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!
.
