The nurse made a mistake in removing Sarge's catheter. Once the Percodan kicked in, it was payback time.
I heard Sarge get out of bed, followed by the unmistakable sound of him pissing all over his side of the room. The air grew pungent with the stench of urine, and I was even more thankful for the opiates.
Sarge rang his call button.
Ding!
"Can I help you?"
"Yes, nurse, I've had an accident."
The nurse came in. "Oh, your sheets are all wet."
"Yeah," Sarge replied. "And the floor and the chair, there. Will you clean it up, please?"
The nurse had no choice. Once she was finished, she said, "Next time you need to go to the bathroom, ring us, okay? We'll help you get in there."
"Okay," Sarge said. Then he asked for water.
A diabolical genius. Why did his other roomies complain about this guy? He's a one-man floor show.
I heard the nurses in the hall discussing whether they should just stick a catheter in Sarge, but they were confounded by his doctor's order, which was to catheterize Sarge only if he couldn't urinate on his own, which obviously wasn't the case.
An hour later, Sarge went on another pissing spree. Once finished, he rang the call button.
Ding!
"Can I help you?"
"Yes, nurse, I need to go to the bathroom."
"Okay, someone will be right in."
Minutes later, a nurse entered, and asked, "What happened?"
"I couldn't wait," Sarge replied.
I floated into a light sleep, punctuated with Ding!s and "Can I help you?"s.
Sarge wanted a blanket. Sarge wanted his pillow fluffed. Sarge wanted more pain meds. Sarge wanted water. Sarge pissed again.
So it went until morning, and the 7 a.m. shift change. A catfight erupted in the hall among four nurses, arguing loudly over who was supposed to work with whom, for 30 minutes. Evidently, Sandy was scheduled to work with JoAnne, but insisted it was her turn to work with Cynthia, to which JoAnne took great offense, as did Betty, who would have to change floors if Sandy and JoAnne weren't teamed up. All the while, my breakfast--bacon and eggs--grew clammy and the grease congealed.
My surgeon, making his rounds, came by and asked how I was doing. I told him if he really wanted me to rest, he should get me the hell out of the hospital as soon as possible. He said he would.
A nurse trainee who looked disturbingly like a Fetal Alcohol Syndrome victim with drooping, expressionless eyes came into the room to check my blood pressure, wrapped the wide, black Velcro strap around my left arm, and was about to pump me up.
"Whoa, whoa," I said. "Are you supposed to put that on the same arm as my IV?"
"Oops." She giggled. "It probably would have blown up."
How amusing. I began to feel like the bedridden novelist in Misery, and cringed when the giggling trainee went to remove the needle from my hand. I was relieved when she pulled it out smoothly, then alarmed anew when she promptly left the room and blood began leaking from the hole.
I applied pressure for a few minutes until another nurse, passing by, saw my predicament and bandaged the hand.
My papers came through half an hour later. It took me 10 minutes to dress myself in street clothes. Before I got in the wheelchair--hospital policy, and I wasn't arguing--I gave Sarge a thumbs up and wished him luck.
"Shit," he said. "I need it."
Outside the hospital, it was hot, but the sun had never felt so fine.
Contact David Holthouse at his online address: dholthouse@newtimes.com
