The first day of summer zipped by without acknowledgement here at Jill's World. I have a good excuse: B. had surgery that day.
A Transureathral Resection of Prostate.
AKA: a "TURP".
Google it for all the details!
RN daughter Laura assured us it was "not a big deal...just really uncomfortable for the first day, then it gets better".
She herself had previously chosen to spend the first day of summer traveling to SF, and on to Boston, with an old friend. Goal: To continue checking off states she has visited. I believe she is closing in on 50.
I figured it was not going to be too bad. And it actually wasn't, unless you count the part where the Doctor forgot to write orders for a med pump, leaving B. fresh out of surgery with nothing more than two Vicodine tablets to relieve pain. The Doctor had finished the surgery and headed out for a two hour lunch, while B. sweated and gritted his teeth in pain.
Pain IS optional. That is why during the pre-op appointment B. went over the fact that he wanted a med pump, to self deliver pain killers every ten minutes, instead of having tablets, which would show up when the nurse had the time. Tablets are what you take if you want the pain option. Med pump is what you want if you wish to opt OUT of the pain.
Several of us in the family have had enough surgery to know what it is like waiting in pain for a tablet, and waiting another 30 minutes for the tablet to take effect. It is NOT the way to manage pain.
The doctor readily agreed to a med pump.
Grrrrr....... Doctors: They readeth not, neither do they write, apparently.
This doctor, who we actually like, later passed blame: oh the nurses didn't get it right.
Since I stood with the nurse as she called to pharmacy to try to get the "promised" meds, I happen to know it wasn't the nurse's fault.
Plus I happen to know ****for a fact*** that nurses are not allowed to write prescriptions.
Only doctors can do that.
Then he blamed pharmacy for taking so long.
Yeah, they did take another two hours once the prescription was written. B. had almost five hours of pain with nothing more than what I am usually given for dental surgery, and I am much smaller than B.
I repeat:
Doctors: They readeth not, neither do they write.
Speaking of dentist: My last visit to a dentist (one that I really, really like), the dentist shot meds into me that caused a reaction. Since I have told him of the effects epinephrine has on me (I shake, cry, my slow heart quadruples in rate, and I am wasted the rest of the day), he usually is excellent at working quickly on me to complete the work before I loose numbness.
This last visit, he shot "epi" into me as we were chatting, and I felt it hit. I immediately said "did you give me epi?" and started the meltdown. And he felt so bad. Apologized profusely.
But also said I should have reminded him.
Really!
OK then. I surely will remind him next time. Or is that "surly" will?
I imagine saying next visit:
"Doc. R., I know that this fact is in my chart, but since I am now aware that you are a functional illiterate, and are either unable or unwilling to READ my chart, (causing me to presume that using "Books on Tape" can now lead to a doctorate of dentistry) , I just want to remind you: NO EPINEPHRINE!"
Or words to that effect...
B. had two nights at the hospital. We watched a massive storm come in from the room on the fifth floor, quite a view. And I stayed with him, to help, and I stitched. See "In the Pink" below.
B. is home now, and just a bit sore. Tiggie is with him, and in classic cat psychic fashion, has gently layed his paw on B.'s lower abdomen several times, and looked at B. with questioning eyes as only a cat can do.
The gecko? He and his friends are now hanging out on the walls of our front porch at night, eating bugs, and reminding us that summer has truly arrived.
