyl, fracture, hip, hospital, John, liver, morphine, MRI, radiation, slide board, x-rays
