81852

I’ve had a trying day. Yes, I know that it’s not all about me. But, this is 50% my blog, so bear with me. It began as a simple enough Monday. I awakened to the sound of HH (Handsome Husband) violently vomiting. By violently, I mean that NASA is trying to find the reason for the strange irregularity in the global sound waves.

Now, I don’t know about other wives. And by other, I mean kinder. But when I am awakened by super atomic level vomiting I am cranky. Not compassionate.  So, with a brisk authority worthy of Nurse Ratched, I loaded HH back into bed. Medicated him with an only slightly outdated dose of Phenergan, patted him on the head, and said “If that keeps up, I think you better go to the doctor.” Cue for cranky person to exit stage right, where she departs for a shift at the hospital, providing TLC to strangers. Yes, I’ve now identified another character flaw of mine… compassion for strangers, crankiness for those I love.

A few hours later I call home to learn that HH still feels downright puny. He grudgingly agrees to “think” about medical care. And another hour later, he has made an appointment for late afternoon to see someone. Apparently the distance of a phone line moves my husband of 36 years into the compassion category of “stranger” so that I realize late afternoon isn’t good enough. The man needs to come to the ER. And so it began, the saga of 81852.

After his arrival in the ER, HH complained persistently of being cold. Wrapped in blankets, thermostat in his exam room cranked to 76 degrees. He complained and shivered, and registered 99 degrees oral temperature. Then over the course of 45 minutes, his temperature soared to 103.2 and he headed down an Alice-in-Wonderland-worthy-rabbit-hole. I am here to say that HH had better not become a confused elder, or acquire dementia. Because when he is confused, he is a nasty customer.

His fever brought about a bout of what we in healthcare call “Altered Mental Status”. You may know it as “crazy”. HH was headed to Frankfort (we aren’t sure if that was Kentucky or Germany) in order to fix the plate glass. Huh? He repeatedly called our daughter (Emily) by my name. And he was insistent that he could walk to the bathroom, despite being unable to even stand at the side of the bed. I had to haul out the stern-mother-evil-eye a couple of times and firmly say “lie down” in order to protect him from himself. But the prize winning moment belongs to the poor nursing assistant who came into the room to instruct HH on the specific procedure in order to obtain a clean catch urine sample. As per hospital policy, he looked at HH’s bracelet and then said “What is your name?” HH looked at him, and in a somewhat terse tone said, “81852.” God Bless the nursing assistant, who nicely persevered and said “No sir, not your birthdate. What is your name?” HH responded, louder and undeniably angry,“Eight. Eighteen. Fifty. Two.” I think it took all his will power to not add “idiot” to the end of that sentence. The nursing assistant looked at Emily, who quietly made the universal sign for “crazy” by looping her finger around her right ear. And so the urine sample was obtained from good ol’ 81852.

Who can forget the moving sentiment in Les Miserable, as Valjean sings that he is more than his prisoner number “24601”? He is a man, wrongly accused. His dehumanization into a mere number by Javert epitomizes the wrongness of all that surrounds a corrupt government.  Was HH’s identification by number his statement to the dehumanization of healthcare, or simply the ranting of a delirious patient? You decide, but I’m not shaving my head and fighting the healthcare version of the French revolution with 81852.

Two liters of IV fluid later, and after two infusions of IV antibiotics, HH is now back to baseline. In healthcare speak, that means he’s still a goofball, but he’s back to being my goofball. I think this is part of what was meant when I said "for better or for worse, in sickness and in health..." 81852, oh yeah......