Room 308, Hospital Evangelico
Or to be specific, 308A, for this room had two beds and though the second one was uninhabited for the first night, early the following morning I gained a room mate.
It wasn’t until the old lady arrived that I noticed the complete lack of privacy - no curtains around the beds and hers was just 15 inches away from mine. Since she was completely bedridden, all her personal care took place on that bed, in full view of everyone around, including me - except I turned away, of course, not wishing to be part of what I saw as a personal intrusion.
I also realised that in Uruguay, people bring their own towels and toiletries with them, for nothing is provided beyond the antiseptic hand wash. Now, had I realised that, I’d have squirrelled away a set of L’Occitane or Guerlain toiletries from the shio, but sadly, it had all happened so fast, such things were far from my mind. One lucky stroke was that Regent had given us two Turkish towels as a Christmas gift, so one was immediately put to good use with the tiniest square of soap I could find in my washbag so I could have a shower. Incidentally, that antiseptic hand wash made for great shampoo! Well, needs must.
The days started early - 1.30am to be precise, when someone would shake my foot and say Gillian! in a loud voice. (Oh, how I longed for Vonn and Haydee’s gentle care) They woke me to check blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels, to administer medicines - brisk and no nonsense. Returning to the land of nod became more of a challenge as the days went on.
Over the next few days I gathered bruises from a variety of canula that were inserted and then removed when they no longer worked as they should. I was still using an oxygen mask most of the time but could get up and move around as I pleased.
Food became a bit of an issue. Each day, I’d have a visit from the dietician, who asked for my preferences and I think, did their best to fulfil them. Except, it always arrived almost cold and eating cold pasta is never fun, especially in the circumstances I found myself. I asked for fresh fruit and was thankful that my Hero brought a couple of bananas and an apple most days, taken from the hotel breakfast buffet. With this, I managed…
Not only that, but the dry, salt-free rolls were replaced by soft white dinner rolls, incongruously branded “Biarritz”. Better. And, when I said I liked yoghurt, a glass of a yoghurt based drink began to appear. It was very sweet and had an unidentifiable fruit flavour, but it was drinkable. The “coffee” tasted like no coffee I have ever drunk, but again, it was drinkable.
Of course, the medicines kept on coming too and before long, were having a visible effect. After a couple of days I didn’t need the supplementary oxygen and when the doctor did her rounds in the morning, she soon began to nod and give a thumbs up sign.
But conversations were tricky. I don’t speak Spanish beyond “buen dia” , “por favor” and “gracias”. After a few days I could remember “¿Cómo estás?” but didn’t understand the reply most of the time! Thank goodness then for Google Translate, especially when one can speak into the phone and get an almost instant translation, and it was that which helped us through several tricky conversations.
I tried very hard to be tolerant of my room mate, who was clearly quite poorly. She brought her own private nurse with her, who sat beside her the whole time, waiting to fulfil her every need. These nurses did an eight hour shift and over the next few days we recognised “the Venezuelan”, the “one with the cardigan” and a couple of others. Madame would sleep most of the day, waking occasionally with a loud call for “agua!”, causing her nurse to jump up and get it for her. My problem came at (my) bedtime, when she seemed to come alive. The TV would be switched on, she’d get her phone and have loud conversations with her family and worst of all, she’d turn on music or a talk show on her phone at full volume. Putting on my eyeshade wasn’t enough of a hint…I simply learned to blank it all out.
The worst moment came on Tuesday afternoon, eight days after all of this had begun. My Hero always arrived fairly early morning and stayed until late afternoon, getting an Uber from his hotel to the hospital. On this particular day, I had hoped to be discharged. All my results were ok, I didn’t need oxygen and a conversation with the doctor earlier gave me the impression that I was ready to leave. All I needed was a “fit to fly” certificate, which she agreed to write. Except, she had a rethink later in the day and said that she felt signing a fit to fly on Tuesday, for a flight on Friday, was a bit presumptuous and that she’d rather leave it a day more and for me to have another night in the hospital. She’d see me the next day and all being well, I’d be away.
Having spent the afternoon with Madame’s loud music and so on, this news wasn’t what I was hoping for. I’d told myself the previous night that this would be my last one, yet here I was still.
As tea time came around and my tray of bread rolls, jam, hot drink and glass of yoghurt arrived, the nurse asked my Hero if he’d step outside, for Madame needed her nappy changed. He got up, saying, look, I might as well go, kissed me goodbye and as he left the room I lost it. I sat in the corner of the room and cried, which drew the attention of one of the nurses who came over and gave me a hug. Thankfully, my lovely Hero had got to the end of the corridor and sensed that I was upset, so he came back…which set me off again! By now, the nurses had completed their task but of course, the room now smelled disgusting, there was nowhere to go to have a quiet conversation or to eat my tea. My Hero stayed and chatted a while but then left me with a smile. “Mañana!” I put on my headphones and listened to the next chapter of John and Paul, the new Beatles biography on Spotify.
Once again, google translate came to the fore and when the person came to collect my untouched tea tray, I gave her my phone.
She looked at me, looked across the room and then nodded - no google translate was necessary for she knew exactly what I meant. I know Madame couldn’t help it and I tried again to be tolerant, but that afternoon, I reached my tipping point.
I did have the company of my small travelling companion, Alan, who usually sat on my bed beside me. We giggled as one of the larger male nurses came in one day, spotted Alan and said “El Orsito!” So, from that moment on, El Orsito it was, and whenever a staff member came in, they smiled and greeted him so, which made me smile. Small kindnesses like that kept me from another tipping point and though noone said anything discourteous about Madame in the next bed, I knew they understood.
Wednesday morning came and the 5.30 drug run delivered the usual cocktail plus, the nurse removed my canula. “Hoy” she said…making a walking movement with her fingers. Yes!!!
I’d like to say the rest of the day went like clockwork. Sure enough, the doctor arrived and yes, said I was fit to fly. She’d write prescriptions for the medication I would need to keep taking for now and all being well, I could leave the hospital that afternoon. As usual, my Hero and I spent time in the corridor, leaning on the windows whilst Madame completed her toilet, but we didn’t mind…I was getting out of here and on Friday, we’d be flying home. We had a WhatsApp from Edward and Amy to say that they (and Arthur of course) would be at home to greet us when we arrived, having filled the fridge for us. They’d stay the weekend to make sure we were ok, prompting me to agree with my Hero that we really do have the sweetest, most thoughtful famiy everl
But then the bubble burst. A call from our insurers medical team included a lengthy questionnaire which I completed over the phone. Yes, all well, no oxygen needed and a fit to fly certificate from the doctor. Fine, said the insurers doctor, but you will need a doctor to accompany you on the flight home, of course.
What?! that was the first we’d heard of it and if I say the pair of us “had a moment”, that would be an understatement. But there was no question. If the insurers said that, then so it must be - and there was no option but to cancel the flight on Friday and allow them to make alternative arrangements.
Had I not been given my release notes and prescriptions during the next half hour, I might have given up completely. As it was, I dressed and packed my things, we waved goodbye to Madame and went on our way, discovering that we needed to collect the meds from the Farmacia downstairs.
Here, there was a kind of system for queuing, a bit like our Post Offices where one takes a number and waits to be called. But it wasn’t working and there was a sense of chaos in there. I waited for an opening, went over and handed my prescriptions to the clerk. She looked, called over another staff member and off they went to who knows where. She returned shortly afterwards with the slips still in her hand and using google translate, explained that they couldn’t be dispensed here but that we’d have to go to the Farmacia on the street around the corner.
Which is how, after ten days doing not much more than sitting/lying in bed, I was with my Hero using google maps and carrying two fairly large bags through the streets to this Farmacia, where the drugs were dispensed with a bill the equivalent of £120. Another one for the insurers then.
By this time, my Hero’s patience was wearing thin. Yes, it was unreasonable to expect me to do all of that when I had just left hospital, but here we were, I was out! He called an Uber to the hotel and in fifteen minutes or so, I was checking in too. The staff greeted me warmly; they’d got to know my Hero over the last few days, knew he was visiting his wife in hospital and had shown an interest in my progress, sending good wishes.
At last, I was here!
(no, we don’t know when we can fly home, we have no details of any arrangements and having been told to expect a visit from a local doctor this evening, we are eyeing the clock. It’s now 9pm. How late do we leave it before giving up and going to bed?)
