[Ducati] Hospital Horror Stories (long)

[Peter Bonner]

Hospital Horror Stories

Just got a card from Keith, a friend that usually attends the
Pantahead/Bevelhead dinner at the Hill House at Laguna. This year, while on
the way down, Keith got hit by a car whilst traveling down and went to the
hospital instead. So on the card he sent me, it started with "imitation
being the sincerest form." and went on to say that he looks forward to
swapping Hospital Horror Stories at the Hill House for Laguna next year.

As one fellow San Antonio resident pointed out to me, the University
Hospital has great doctors but lousy care. Sure seemed like it for me. After
arriving essentially dead, no blood pressure or pulse, getting a compleat
oil change (6 units of blood), removal of unneeded parts for future racing
(bye bye spleen) and noting a flat tyre (collapsed lung), broken frame (5
broken ribs) and defective clutch (two broken bones in left shoulder) along
with low compression (fracture in back) plus new colour scheme (biggest
blood blister I have ever seen, from leg to shoulder in purple), I was
initially downgraded in ICU, then uprated and shoved out to the mercy of a
floor 12 ward for telemetry (throttle by wire?). So there I was, with the
usual IV stuff, NPO (nothing to eat or drink) and a Morphine drip set at a
very ineffective rate for pain. My lovely wife was there to provide an
uplift and a number of friends as well, but during the times when they were
gone, it seemed truly alone indeed. The morphine dose did get elevated a
bit, but was more a dread than a help, as my left side positively throbbed
with feeling, none of it benevolent. Pushing the button for a nurse usually
provided some sort of appearance within the hour, usually with little
benefit. A sling was requested repeatedly, but never materialized. When I
tried walking (dam the pain, I gotta go somewhere), I was told not to go
near the doors and generally confined to a small area of the hall for some
reason. When my fever started at 100, it didn't seem too bad, but as it went
to 101, I asked for Tylenol for the fever and got blank stares. Finally as
my fever neared the 104 mark, a grudging relief arrived.  This was now after
2 days in the hospital, and 1 in this ward, being midday on Monday. I was
having fearful hallucinations, perhaps from the morphine about what was
going on, it seemed like a war zone outside, or maybe a hospital in the
midst of Katrina. At least I assume they were hallucinations, from what I
have read about them during my quiet boyhood growing up in Berkeley, CA
during the 60s (1964, Berkeley High School). So I resolved to quit doing the
morphine pushes and clear things up, starting at noon on Monday. That night,
just as dear Sharon left, she made me take one hit of morphine to sleep, but
that was the end of it, and I couldn't sleep anyway. No other comfort came
from the nurses who seemed to always manage to grab the mangled left arm to
test blood pressure with, and a long night ensued. By morning, with a
clearing mind, I resolved that this ward was hazardous to my health, for
despite not being able to drink anything, they had also removed my IV tubes
in the night, except for the deadly morphine drip. So around 8 am the next
morning, I got up, with the little morphine drip cart in tow, and walked a
short distance from my room to study a chart on the wall in the corridor
providing emergency exit information.  The pain in my left side faded as
excitement grew from studying the diagram. Back to my room, where I studied
the morphine IV, then leaving the catheter and one other section of tubing,
I closed the line lock to prevent air from entering, grabbed the connector
with the left hand and released the tubing with the right. Now free of the
confining morphine cart, I grabbed my few items, brushed my hair quickly (so
as not to piss off the wife) and stealthily opened my door. The coast was
clear, and I began walking towards stairway 7, as denoted on the map. Nearly
there, John the nurse suddenly came out of a door, and I thought I was
doomed. He asked who disconnected my IV, while assuring me that he wouldn't
get them in trouble. That only added to my desire to leave, but I could only
stammer an incoherent reply. In an act of supposing graciousness, John said,
"let me fix that for you" and removed the extra piece of tubing, leaving
only the catheter in my arm. Horrified, I looked down to see that he had not
slid the tubing block in place, and I was left standing there with my blood
vein exposed to the air. However John turned away, and I quickly slid the
block in place, sealing the catheter. As John went on around a cabinet and
out of sight, I quickly opened the door, eased into the stairway and
silently shut the door. Then I began working my way down the stairs. After
sometime, I had gone down 6 floors, and thought that I better check to see
if I would be able to get into a floor, so tried a door, and it opened into
a hallway. Reassured, I continued on down, finally going 13 flights of
stairs and opening an emergency exit door. Fortunately no alarm sounded and
I eased out onto the grass, finally working my way up to the street. I was
dressed in a tee shirt and shorts along with slippers and didn't attract too
much attention. At the street, I walked along until I got to the walkway to
the VA hospital where my wife has her office and crossed over. I felt much
safer inside the VA, thinking no one would notice a guy in slippers with a
catheter in his hand walking along. As it turns out, I arrived before my
wife did, so one of the guys in the office called her, and she was just
setting foot in University hospital, where warnings were blaring on the
loudspeaker system that patient Peter Bonner was missing. With Sharon on the
phone, we were able to negotiate for a different ward and room for me to
stay in, and then I returned to the hospital. Immediately after arriving
back, they decided to run a ct scan, do more X rays, check blood
circulations and other tests. Then I was given a new room among some of the
best nursing staff I have experienced in my more than several hospital
visits.

Moral of the story, if you don't like the treatment, bargain for better.
Ducati content, my Multistrada didn't get another chance in life, just DOA
and taken for auction by the insurance company, but I got my money. Thanks
Progressive.

Peter

Ps  Have already settled on the next bike for the commuter scooter, its not
another Strada