THE PATIENT PATIENT

Early on the first morning, my doctor appeared for his daily visit.  He did not inform me what kinds of tests were to be ordered that day, nor did he give me a clue as to what he was thinking could possibly be my problem.  He listened in disbelief as I told him about the olive oil treatment, and he was very skeptical that I could have passed gallstones on my own. 

Soon, the battery of tests began.  One very nice volunteer pushed my wheelchair to the basement laboratory. The first test was a sonogram of my gallbladder area.  Maybe any cholesterol stones I had didn’t show up, or maybe I still had a lot of olive oil in my system, but, either way, nothing unusual appeared on the monitor.

When the test was finished, I was pushed into the hallway where many other patients were lined up, and l was left to sit in that uncomfortable wheelchair to wait for another test, or to be taken back to my room.  I was so tired.  I tried to get comfortable by sliding way down in the chair, by leaning my head back, by propping my head on my arm, by leaning against the wall, or by letting my chin rest on my chest.  I’d seen people sleep in wheelchairs before, but personally, I couldn’t figure out how to do it.

I waited in the hall for an hour and a half, during which all of the nice volunteers disappeared for a coffee break.  None of the staff even acknowledged me, or any of my wheelchair-bound compatriots.  Technicians quickly scurried along, their eyes either glued to the floor or to their clipboards, avoiding eye contact with any of us lonely patients.   If body language means anything, I was probably the loudest.  In my mind, we were all viewed as pieces of worn-out furniture.  I was the love seat; the big man ahead of me was the sofa; the lady with the IV stand was an old coffee table.  I tried to find a euphemism for the attractive lady with the expensive looking robe, but before I could she was taken for her tests. 

I must admit that when the technicians eventually performed my next tests, they behaved in a very professional manner.  Finally, a volunteer wheeled me back to my room.  I gratefully climbed into my bed and fell asleep until a white-coated man came to draw yet more blood. 

On the second day, I once again found myself abandoned in the hallway outside the lab.  I thought to myself, No way, I’m not going to wait two hours for a volunteer this time.  I wheeled myself onto the elevator, pressed the button for the 9th floor, rolled myself to my room, and felt very clever indeed as I snuck into bed.  I was asleep before they found me.

I was given a large glass of awful chalky stuff to drink which was meant to aid in other tests, but I was not given much in the way of nourishing food.  Some days, I was given nothing to eat at all.  In the afternoon, I slept.  Friends and family who had come to visit informed me that they had found me fast asleep (probably with my mouth wide open!).

On the third day, a lab technician caught me trying to make my escape.  I almost made it to the elevator when I heard, "Oh, no, you don’t!"  I felt someone grab my wheelchair.  I needed a better plan, and quick.  Sitting in that stupid wheelchair was the pits. 

On the fourth day, after yet another test, I became determined:  There would be no more waiting around in the hall for me!  While I was still on the examining table after the test, I declared to the technician, "If you don’t take me to my room right now, I’m going to sing!"  I even surprised myself!  Where do all my good ideas come from?  Apparently, no one took me seriously, so I warned them again.  "I have a terrible voice, and I sing off-key."  Again, I was ignored.  So I took a deep breath and began belting out an old gospel tune at the top of my lungs, clapping loudly as I sang:

            "I’ve got a mansion, just over the hilltop,

            In that bright land where we’ll never grow old..."

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