Steve had chemo last Tuesday and this Tuesday he wanted to go to the ER and get a blood transfusion. The side effects of the chemo were rougher this time around: he was looking a little yellow; his energy and appetite had been dismal every since the treatment, not to mention the nausea and vomiting. So we got into the car and I gladly drove the 40 miles to Long Beach VA.
Now, most of the people who read this blog have visited our home, so you have an idea what that's like. But in referencing our experiences at the Long Beach VA facility, I'd hazard to say any reader has driven past it, much less stopped in for treatment. This being so, I've adapted their standard map to indicate the places we go in the facility on a regular basis. And, yes, it really is as massive as it looks. It sits right next to Long Beach State University's campus.
During the drive, Steve apologized again for "making" me drive down, and I told him this was not a problem: I feel frustrated and angry that I can't do anything for him, so when there is something I can do to really help, I'm glad to do it, and it makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something. Then came the ER.
Like most emergency rooms, the one at the VA is usually overwhelmed by the influx of patients, and separating folks out and getting them the attention they need (usually including admission into the hospital) is a intricate task.
When we got there, Steve ended up on a gurney in the hallway while I sat next to him and listened to the charge nurse begging the staff on the inpatient wards to please prep the beds they had so ER could start sending patients up.
One energetic and fully psychotic fellow was down the hall moaning and hollering, all nonverbal. At times he sounded exactly like Gene Wilder in "The Producers" whenever someone tried to steal his blanket.
We ended up sitting there for nearly three hours before we actually saw a doctor, got blood drawn and had the results from the lab confirm what we already knew: Steve needed a blood transfusion. We had walked through the doors at 1:30 and it wasn't until 4:30 that it was finally confirmed that they were admitting him, and I could return home without fear of stranding him in Long Beach.
Steve texted me at 7:15; he was still in the ER, but they had started his first unit of blood. The Moaning Melvin down the hall had gone hoarse with all his wailing and was now doing impressions of Chebacca. Steve called me a bit later, but cell reception is very spotty in the ER, so it sounded like he was calling from an alien bar on Jupiter, all the background noise garbling in with his voice.
It was 10:15 before Steve was actually admitted onto the ward. He gave me a call after, and this time I could hear him (being that he was on the 8th floor and in a windowside bed). The next morning, he called to say he was being released, probably about noon; about 11:30 he called again to say, "Come pick me up."
When I arrived about an hour later (the usual one-way time for the trip), I found him hooked up to a full IV bag with a sheepish look on his face. "I tried to call you but you'd already left. Right after I talked to you, the nurse came in with this magnesium sulfate infusion that was ordered this morning but didn't show up until just after I called." It was going to be another four hours for this transfusion.
The room was really crowded, with all four beds occupied, so I decided to go down to the Patriot Café, grab a sandwich for lunch and cool my heels. I sat out back on the patio, as the temperature was a balmy 80-something, and ended up dozing off in one of the comfy upholstered settees under an umbrella.
We ended up leaving the hospital about 4:45. I was just glad to get home. And it never entered my head to call anyone or drop an e-mail and let people know Steve was in the hospital, because he was never in any danger. We're comfortable with the situation so everyone else should be.
I think I'm beginning to understand getting older a little better through all this.
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