A Hallway in Europe

If you are new here, you might want to scroll all the way down to May 1st and start at the beginning.

What’s your name? Katharine. How old are you? 36. Where are you? Riverside Methodist Hospital. Good, I’ve got your Ativan.

They kept moving my bed. With me in it. I mean, I understand that a hospital is a busy place with a constant influx of patients, but is it really a good idea to keep moving someone in my condition? I’d had brain surgery, as evidenced by the head full staples with drains attached to it. Several times a day, they would come assess the color of the fluid draining from my skull. I remember hearing terms like “cranberry” and “haystack.” They were waiting for the hydrocephalus to drain. It wasn’t. Maybe it would drain better if you stopped moving my bed?

I would close my eyes for just a minute. It’s so hard to keep looking at things. I just want to stop. When I opened them, I would be somewhere else. They weren’t just moving me between rooms. They were moving me all over the hospital. Really? The landing between floors? Is this safe? Is this sanitary? You keep telling me to stop scratching at these staples because I’ll get an infection, but you can just leave me on the landing? Oh well, at least I can see the Food Court from here. Hey, is that Rock Star Neurosurgeon and Glenna having lunch together? I wonder if they’re married? What are they eating? When was the last time I ate? I don’t remember eating for a long time. Oh well, I’ll just close my eyes again.

A hallway. I wish they would stop leaving me in the hallway. It’s scary out here. I need walls. I don’t like being out of a room. Take me back to a room, please. Wait, what are they saying? Oh my God, they’re not even speaking English! That sounds like . . .well, I don’t know what that sounds like, but it’s not English. I’d better call Matt. He needs to come get me. Damn cell phone doesn’t work again. I’ll try Karla. Oh, here she is in my contact list. “Hey Karla, it’s Katie. Hey, I just woke up in a hallway. In Europe. Can you call Matt and tell him? My cell isn’t working.” She would. She did.

The phone in my hand started playing the little ringtone ditty. How do I answer this thing? Oh, green button. “Hello?”

“Hi sweetheart.” Matt.

“They moved me to a hallway in Europe. Can you come get me?”

“Are your mom and John there right now?”

“No.” How in the hell could my mom and stepdad be here? I’m in freaking EUROPE!!!!

“I’ll be there soon, but you’re not in Europe. You’re in your room at the hospital.”

“But they keep changing it. They had me by the Food Court earlier. It wasn’t even a room.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve been in the same room since your surgery. You’re in the Neuro-ICU and you haven’t moved. You can call the nurse if you need to, but I’ll be there soon.”

Call the nurse? From Europe? How do I do that? I don’t want to call attention to myself. Everyone here scares me. They don’t like me. I think I’ll just lie low until Matt comes to rescue me. In Europe. My eyes hurt. I have to close them.

4 thoughts on “A Hallway in Europe

  1. jskravec

    I’m coming via MckFacts- thanks for sharing about your blog there. I’ve totally enjoyed reading your blog (read the whole thing this morning) and will look forward to the daily installments.

    Early on you said “I hoped to find something or someone to follow, whose struggle was similar to my own, but I came up empty.” I was wondering, did you ever read the blog http://thesimplewife.typepad.com/ ? She was a blogger, about simple living and such, who then had a stroke. Her husband picked up adding a lot of the blog entries to describe their struggles post-stroke. I actually think you’re doing better than she is with recovery. I almost hesitate to introduce you to that blog, because I don’t want you to find it depressing. But you seem to be someone who believes in honesty and not sugar-coating things. So I’ll let you take a look and decide if it’s something you want to read.

    You *are* a talented writer. Still not sure there’s not a book in here to be written…..


  2. Pingback: The Irish Nurse | The Missing Month of May

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