The Good Patient

Two weeks ago…  Five hours after they closed him up, he was on his feet, still emerging from an anesthetic haze but determined to follow doctor’s orders to walk for 10 minutes every hour to avoid blood clots.  The nurses beamed at him with encouraging smiles as he took laps around the ward, with me and an IV cart (souped up with morphine dispenser) in tow, high-stepping in his khaki hospital socks with no-skid treads.  A physician’s assistant leaped aside as we approached, exclaiming with a laugh, “you have right of way 'cos you have wheels!"

We started recognizing the cacophony of beeps from each room that we walked past: a sequence of two ascending tones, a low note, then the same first two tones indicated that someone's IV drip was running low.  A three monotone alarm meant that a patient's oxygen level had dropped below 90%.

“Ice me!” he commanded whenever he felt parched, recalling the doctor’s cautionary words about dehydration during the recovery process.  “My OCD is kicking in…” he confessed, then started barking instructions for me to align the side table with the cabinet and to disentangle the mess of cords next to his bed.  I bustled about obediently, feeding him ice chips and rearranging furniture as I was told -- grateful that he was well on his way to recovery.

As we made our way to the elevator after the 30-hour hospital stay, we caught the eye of his fellow patients in their rooms, most smiling and giving him the “thumbs up” as we departed.  He had left a positive impression on them!

Today...  My darling overachiever is recovering well, having transitioned from an all-liquid diet to soft foods in the last couple of days with cautious optimism and keeping his “eye on the prize”: Possible remission from diabetes,... and a date with a bulgolgi hash brown sandwich from Art’s Café!