Beech Tree News Network

My husband, Garey, had to have a pacemaker inserted last week.  He’s had problems with his heart for about six years now and his cardiologist at Vanderbilt thought he would be a good candidate for the device.  Garey gets his health care through the VA in Nashville, which utilizes the doctors at Vanderbilt, so the veterans get excellent care. I really like the hospital. We had never had a bad experience there until last week, Wednesday, the 26th day of February.  I had never bad-mouthed a veteran until last week, Thursday, the 27th of February.  I am currently 64 years old.  Let me explain.

           I love veterans, I always have.  I respect them more than I respect just about anybody.  Each time I accompany Garey to the VA, I see countless Veterans moving from floor to floor on elevators, congregating in the lobby or standing in line at the pharmacy.  I have always found them to be courteous and friendly. Even if you walk down the hall of a wing where veterans have been admitted for an overnight or longer stay, open doors reveal men who wave and smile in greeting as you pass their rooms.

           Garey had his pacemaker implanted on Wednesday morning.  The recovery room called my phone and told me I could go on up to our room.  He was assigned to Bed 23. His roommate was Bed 22. Patients have roommates at the VA, and Garey has always had wonderful roommates.  That was all about to change.

           As I entered the room, I saw a 300-pound man sitting in a chair in his underwear.  He was watching TV. I said, “Hi.” He grunted an acknowledgement. The two beds were separated by a privacy curtain.  The TV was positioned on a wall in between, so both patients could view it. Garey arrived at the room a few minutes later, with instructions to stay in bed until the following morning, when his pacemaker would be x-rayed to make sure it hadn’t shifted during the night.

           A nurse entered the room a few minutes later.  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the bed?” she asked Bed 22.  “No,” he answered, “I’m not getting in that bed, I’m staying right here.”

She then tried to get him to put on a hospital gown, but he refused.  She checked Garey’s vitals and told him if he needed any pain medication, to let her know. 

           After the nurse left the room, Bed 22 told us he had been admitted for breathing problems.  He was hooked up to oxygen and a monitor that would sound an alarm if his arm was bent in such a way that pinched the wire running to it.  He said he had fallen in the bathroom the day before, and now he was restricted to peeing in a bottle. I felt sorry for him for the first couple of hours.  After that, I had to constantly remind myself that he was a veteran who deserved my understanding and respect. 

           The next several hours consisted of Bed 22 complaining incessantly, pushing the button that alerted the care team to come see about him, and the sound of his monitor going off every time he got the wire in a tangle, which seemed like every fifteen minutes.  Go to your piano. Play the notes A# and D# consecutively a thousand times. That was the background music Garey and I were treated to for the next 14 hours.

           After Garey and his roommate had finished their dinner that evening, Bed 22 asked the nurse to help him find Jeopardy on the TV.  “Remember, you have roommates,” she said, “You need to find something you both can watch.”

           “But I was watching first,” he whined.

           I spoke up.  “We will watch whatever he wants to watch,” I said.  There was no way I was going to start an argument with him.  At that point, I would have watched “Green Porn” (a series produced by Isabella Rossellini on the sexual behavior of snails and such) if that’s what he wanted to watch.

           About 7 pm, a nurse came in to draw blood from Bed 22.  He started yelling, “Ow! Ow! You’re hurting me! Stop sticking me!”  I don’t know if she ever did get any blood. 

           The rest of the night was more of the same.  Garey and I got fifteen-minute segments of sleep on and off, constantly being awakened by his roommate’s yelling or the A# D# song.  At 3:30 AM, a nurse came into the room to tell Bed 22 she had to weigh him—doctor’s orders. I didn’t see what was about to take place, but I sure heard it.  As the nurse helped him from his chair, his legs buckled, and he plopped down onto the floor on his behind.

           “Help me!  Help me!” he started screaming.  A whole covey of nurses and orderlies descended upon the room.  One was assigning blame while others were trying to help him up.  One orderly had the presence of mind to procure a lift with a sling that slipped under the patient’s behind, and that’s how they finally got him back into his chair.  While all this was happening, one nurse peeked around the corner at Garey, and said, “Can I get you anything?” 

           “Yes,” Garey said, “Bring me some strong pain medication, and give it to him!”

           I looked at Garey, he looked at me, and it was in that moment, that we had both had enough.  “That selfish, self-serving, narcissistic big baby!” I thought but didn’t say. “If I could get out of this bed,” Garey thought…and said, “I swear, I would punch him right in the mouth!”

           Garey was able to get out of bed about 8 AM.  He did not, however, punch Bed 22 in the mouth.  He did not want to have to stick around to fill out the paperwork that would be involved.

           (Garey is doing really well with his pacemaker.  No thanks to Bed 22.)