Home again, hopefully…?

We were released from the hospital yesterday afternoon, list of new meds in hand, went to the pharmacy, got them filled, went to the airport and got on a plane.  We arrived here at home around 8:30 pm, a full-time nurse in tow.  I hugged my husband, my son, my dogs, made introductions all around.  Into the kitchen.  Thank God I’d made and froze that turkey soup from the Thanksgiving turkey bones.  Toasted some cheese bread.  Don handed me the fax that doctor from LA had sent over, going over the meds and times again.  I unpacked my friend’s bag and gave C_____ (the nurse) the bag of all of the prescriptions the hospital had given us.

And that’s when the shit hit the fan. 

The list the doctor had faxed over had a zillion more medicines than the list the hospital had filled and handed us on check out.

I couldn’t get anybody on the phone.  I found a pharmacy that was open 24 hours, but then found out that even if I got the LA hospital to fax them the missing prescriptions, they wouldn’t fill it because they will only accept prescriptions written by Canadian doctors.  We had to go to emergency and see if they would give him the medicines he needed, because we didn’t have ANY of the 4 meds he was supposed to receive in the evening and was missing a several of the morning ones.

The emergency room was hopping.  Crazy busy.  I’d like to think that last night was an abnormally crazy night.  That normally so many people aren’t rushed to the hospitals in such dire straits, but I guess that’s naive.  Just like when I used to be a waitress, evenings are busy. 

So, we’d just checked out of a hospital in L.A. a few hours prior, and there we were in Canada, back in one.  Terrified and waiting.  Scared that everything would unravel.  My friend’s first day out of bed after a five day stay in the hospital, three of them in ICU.

A couple hours later, we finally got to see a doctor.  He didn’t believe our story.  I was shaking, couldn’t stop, from weariness, fear that my friend had finally stabilized and now we didn’t have the meds.  The doctor thought I was a junkie trying to trick drugs out of him.  And perhaps I looked like one, pale face, shaking hands, exhausted, only a couple hours of sleep for the last five days.  And then meeting the doctor, his attitude, his disbelief, like I was trying to pull one over on him rather than the concern and compassion I had expected…Well, it certainly didn’t help the shaking.  Looking into his face, seeing the scepticism and censorship written there.  Having to take his sarcastic, demeaning comments.  Having to try to stay calm, explain.  I’d already showed him the discharge papers, the prescription papers, the night nurse papers.  I’d told him the absolute truth and still, he was looking at me, shaking his head, like I was the lowest of low, using an elderly person to get my drugs.  Finally he agreed to give us some (not all) of the medicines required.  Three days worth, to give me wiggle room to get the missing medicines federal-expressed. 

We didn’t get home and in bed until almost 2 am. 

Up at 6:45 am to get Will off to school, sitting at the breakfast table with my plate of french toast, tired but so glad that the last 6 days are behind me.  I heaved a sigh and almost said, “Ah…It’s so good to be home.“  But I caught myself, swallowed the words, because look what happened the last time I said that!

Posted by Meg Tilly on Friday, November 02, 2007 in Chewing the Fat