April 1st rolled around and Myron was hoping someone would come tell him it was just a joke and he was free to go home. The tubes still draining pus from his lungs told him his stay wasn’t over yet. By this point Myron had witnessed the routine of the nurses enough to have it memorized and admire its efficiency.
A typical day for Myron started around 7:30 AM with the arrival of what he calls “the bloodsuckers.” A nurse would step in, usually a different one than before, and say something like, “Hi, I’m So-and-so and I’m here to draw your blood.” Then, before he was awake enough to complain they’d stick a needle in him and draw out his blood for fresh tests and be off.
Next came breakfast, which was always ordered the night before from a staff member who came in after dinner that night. For the first few days that Myron had been in the hospital he hadn’t had much of an appetite, and had only eaten maybe five bites of food. When he finally did start getting hungry he found that the food the hospital served was better than he had expected, even better than the food served back at his retirement home. After discovering this mealtime became one of the main things Myron looked forward to.
Then came the nurses Myron liked to call “the drug dealers.” This was a nurse who showed up four times a day holding a plastic device that covered the nose and mouth, almost like some kind of gas mask. They’d place the mask over his face and use a lighter to light something near the base of the device and have him inhale the smoke that began to fill the device. Apparently whatever they were having him smoke actually helped his lungs expel oxygen molecules that had built up in the lining of his lungs and were causing him problems, but to Myron it always felt a little like they were doing something illegal.
Soon after another nurse in a hurry would zoom in, change the boot that kept him from turning on his side, and be off before Myron could blink.
Lunch would be delivered promptly at 12:30, again something that Myron had ordered the previous night. The choices were simple; a side, an entree, and a little dessert, but they always managed to serve slightly different meals. If Myron ordered turkey for lunch two days in a row one day might be sliced turkey with cranberry sauce and the next might be a ground turkey sandwich on wheat buns. Without fail, the food was just what Myron was craving. It never failed to satisfy.
At 1:30 a nurse with a laptop on a wheeled cart would slide into the room to take Myron’s orders for dinner as well as the next days breakfast and lunch. “I don’t think I need to order tomorrow’s breakfast,” Myron would tell the nurse,
“I’ll be out of here by then.” The nurse would give him a look and say, “Well, tell me what you want, just in case.”
The rest of the day continued through the routine of “drug dealers,” the boot changers, and others dropping by to check a chart, change a pus bag, what have you.
The only thing that happened at random intervals was the arrival of the EKG people. They seemed to be using Myron for practice as well as to monitor a blocked lower ventricle in his heart which gave them some worry (although Myron was unconcerned because this is something he has had all his life and it hadn’t killed him yet). A team would come in, practice placing the EKG pads on him, get a little instruction, then monitor him for an hour or so before leaving him to his thoughts.
Dinner and dessert showed up at 7 PM, but the nurses soon learned Myron’s preferred routine involved chowing down on whatever delicious meal they brought but then delaying dessert till just before bed. The nurse that wheeled in one hour later would bring ice cream in a Dixie cup just for Myron. This little Dixie cup of creamy delight became Myron’s favorite meal. Then a hush came over the hospital and lights went out until the next morning when it would all start again.
The Professional Patient 