Rude Awakenings

(continued from “48 Hours”)

No sooner did I fall asleep than hospital staff of all sorts started waking me up.

First it was who I referred to as the “vampires”. They came for my blood in the early hours of the morning. I’d wake up from a sharp pain penetrating my right wrist. My ART-line wasn’t flowing as easily as it had when it was first inserted. So the vampire would wiggle it and wiggle it until they were able to draw an adequate amount of blood. Half angry, half in tears, I’d beg them to stop. It hurt so badly. But they couldn’t, of course, until they got what they needed. I still have the scars to this day.

Aside from blood taken from my ART-line (a line tapped directly into an artery), I also had regular blood draws. At this stage, vampires would show up 3 times a week or more. I’d open my eyes and see them walking down the hall towards my curtain, plastic carrier in tote, full or their devices of torture. You would think eventually it would become, I don’t know, normal or something; like I would accept this as an unavoidable part of hospital life that really – once it was over – was not a big deal. But instead I would squirm as they approached, cry throughout the process, and immediately dread the next visit.

Next to wake me up were the Respiratory Therapists. I had no concept of what having a “collapsed lung” meant – I don’t even think they told me that I had one at first. They just started randomly waking me up and shoving what I remember as a mask made out of a black leather-like material onto my face. Half-asleep, eyes barely open, I’d follow their instructions to take deep breaths in and out. I’d drift back to sleep during the process, not understanding (or caring about, really) the importance of what they were trying to do. After a few minutes, with a sudden jolt, the RT would sit me upright in my bed and instruct me to cough. Only it was more like “OKAY ALICIA, NOW COUGH!” Head still fuzzy, I’d think “Why are they doing this to me?” They’d yell again “COUGH! COUGH HARD!” I’d give it the best I could. “COME ON ALICIA, COUGH!” I could tell it wasn’t enough. And then they were gone. This repeated throughout the night.

My mom would hold my hand each night until I fell asleep. Her trick to knowing I was fully asleep? She would watch my heart monitor. Once my pulse slowed to around 80 BPM, she knew I was out.

But inevitably I would be woken up or wake up on my own, and no matter what time it was I wanted my mom back right away. I would call the nurse, and ask if she would please get her. The nurse would try and reason with me, “It’s 3 o'clock in the morning, Alicia; you should let your mother sleep.” Sometimes my favorite stuffed animals, or nurses that I really liked could soothe me back to sleep. But I had so much anxiety; most of these nights I would beg and beg until finally they would call up to my mother’s floor. She couldn’t get to me fast enough. Time seemed to stand still until I’d see her, exhausted but never cross. She’d just sit down and take my hand. I’d watch White Christmas. She’d quietly watch my heart monitor.

Thump, thump, thump…thump…thump…….thump…….thump……

(to be continued)