MILLIANS: Hospital stay is no vacation

Published 1:00 pm Saturday, August 31, 2024

When the Thursday supper menu rolled around to chicken pot pie again, I knew I had been in the hospital too long. 

Yes, that’s where I have been — again. Thanks to all of you who have called, emailed or texted about my whereabouts, and my apologies to those who had to read reruns of this column for the past two weeks.

I was at Piedmont Atlanta Hospital on Peachtree Street in lovely Buckhead for the third time this year. Nine days this time. Eight days the first time. Six days the second time. 

That’s 23 days in the hospital this year. Gee, we’ve got to stop meeting like this. I’m on a first name basis with multiple doctors and nurses. 

When people ask where I went on vacation this year, I just say, “Hospital.”

And to think, for that kind of expense, I could have been in some exotic location like Tahiti.

Does Medicare cover trips to Tahiti?

When last I addressed my medical condition, I had my cancerous bladder and prostate removed in February. A few weeks later I was back in the hospital with sepsis, a blood infection.

But I had recovered nicely. Six months later I was doing well and a CT scan showed no new cancer.

Then, a problem with my plumbing struck.

I know. I know. Call Roto-Rooter, people told me.

If it could be so simple.

If you really want more details, google Hydronephrosis. It doesn’t completely explain everything. But it’s a start.

I’m back at home this week, feeling fine, but my plumbing problem is far from solved. I’ll be returning soon for another procedure, but I’ve been assured that this can be done outpatient.

I sure hope so. 

There are legions of talented, compassionate and dedicated medical people. 

But I’m sorry, I hate hospitals.

My Lord, Piedmont must have a contract with Tyson Chicken. Their patient menu is poultry-heavy, and not in a fried chicken sort of way. 

They served ranch chicken, chicken stir fry, southwest chicken, turkey Bolognese, grilled BBQ chicken, roasted turkey, lemon baked chicken and — as I mentioned — chicken pot pie.

Can’t a guy get some beef around here?

And, of course, anyone who has been in the hospital knows it’s impossible to sleep. 

3 a.m.: Check vitals. 

4 a.m.: Lab comes to draw blood. I’m a hard stick. Sometimes, it would take three attempts by three different people to start a new IV. They’re always hiding a go-to nurse in the back room who can get the job done when all others fail. My arms are still black and blue.

5 a.m.: I’m not sure what they did at 5 because I was still groggy.

6 a.m.: Check vitals again.

7 a.m.: Shift change. Night nurse says goodbye; day nurse introduces herself; they consult.

So, I’m wide awake now, but I have two hours to wait before they serve breakfast at 9.

And, the doctors — I had so many of them. Hospitalist, nephrologist, interventional radiologist, urologist. Ask one a question, and they’d ask you what another doctor had said. 

One guy — I guess he was taking weekend call — came in, talking like a used car salesman, trying to convince me to change doctors because his office in Conyers was closer for me in Milledgeville than having to drive all the way to Atlanta.

When one doctor says it’s OK for you to go home, another comes up with a reason you ought to stay another day.

I felt like the NASA astronauts on the International Space Station. How do I get home? Do I have to wait until 2025?

The Medicare lady came around to have me sign a form that I could appeal if I thought they were sending me home too early.

No, where’s the “Get Me Outta Here Fast” form?

As usual, I had a lot of prayers and support to get me through another hospital stay.

Jim Harper, my Baldwin High classmate and one of the best athletes the school has ever produced, sent me daily devotionals and helped arrange for a chaplain to come by for a visit.

My niece who lives in Atlanta, Beth Allen, brought her young son Thayer to play cards with me. We had some great Go Fish and Uno games.

My pastor at First Methodist, Mac Enfinger, checked on me regularly.

Wanda was by my side the whole time, as usual, and sent out her morning update every day. She put up with me watching “Seinfeld” reruns. They’re not as funny as they used to be. I put up with her watching “Love It or List It” on HGTV.

I guess the bottom line is this: Thanks to everyone, medical and civilian.

But three times in the hospital in six months is enough.

I’ve already got plenty of those non-slip yellow hospital socks.

—Rick Millians, a 1970 Baldwin High graduate, retired after working at newspapers in Georgia, Ohio and South Carolina. Reach him at rdmillians@aol.com.