Hello All.
Well, you may ask, what the heck am I doing here, when I am supposed to be in
hospital? Well, to cut a long story not-so-short:
Hey Carla, here comes a ranting Ron!
I think this may meet with the disapproval of some of you, but since the
beginning of my treatment for acute myelogenous leukemia I have had, and
insisted upon, a private room. At times during chemotherapy, you of course
have to have a private room. Like when your white-cell count drops to
dangerous levels. But beyond that, I WANT (now you know I never use caps, so I
must feel strongly about this) a private room. I am willing to pay whatever is
not covered by the insurance. But today, to my surprise, it appears that at
one of New York City's major hospitals (at least one; maybe this is true of
increasing numbers since the medical profession became a medical industry),
the policy is 100 per cent occupancy, which means that no rooms are kept in
reserve. I still find this hard to believe, but that's what I've been told by
people who ought to know.
The day began on a rough note when, as advised by my doctor, I called
admissions at 10 a.m. and said I was due to be admitted today, but wanted a
private room, and would like to know if one was available. "That is at another
extension," saith the lady at the other end. "I'll transfer your call." "Could
I ask you for that number?" I asked. "No," was the abrupt response and the
call was transferred to another number that did not answer in five minutes. I
hung up, and called back, or tried to, the No Lady. After five minutes I hung
up. This is a flagship hospital, my friends.
The checking-in time at the great white house with the pointy windows is 1
p.m., so I met a friend at the admissions room at that hour. We were greeted
cordially enough by the sign-in person, but were soon told that no private
rooms were available. Whatever happened to the old practice -- I am
remembering other people's experiences, not mine -- when you were called the
afternoon before admission to tell you about your room?
Anyhow, I told admissions I did not want to share, and they advised me to call
my doctor's office before carrying all my stuff back home, but it doesn't open
until 2.30, so we went across the street and I watched my companion eat a
sandwich (I was in no mood for food) and returned to the admissions office to
call my doctor's office. We were told he had already been contacted in the
hospital and would come to the check-in room to see us. Eventually he showed
up, and strongly advised that I accept sharing a room, which I adamantly
refused to do.That has been the understanding from the word go. I want a
private room. I am prepared to move to another hospital if necessary. I made
that clear to him. He said my situation was urgent (he said so last week) and
I said well, let's have a blood test to see how things stand. After all, I
feel a lot better, less dizzy and all, and perhaps this reflects a better
blood count. (And perhaps not; we all know how deceptive these things can be.)
So my friend and I will go to his office late tomorrow afternoon for a blood
test to determine how urgent the situation is. The doctor is understandably
worried about my platelets. I am not blaming him, though I am surprised how
little say doctors seem to have in the accommodation of their patients. Who
has the upper hand these days? Administrators? I guess they always did.
Rambling again. Meantime, God willing, someone may call and tell me that a
room has opened up. I have said how I admire my doctor, but if willingness not
to have a private room is part and parcel of my relationship with him, well
that may well be my last stay at this particular big house.
Lest I sound snotty, let me defend myself thus. I have acute leukemia. I am
vulnerable. Like other cancer patients, I will be attached to tubes and bags.
These tubes and bags make it difficult and sometimes impossible to close the
bathroom door, meaning that you and your roommate must share more than each
other's phone calls, visitors, doctors' visits and TVs: you must also share
private bodily functions, even to the extent of possibly timing each other's
regularity, and await each other's completion of said bodily functions before
you can take care of your own needs.
Add to this the sharing of toilet seats etc., when you are leukemic, and I
think you have a fairly good rationale for not wanting to share a room. It is
not anti-social to want privacy and be willing to pay for it. Or is it? I am a
private person, and if, with a little loan from here and there, I can afford
to pay for privacy, why should it be denied me? I just cannot understand this.
And I know damn well that vast stretches of this hospital are virtually
uninhabited. Of course it is being renovated. But I predict that after the
renovations are completed it will be a hospital with everything, absolutely
everything, except privacy.
There you have a rather serious, aggravated, perhaps unreasonable me. So be
it. I want to be alone! And I'm willing to pay for it. How can a hospital with
any kind of name at all have a policy that says you cannot have a private room
even if you are prepared to pay for it? You must share, period. (John will
have an answer for me, won't you, John? By the way thanks for your note about
leukemia treatment just before I left this morning. I will show it to the
doctor.)
Of course if it is a question of sharing or dying, then I guess my decision is
a foregone conclusion. I also think it is a kind of blackmail.
My fortune cookie was no good at all this evening. It told me I had a good
heart, not a good room!
God bless all you far-more-patient patients than I, fellow travelers. I shall
go to bed and pray for wisdom.
Tomorrow is another day. May it be a private one!
Sorry to be a bellyache tonight.
God bless you. I'll keep you informed.
-- Ron
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