What Could Be More Fitting?

My memories of the next five days are at times limited and confused. However, I know with excruciating clarity that my bed was hard and narrow. There I lay, feeling absurd, a cast on each arm, my front teeth ‘clapped in irons’, an intravenous needle deeply planted just above my left ankle - my state best described as one of living rigor mortis. I tried hard not to focus on my itchy nose.

It is interesting how things go. After three decades of nursing I would have expected to have felt comfortable and in control in a hospital.  However, in my ludicrous state and in this curious place (Were the nurses talking in a different language, or was it the drugs?) the time [was] out of joint. At one point, I noticed that there was no call bell in my room. This I thought was wrong.  How would I call the nurses? One needs a call bell for that. Stranger still, there was no oxygen equipment, or supplies like hospital gowns or towels. And what was Al doing here? Al hates hospitals and avoids them like the plague.  And why was he acting like my primary care giver? That was really weird! (Looking back, he did learn a lot of new skills - including how to deal with delirium.  In all, he did well.)

Al says that point of view is an important thing in writing. Well, my point of view was from my back. Although I am not very good with its walls or its floors I can honestly say that I am experienced with the ceilings of Moulana hospital.  In this I consider myself an expert.

As you can see, the views from the windows in our room and hallway were pretty good.

Still, I can say this much.  My ward’s hallway was cluttered. My brief glimpse of the wall at the far end revealed a sheet of plywood covering the space where the bottom of the wall should have been. Above the sheet there was a big window. If one were to charge at the wall -with you in the stretcher- it seemed that you could be propelled straight through, launched into space, soon to drop eight stories to the ground. We never tried it. I had had enough of falling. Al says the wall on the opposite end of the hall was the same. He had investigated.

Moulana hospital is a curious place.

To enter our ‘suite’, a nurse brought out a substantial key to unlock a very large, old style padlock inserted through a heavy latch.  Once opened - voilà - you were greeted by a spacious anti-room with a shiny marble floor, and two communicating settees separated by a large coffee table. On a paneled wall a flat screen TV invited viewing. Two big translucent, sliding glass doors separated this area from the hospital room itself. On the other side of them, old but formal, full-length burgundy drapes covered the windows. The room, large enough for four of them, had two beds. At the far end, there was a small dinette table and several chairs. It was covered with a red checker tablecloth and cluttered with tea bags, coffee, sugar, cups, glasses, jug and an electric kettle. Somehow it felt reassuring.

Nurses with lovely smiles would arrive in groups of two's or three’s to take my blood pressure or give my medications.  The doctors would visit on a daily basis to assess my progress. They were thoughtful and very well meaning, even taking the time to suggest the best airports from which we might return to Canada. The nurses were extremely polite and very curious, as I was the first westerner admitted to their care. Often, groups of student nurses would find some reason to come into my room and stand beside my bed smiling and giggling, and then nod and leave - that and no more. It was like I was a celebrity.

On her day off the matron made a special trip to see me. She wanted to say ‘hello’ and make acquaintance. She had come dressed in her Sunday sari….. just for me, she said.

The care I received was excellent. I was lucky to have landed where I was.  However, I was tired of a diet of chicken soup, and desperately wanted to return home.

By this point Al had turned a good part of his attention to worrying about what our hospital experience was going to cost. He knew we were expected to pay in full before being discharged.  Our travel insurance company (a very good one as it turns out) did not have direct billing with the hospital. Al stressed. 

Lauri, (we don’t think she will be annoyed that we used her name) from Adventure Centre, Calgary did a fantastic job making hasty travel arrangements for us to get home. Al stressed.

On the morning of my discharge we learned that the swipe machine in the hospital did not work. We were asked if we could pay in cash. Al really stressed!

As it turned out our guide was able to make arrangements through his office. They settled the account for us and we reimbursed them. Al didn’t stress after that.

I can’t resist the next picture. What could be more fitting? After all we had been through we arrived at this place for a quick lunch before getting on our flight.

Happily, we did not get on abad plane!

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