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Show 84 View From the Floor T don't care about your theories about the pump and the catheter!" Dr. Jessop is yelling at me. "There is nothing wrong with the catheter!" Then he exits my stuffy room, justified. I am on the floor. I had taken all my breath to beg him to please, please, just please, repair the catheter. I am on the floor, having startled and fallen there from my wheelchair. The patient in the room next door had lost whatever calm he had in this place and started throwing shoes, water mugs, dishes, silverware, one after another, at my wall, not in a million years foreseeing the possible consequences to his anonymous and very startle-sensitive next-door neighbor. The nurse's aide has run into that room to stop his fury. Nurses gathered around my prone and convulsing body are protecting my thrashing against the furniture and walls and giving me injections of massive quantities of Valium trying to calm the massive, whole-body spasms. Tears are forming in my eyes and I am biting the insides of my cheeks to keep the tears within. I will not cry. I refuse to cry. My entire body is arching backwards now and I cannot breathe. I am angry that this is happening once again. I am angry with Dr. Jessop for refusing to follow a simple protocol that would cut short my hospital stay by weeks. I am angry that pride, arrogance, and stubbornness is causing me this agony. I am angry that I am missing life with my husband and my four sweet children. I am angry that Dr. Jessop will not listen to me. |
