According to a post-operative appointment with my surgeon, I was recovering exceedingly well from a recent hip replacement operation and could resume all normal activities.
Imagine my dismay when the following weekend, just like in the comic strips, “Zap,” “Bang,” “Boom,” I unexpectedly came down with chills and fever, complete exhaustion and a rosy red rash on the right hip.
Early Monday, I went to see my internist, anticipating she would prescribe an antibiotic which would straighten it out in no time, but she took one look and pronounced, “This is serious ... you need to be in the hospital.”
A conference call between my internist and the New York surgeon who had performed the procedure determined there was no time to waste. I dashed home, grabbed my small-wheeled suitcase and just made the 12:57 out of New Haven for New York.
Once I arrived at the Hospital for Special Surgery, an examination revealed that the infection did not seem to have affected the surgical site (I had been petrified they would have to re-operate) but I would have to be in the hospital for several days and receive intravenous injections of a penicillin derivative that treats a broad spectrum of various infections.
Although this outstanding hospital is beautifully situated overlooking the East River and the staff are exemplary, informed, concerned, cheerful and readily available, I was to find this five-day stay more difficult than the three-day post surgical sojourn.
This time, due to the infection, I had to be in a solitary room, and I missed the camaraderie of my stimulating, former roommate. My new room was a large corner one with a fully equipped bathroom and there was even a small fridge for cold drinks and fruit.
Meals were delicious and at first I delighted in the luxury of breakfast in bed as I leisurely watched Regis while munching fruit, cereal, eggs and a corn muffin.
I was free to do as I pleased except for a few hours each day when tethered to the IV. Of course, the first treatment was at 5:30 a.m., but I usually was able to drift off to sleep again until the eight o’clock breakfast tray, followed by the nurse or several interns to whom I had to display “the hip.”
By the second day, the fever was gone, and I was feeling fine but a little restless. By the third day, I was bored with my book and stupefied by the selection on daytime television.
My daughter-in-law, Ronnie, came to visit, bringing many necessities that had been missing from my suitcase. Since there had been no time to pack, the case only contained leftovers from a previous trip, but was minus many essentials such as a nightgown.
Hospital gowns, I would venture to guess, have not been updated since the 1920s. You still need a map to figure out which arm goes where and even when encased like a sausage, the rear view is decidedly from the flapper era.
Ronnie brought a soft cotton over-sized T-shirt type nightie; comfortable and more modest, but still offering easy access to all the interested hospital personnel.
Also missing this time, since nobody, including me, had anticipated a return engagement, were the calls, flowers and cards. Nobody was fussing over me although if they had, I would have felt pangs of guilt since I was feeling perfectly well — just bored and confined.
By the fourth day, I was ready to steal a volunteer’s uniform so I could at least visit and talk with other people.
Finally, Saturday morning, I was released in Ronnie’s custody. New York air never smelled so good. I was grinning at everyone as we walked along 2nd Avenue until we spotted a delightful Greek restaurant where we had a delicious brunch before I headed for Grand Central Station and home.
Ah, to come and go as one chooses. What bliss!
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