No More Monkeys Jumping On The Bed

Once when my sisters and I were young, my youngest sister, who was probably around 5 years old, was jumping on the furniture. She knew better. Mom and Dad were always telling us to “stop jumping on the furniture!” Youngest sister was a brat and a half and did it anyway. She fell and knocked her head on the coffee table. Then she ran like a bat out of hell because she knew she was in big trouble! Everyone was chasing her, trying to catch her because she had blood spewing out of her head!! So, to the hospital she went. I don’t recall how many stitches she ended up with, but to my knowledge, she never jumped on the furniture again! In fact, I don’t think any of us ever jumped on the furniture again!

Goes to show you, kids don’t always do as they’re told. They have to learn on their own. As parents, we just have to pray they don’t kill themselves while learning their life lessons.

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I’m Still Here….

I had worried about having gallbladder surgery for the past month. I worried that something would go wrong. This inspired me to clean out closets, drawers, cabinets etc. I threw away a lot of crap that I had accumulated over the years. Such clutter. I didn’t want to leave such a mess for my family to have to deal with if something went wrong during surgery. I had voiced my concerns with close friends and family. They all told me “Don’t worry,” “Everything’s going to be ok,” “You’re going to get through this,” “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” etc. Deep down I knew they were right but you just never know when something might go wrong. I wanted to have things in order just in case.

I wrote letters to my children, my Dad, my sisters and a few close friends. Letters to be opened only in case of my death or in the event that I couldn’t speak for myself. These letters were hard for me to write but I did it. I wanted them to know how important they are to me. I couldn’t assume they knew. Sometimes we get so busy with life, we tend to not say things we should and sometimes we say things we shouldn’t. I wanted the last words from me to them to be what was in the letters.

I also made lists of things like internet accounts, bank accounts, etc., so that my family would know what needed to be done and how. I made a list of certain belongings that I wanted my family members to have. I made a list of special requests if I end up in a nursing home. Yes. I did that.

I know, it sounds ridiculous now but I really was worried about leaving my family behind.

My Dad and my son accompanied me to the hospital and I kept it together quite well. I didn’t want them to see how scared I was. They were with me up until I was moved into surgical waiting.

 

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Image Copyright Being Aunt Debbie

 

The surgeon was about an hour behind. This led to even more stress and I could hardly wait for them to give me that sedative they had promised! When they did, I felt some relief, but it wasn’t as great as they said it would be. I was rather disappointed! When Paula, the surgical nurse came to see me, I had to go to the bathroom so she helped me wrap a blanket around me because my giant butt was peering out the back of that very fashionable hospital gown. Then she walked me to the bathroom with my IV bag in one hand and the other across the small of my back. She was very nice, as were all the other nurses, but she was my favorite of them all.

 

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Image Copyright Being Aunt Debbie

 

After I finished my business in the bathroom, Paula walked me back to my bed and then rolled me out of surgical waiting, through a set of closed doors and down a long corridor. I thought of the song Hotel California by the Eagles. Maybe I would never leave this place.

The operating room was freezing and everything was huge and sparkling clean. Paula helped me onto the thin, metal operating table. She put warm blankets over me. I farted. I thought to myself, “Oh my God, the surgeon is going to be so distracted by my bodily functions he’s not going to do it right!” Paula got my blood pressure cuff settled on one arm and a finger probe on the opposite hand. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Flock, came in and put probes on my chest. His name struck me as funny and I tried not to laugh but all I could think of was my Dad being silly. I know Dad would have jokingly said, “Get the flock out of here.” Paula strapped my arms down and also placed a strap across my upper legs. I was really scared at this point. Dr. Flock said he was giving me something in my IV bag (I don’t remember if he told me what it was) and that I would feel warm and sleepy soon. He put a mask over my face and told me to breathe deeply. I started to cry. Paula comforted me and I said something that I can’t remember now. My voice was very low and slow…

As my lights went out, Paula wiped a tear from my cheek and said, “It’s going to be ok.” THAT was the last thing I remember and all I can say is that Paula is a very, very special person.

The Fractured Hand

I was on my computer last Friday afternoon, trying to get some work done. I was a day behind due to the fact that I had to take my daughter to her Drs. appointment on Thursday. Both of the kids (adult kids, that is) were home that day. My son was suppose to work that evening so he was killing some time. I think he watched a movie and played some video games. You know, typical young male activities.

I heard a commotion in the living room and I was due for a break anyway, so I decided to go see what all the ruckus was about. My son was laughing his ass off! My daughter was cracking up, too.

I asked, “What’s going on?”

C.F. says to me calmly, “You don’t want to know.”

I asked, “What did you do?”

He replies, “You don’t want to know.”

I asked, “Did you hurt yourself?” (Remembering the dirt bike incident here and how scared I was that something may have happened to him.)

He held his right hand up and there it was. He broke his freakin’ hand. Immediately my hands went up to my face in shock…. fear…. worry…. well, I don’t know what it was.

I said, “I have to take you to the hospital.”

He agrees, “YES, you do!” All the while laughing like a nutcase.

Apparently, he knocked down a little shelf in his room. This shelf holds a few of his model cars that he worked so hard on. The shelf fell, and everything on it hit the floor. C.F. was mad that this happened and then he punched the wall! He has punched the wall before and left a hole. No injury to himself, thank goodness. This time, there were 2 little knuckle marks on the wall but no hole. He hit the stud this time. I think he may have learned a lesson.

I took him to the ER at the hospital I thought was the best choice. It was closest for one thing, but I didn’t like the other choice. The hospital I chose was in Arkansas, not too far from where we live in Missouri. Now my son has Missouri Medicaid and I always assumed this hospital accepted Medicaid. Turns out the hospital itself DOES accept Medicaid but the Drs. do not accept Missouri Medicaid, specifically.

Great. Now C.F. will get a bill from every freakin’ Dr. that even looked at him cross-eyed that day.

Well, a lot of good it did for me to take him to the emergency room. They looked him over, x-rayed and splinted his hand, wrapped it up and put it in a sling. They gave him a referral to see an orthopedic surgeon and a script for vicoden and sent us on our way.

This being Friday, I couldn’t contact the surgeon until Monday morning.

On Monday morning I called the surgeon’s office.

“Hello. Dr. Moore’s office. Can I help you?” She sounded very nice.”

“Yes,” I said. “Does Dr. Moore accept Missouri Medicaid?”

She said, “No, I’m sorry he doesn’t.”

I explained the situation to her. I asked if I needed a referral to see an orthopedic surgeon.

She said, “Oh, No Ma’am. The only reason Dr. Moore was referred is because he was the surgeon on call that night.”

When I got off the phone, I got to thinking. If he was on call that night then why didn’t they call him to look at C.F.’s hand? It would have saved us a lot of grief.

I called a few other surgeons in Missouri — I was told I needed a referral BUT they didn’t have any openings at all for a couple weeks. One said none until next month. So, I figured I’d take C.F. to a different Dr. and get a new referral. I thought that having the Dr. make the calls we would get an appointment much sooner.

Boy! Was I wrong! It has been 6 days since C.F. fractured his hand and we are still waiting for an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon! It’s a good thing he’s not in a lot of pain! I don’t know what to do at this point. I have been calling the Dr’s. office, consistently since Tuesday morning trying to light a fire under them. They say they’re still working on it. What do I have to do to get my child medical attention? Since it has been this long, the bone has probably started to heal which means it will have to be rebroken in order to set it correctly.

I understand the surgeons are probably booked up but don’t they leave emergency spots open for emergencies?? Of course, this is hardly an emergency but he does need medical attention!

C.F. can’t do anything. He is bored to death. He can’t go to work. He can’t play his guitar, which is his life, he can’t play video games or even use the computer comfortably.

After all is said and done….if it ever gets done that is………I think he may have learned a lesson.