Why we all hate hospitals

[debgeisler]

Chances are that you'll go to a hospital without planning more often than you will have an appointment and the ability to pack a bag. You'll do what I did on Wednesday: have an "uh oh" kind of moment when something symptomatic suggests to you (and your primary health care provider) that getting yourself to the emergency room is a fine idea.

So you get to the emergency room. Unless you are bleeding out, turning blue, or have a baby peeking out of your pelvis, odds are that they'll take some time doing all of the triage, paperwork, and so on.

Then they take you into the bowels depths of the ER. There, they put bracelets on you, give you a festive little backside-revealing garment called a "johnny" (a term I'd never heard until moving to New England -- midwesterners just call them "hospital gowns"), take your blood pressure, pulse, temperature, oxygen levels, then put you on a bed-like structure and give you a blanket. Oh, and festive socks.

After this initial flurry of activity, there is an in-depth quizzing of your symptoms. Then a lull.

In comes the vampire. The vampire may be the same nurse who has been taking care of you, or it may be a specialist. The vampire attempts to find your vein to insert an IV so they can give you whatever. The vampire asks, "Are you left-handed or right-handed?" and, when you reply, "Right-handed," will put the IV into your right arm or hand.

Except they can't find your vein (because you are dehydrated all to hell), so they dig and dig. Withdraw. Phone a friend. Who digs and digs. Okay, right arm is now completely shot (and, two days later, is *enormously* colorful).

So they put the IV in your left hand, even though this might be too convenient for you as a patient. But it is a lousy IV, so a specialist vampire comes in and puts a second one in higher on your arm. You are now a double tap.

Then they take blood. With a syringe. Into an already-stuck part of your un-IV'd hand. Because just mopping up what has already come out and squeezing it in a tube is unacceptable. (Yes, yes, I know there are reasons for that.)

So, now that they've given you something else to think about, they leave you for a bit.

[Interlude for boredom...and for one's spouse to begin discussing which items of machinery he could play with.]

In comes the ER physician (if you are very lucky, it may be someone who specializes in your ailment)(no dice, but he was still a nice guy). The ER physician's job is to go through the same set of questions you have answered twice, now. Because nobody ever reads the charts. Then the ER physician (who, although nice, is clearly a closet sadist) asks you where it hurts, then pokes you there and says, "Does this hurt?" Often, s/he has to say this loudly to be heard over your gasps of pain.

"Well, we probably have to admit you. We'll stabilize you overnight, keep an eye on your vitals, suck out some more blood, and do more testing in the morning." You should have resigned yourself to this happening as you were driving to the hospital, so don't get all kinds of pissy.

One hour later, your spouse, who is now starving and bored, heads out. (Because you are a boring-ass patient, and they have given you pain killers, so you are also a lousy conversationalist.) He promises fuzzy slippers and a laptop come morning.

One hour and forty-five minutes after that, you finally figure out how to shut the stupid television off. Five minutes later, they take you up to a room. They bring Spot (which is undoubtedly what 72% of people name their IV tree thing on wheels...4% prefer Rover...24% do not understand why you feel compelled to name it). They take you to what proves to be the wrong room. You sit on the bed holding your IV bag (it could be worse), and then they make you get back on the gurney and take you to the right room.

First unexpected good thing of the night: private room on the pediatric ward. (They do not allow drug addicts or mental patients on this floor. So, unlike in the ER a bit ago, you won't hear a physician ask, loudly, "Did you overdose to hurt yourself? Did you do it on purpose?")

Second very fine thing of the night: pisser great nursing team with a warped sense of humor. They give you ice water, morphine, and a sleeping pill while the most expert vampire in the whole joint takes some blood out of your knuckle. Ouch. And then you sleep, until they wake you up to take vitals or blood or whatever.

[Interlude for drugged sleep.]

First post-ER physician is a specialist. He is funny, bright, and catches your jokes. After your first 60 seconds of interacting, he treats you (*shock* *awe*) like a sensible grownup with a good brain. Very likeable. He orders some tests, tells you what he thinks is probably wrong and where you will go from there, and then heads out...never to be seen again. *sigh*

[Interlude to see husband, get fuzzy slippers and kiss, and prep for test, during which time (in an unrelated incident) your saline IV blows out.]

Second post-ER physician is apparently the one who is your "primary" while there. She is all smiles, but acts like you are on the other (pediatric) end of the floor. Does not tell you what her task is. Shows up 10 minutes before you are supposed to leave for test, natters without saying much, takes your chart, and leaves you and your pusher (okay, orderly) hanging out in the hall additional 15 minutes while she annotates your chart.

[Interlude for test...where they blow out your remaining IV.]

[Additional interlude of 5 hours where nothing much happens. Husband comes back. Hugging and kissing and Jeopardy! ensue.]

Then you discover that your "primary" physician has gotten your test results, not told you anything about them, left orders to put you on IV antibiotics, including the one every medical document identifies as a drug allergy, and left the hospital. Cannot be contacted.

[Interlude to get really cheesed and demand to see on-call physician.]

You point out to the on-call physician that his colleague is an idiot, you can't take these drugs IV, you can tolerate medication orally, and suggest he make a substitute. He does. Apologizes for his colleague. You take horse pill. Eventually go to sleep still cheesed off.

[Interlude to sleep. Wake up early. More vampires, vitals, etc. Blah, blah, blah.]

In comes the physician who cheesed you off the day before, smiling and saying, "I understand you had issues." No. You had issues. You did not communicate with the patient at all. You did not tell patient test results. You ordered meds, calling for a drug patient has documented allergy to, and left the hospital. There are telephones in the world. You probably have one or two. Learn to use them. [Make physician cry.] [Find you feel good about that.]

In comes new specialist. He tells you what they want to do and that you can (1) have real food [or, well, not-quite-real...it was hospital food] and (2) leave today. For various values of "today." Last test of any sort is at 11 a.m.

[Insert lonnnnnngggg interval of boredom.]

Finally, at 5 p.m. (and after repeated requests), you get out of prison hospital. Nice nurse gives you discharge papers and cracks jokes. Nice assistant at nurse's station takes you down to front entrance (in a wheelchair) because they have policy that nobody can walk until they get out the door, and she doesn't want you to have to wait any longer.

So. Why we hate hospitals.:

(1) Incredibly spotty communication. Some good; some bad; some ugly.
(2) No explanation of delays; all waits longer than promised.
(3) Many staff cannot, apparently, read.
(4) "Customers" treated like lumps of flesh.
(5) Patients stripped of dignity (and most of clothing).
(6) Really lousy food. (They screwed up *popsicles*.)
(7) Most staff are good people...but a few annoying, well-placed idiots can poison the whole well.

In short, we hate hospitals because they are like modern airlines.