T-minus One Day and Waiting
The day before the op. The day Rog starts his stay at the hospital. We go to our favourite breakfast place and Rog orders his favourite eggs Benedict. He savours every mouthful, it's gonna be egg-less Benedict for the next three months. Back at home, we relax for abit, he gives the frenchmaid a few lastminute orders, and Yvette the photographer takes last photos of the soon-to-be-cut-open as yet scarless chest.
Rog wants to go for a walk as he'll be on his back for the most of next week or so, but the wet weather was not inviting. We stretch our legs in a department store instead, and do some last-minute pyjama shopping. Then at 2pm, we rock up to the Cardiothoracic Unit at Hotel Le Hospitale Royale.
"I have a reservation for today," Rog announces to the receptionist. Ok...he may be a seasoned traveller, but reservation? Somehow I don't think he should be confusing a hospital and a hotel. But at least he'll be getting more attention and care in this particular 'hotel'.
We check in to the room and poke around the different wall switches. A stethoscope's hanging on the wall. We wipe it down with medi-swabs and try to listen to his heart, but we can't hear the murmur. Maybe it's miraculously cured? Or maybe we don't know what to listen for...?
The rest of the afternoon passes with members of the cardiothoracic team trickling in to say hello and re-introduce themselves, so we meet everyone who will be working on/with him: nurse, resident, pharmacist, physiotherapist, Mr Fixit and his posse of registrar and resident, anaesthetist (this word is easier to spell than to say). The doctors say a quick 2-minute hello. I guess just so you know they know you are here and on their list. The others take his medical history, take blood and wee samples, ECG, BP, skin patch test (to make sure he's not allergic to iodine and sticky skin bandages), explain procedures for the next few days.
After a few hours, we've met everyone. We sit in the room, stare at the walls and start to count our toes. That's when we decide to escape.
Fast forward a couple more hours, we're back at the hospital. After watching some TV, I leave him with his sleeping tablet so he gets an early night.
Rog wants to go for a walk as he'll be on his back for the most of next week or so, but the wet weather was not inviting. We stretch our legs in a department store instead, and do some last-minute pyjama shopping. Then at 2pm, we rock up to the Cardiothoracic Unit at Hotel Le Hospitale Royale.
"I have a reservation for today," Rog announces to the receptionist. Ok...he may be a seasoned traveller, but reservation? Somehow I don't think he should be confusing a hospital and a hotel. But at least he'll be getting more attention and care in this particular 'hotel'.
We check in to the room and poke around the different wall switches. A stethoscope's hanging on the wall. We wipe it down with medi-swabs and try to listen to his heart, but we can't hear the murmur. Maybe it's miraculously cured? Or maybe we don't know what to listen for...?
The rest of the afternoon passes with members of the cardiothoracic team trickling in to say hello and re-introduce themselves, so we meet everyone who will be working on/with him: nurse, resident, pharmacist, physiotherapist, Mr Fixit and his posse of registrar and resident, anaesthetist (this word is easier to spell than to say). The doctors say a quick 2-minute hello. I guess just so you know they know you are here and on their list. The others take his medical history, take blood and wee samples, ECG, BP, skin patch test (to make sure he's not allergic to iodine and sticky skin bandages), explain procedures for the next few days.
After a few hours, we've met everyone. We sit in the room, stare at the walls and start to count our toes. That's when we decide to escape.
Fast forward a couple more hours, we're back at the hospital. After watching some TV, I leave him with his sleeping tablet so he gets an early night.
posted by groodle at 11/13/2006 10:17:00 PM
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