It is “hell” – there are so many kinds.
This one is made of:
– I am moved from one room to another but… both rooms, both men/neighbors are screaming day and night, and moaning. I cannot believe I am supposed to heal in that environment. I slowly learn that I am in the “trauma unit,” where trauma is king.
– I speak to three “case-managers” – someone should be supervising my healing. All three tell me they will get back to me, but they don’t.
– By the time I leave, I have managed to communicate what I would consider to be eatable by me.
The kind of depersonalized bland cafeteria food I was given feels like being fed by a conveyor belt in a stable. I cannot imagine any kind of senior housing or nursing home food… And the lack of actual privacy.
Dinner = white bread with processed cheddar cheese.
– The morning “doctors rounds” end up being a predictable daily disappointment: I never get a sense of an overview, nor of what is a stake. They do show up, doctor and residents, but before I can have any concrete conversation, they “have to run elsewhere.”
Every nurse seems to come from a different country – one small way to escape and to find stimulation where I can.
Picture without the screams & moaning & bed-alarm by the next bed…
P.S.: A friend told me that this reflects the state of the health system in the US. A doctor I spoke with later confirmed that.
NOT to take it personally! [reminds me of Ajahn Sumedho‘s important book: Don’t Take Your Life Personally.]
ADDENDUM!
Just learned much later, that I was in a geriatric trauma unit, nobody told me at the time… but that explains the two different rooms with two screaming neighbors. They should have done some kind of assessment, and possibly put those two together!