Feature
Corridors of powerlessness
by Jillian Ewart
It’s not easy being a patient.
MONDAY, 11.00AM.
I’m the second of five almost simultaneously delivered ambulance stretcher cases crowding the arrival foyer of North Shore Hospital’s emergency-care centre (ECC). It’s a repeat visit, as I spent two days at the hospital last week with pneumonia, but the antibiotics prescribed on discharge lost the battle and I’m even more ill this time. At 1.00pm, see emergency-room doctor in cubicle; diagnosed with pneumonia. At 2.00pm, given IV for dehydration and antibiotic administration. Walk around trying to find where to get water, and swear I count 17 corridor dwellers.
10.00pm: begin to agitate for next round of IV antibiotics. Can’t believe what I learn – the emergency doctor charted the one dose and as I have not yet been seen by the medical registrar, nothing more can be given till I have. One med reg is identified as fleeing at 10.30 – no wonder, the nurses tell me she has worked nonstop since 7.00am. Another med reg is identified as a cheerful, smiling unflustered woman clearly going as fast as she can without short-changing her patients. I get to see her and get my meds at midnight.
1.30am and it’s off to x-ray. Finally get two blissful hours of sleep.
TUESDAY.
Wake, check time – 6.30am. Wonder how soon to start mentioning that the next dose of IV antibiotics should be at 8.00am? To x-ray at 9.00am. Antibiotics at 9.30am. Hey, I’m only the patient, but surely getting these meds in a timely fashion is important? Specialist and acolyte come by, though the specialist is only covering for the incumbent who’s off at a conference. I’m to go to Ward 3 when bed available. When? Nobody knows – one nurse ventured it would be before the end of her (12-hour) shift, but she’s been gone two hours now …
Become a corridor dweller. Entitles me to thrilling view of asthma patient hoicking into plastic rubbish bin on stand, bypassing the containers liberally provided. Having asked a nurse in the course of the night what I could use from the linen area to clean up a toilet with interesting yellow deposits on the floor, was told to use the toilet opposite … but I’d already observed a few peering in that one and bypassing … Found one in a bit better state, grabbed some towels and washcloths – some for me, some for the floor and loo seat, etc, and do a clean-up on self and facility. Bum numb at a certain point – how long does it take to get bedsores?
Lunch is a sandwich offered by some flustered St John volunteers. If my visitors could find chairs, they’d have to move every few minutes as new patients come by in a just wide enough space, so we adjourn to coffee shop.
Resume corridor dwelling: a slice of life unfolds … teenager with theatre gown showing charcoal stains as evidence of overdose averted. Older sister is present, teacher, “minder” on the door. Later, mum arrives, plus grandma. Lots of talk of family break-ups, who’s eating and who’s not eating and why did you go on holiday and leave me? Teen departs for lengthy session with cheery psych duo, then Mum. Teen allowed home, rapidly dresses while talk turns to where they’ll go skiing next weekend. Grandma will come if it’s the Chateau, but she will stay home if it is Porter’s Pass.
Meanwhile, well-groomed woman along the corridor also has the “eat and if nothing happens you can go home” message. She’s been reading women’s mags incessantly through her stay, and now goes to bathroom to put on full makeup. I guess she must have been feeling sick enough at one stage to subject herself to 24 hours on an ECC gurney …
5.00pm: after 30 fascinating hours in ECC (19 in a cubicle, 11 in a corridor) I make it to Ward 3. It’s share-a-room time, but, hey, a real hospital bed is such a luxury. And the next IV antibiotic goes in bang on schedule at 5.30. It’s a good thing pneumonia patients don’t feel like eating. The evening meal is served at 5.15pm …
WEDNESDAY
… and breakfast isn’t till 8.30am.
