Sitting on my hospital bed, minding my own business a voice on a intercom sez “Ms. Wrek you’re late for PT”
Wut??!!?
Be nice if someone told me.
“PT in the A.M., OK? OK.” That is the whole of the conversation yesterday. No time mentioned.
I buzz the nurse call button. I ask her how am I suppose to go there? I can walk about 20 steps holding my torso up. And then I fold up like a rag doll.
Nurse comes with a wheelchair and wheels me 3 corridors over.
Hilda and her henchmen look like hungry wolves. I’m starting to tell her why I’m late. She says there are “No tears or Excuses in her chamber of horrors.” Alrighty, then.
She points to a recumbent bike and sez get on that and do as many revolutions as I can. I sat in my wheelchair. Pondering. How’m supposed to get there? It’s all the way across the BIG room. I can’t walk that far. I can’t work the wheelchair, I have ports, PICC lines and IV things in my arms. Not to mention my CGM.
Hilda let’s out an acid laced sigh.
One of her henchmen roll me over.
I am in the thing and I peddle. Man, on man this hard. I’m feeling the broccoli from last nights dinner. Kinda crampy and my incision is burning. I complete 6 revolutions and stop. Hilda sez try to do 20. “Are you on crack?” I can even do one more. She says wait a minute and do more. Ok. I think I fell asleep. I wake up and do 3 more. Ouchy!
She comes over and says again “No Tears!”
I’m wondering if cursing is allowed?
Next: I’m sitting in a chair. They roll a big ball and I’m supposed to kick it back to them. Oh, good easy…NOT!!
Next: I’m on a weight machine. No weights. I just have to lift my leg and push the bar up. Hey! I can actually do this. Then they add a weight. Nope. What? Does that thing weigh 20lbs. or someting??
Next: Hilda says I can go as soon as I walk the track around the room. I’m never getting outta of here. It’s plain to see. She looks at me and sez once more “No tears”
I wanna kill her. Someone’s gonna cry, alright.
Somehow I got around the track without dying.
They wheel me back to my room. It seems I flunked my first day of PT. I have to do a make-up session at 4pm.
:smack:
The “best” part is that your insurance will only pay for so many sessions and Frau Hilda will burn through them now, when you can’t get any benefits from it, instead of waiting a few days.
Or she is just trying to get your baseline so she can monitor your progress.
I get it. They’re supposed to push you. My fluttering eyelashes and plaintive moans are not heard by her.
In my head I know it’s good for me. So…why does it feel like my guts are gonna explode. I swear something is pulled loose.
I have a plan. My surgeons name engenders fear in the faces of the nurses.:eek: I’m gonna pull it out on Hilda and see if it gets me any slack.
Yep, yep. That’s what I’m gonna do.
~Vow, yer killing me!
Rest assured I’m pushing the pain pump button as they’re wheeling me down to the chamber of horrors.
I had thought I’d wean off the meds a little now that I’m a week out.
Nope. Gonna dope up as long as they’ll let me!! I’ll worry about withdrawing another day.
I told my physical therapist (Snidley Whiplash) that when his wife wants to bake chocolate chip cookies, I bet he cracks the walnuts with his bare hands.
~VOW
I get that they’re supposed to push you, but how ignorant are these people that they expect someone who’s just had major surgery to walk to PT, or even across the room?
Ignore the “No tears!” nonsense. It’s your party, and you’ll cry if you want to. What’s she going to do, plug your tear ducts with her steely fingers?
Hospitals hate me. I put up with zero bovine fertilizer when I’m there. Nore will I put up with that blood sugar device that needs a femoral stick to get a reading. Don’t like the number my meter tells you? GET OUT and send your supervisor. I have gotten dressed and left, with a trail of clucking nurses in my wake. There was no real reason to stay, other than them getting more insurance money, and a compelling reason to go, now.
The name of the therapist and the amount of pain she inflicted reminds me of an episode of Frasier.
It was after Daphne left, and Martin got a new home health aide. She was a German woman, and apparently put him through holy hell during his physical therapy. Frasier could hear him screaming from his bedroom during therapy.
She was unlike Dalphne in this respect as well as another: she was an awesomely good cook. After Martin’s therapy, he was seated at the dining room table chowing down on her homemade sauerbraten and making yummy noises. Frasier wants some too, and asks her for it, but she barks out in a thick German accent “YOU HAVE NOT EARNED IT!”, making Frasier jump with fear.
You used to dance, right, Beck? Think of Hilda like the worst ballet teacher in the world. The cheerleading coach from Hell. They make you hate them to make you push harder than you think you can push.
It’s been many moons since I’ve been in a dance studio.
I walk several miles over rough terrain most days. When I’m well.
I think my legs are my only hope.
Here’s hoping.
I wasn’t suggesting Beckdawrek should stay in bed. I merely said a rehab facility should recognize that someone with T1 diabetes who just had a kidney removed is probably not up to walking the entire route to PT BEFORE PT even starts. I’ve had PT a few times, and while yes, it was very hard, and PT’s must push us, nobody ever ordered me not to cry. That’s just bullshit. If someone said, “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to do this,” that’s fine.But that’s not what happened to Beck.
Hilda the Hardcore Witch is not a nice person. I’ve had 4 encounters with her and they’ve all been contentious.
I will do the PT. And gripe and cry in my pillow at night. (I’m such a wimp)
I want out of this place. The only way out is through the PT.
I would never wish pain on anyone. But, I have to say I was a bit too pleased to find out she had headache.