This post is a continuation of the recap of the events of this time last year after falling on my crutches, causing a spread of my RSD/CRPS. The following contains detailed descriptions of my hospital stay…the good, the bad, the ugly. Read on if you wish.
Day 2 in the hospital was filled with more uncertainty, tears, and pokes. Nurses came in and out, most not caring to even familiarize themselves with my condition. I did have one nurse who was kind enough to print up some information about RSD/CRPS, in hopes that others would take a look. I remained in bed, unable to move below my neck.
At one point, a team of doctors came in my room. There was a man with a bunch of residents trailing behind him. The doctor introduced himself and spoke in a harsh tone. He briefly described my disorder to his residents, then went on to tell me what I needed to do.
“You know, this is mostly a psychological issue,” he said while rocking on his feet, hitting my bed each time. “In order for me to treat you, you need to come to my clinic to receive psychiatric help.” He continued talking about how he would only treat me if I agreed to see his psychologist. He wanted to see me in an outpatient facility and said that inpatient treatment was not acceptable, despite the fact that I couldn’t even pee on my own. His constant bumping of the
bed sent deeper strikes of pain through my body each time, and eventually I snapped.
“Get out of my room, and for the love of everything in this world, STOP BUMPING MY BED,” I cried. He looked angry, then continued shoving his ways and ideas down my throat while still hitting the foot of my bed. There were several other people, including friends and family members, in the room with me. They were all annoyed by the way he spoke to me and his stupid idea that RSD/CRPS was mostly in your head. After enough discussion I finally managed to make him leave the room, never to return.
Well, after the unfortunate experience with Dr. A**hole, the hospital somehow decided that I was refusing all treatment…just because I said I didn’t want to be treated by him. They told me that insurance was not going to cover my stay, and that I needed to leave the next day. Try telling that to a girl who can’t get out of bed, can’t feed, bathe, or dress herself, and who can’t even handle the slightest wisp of air touching her body. Yep, I was definitely not “bad enough” to be in the hospital or to be covered by insurance.
Now, I’m not saying that I want to ever be “bad enough.” Hospitals are my least favorite place to reside and I’d much rather be healthy than sick. However, in this moment, my “not bad enough,” by the standards of that doctor, was causing me to lose out on the medical treatment that I desperately needed.
At that point, I was irate. I was helpless, hopeless, and now people were not willing to do anything to make me feel better. One doctor asked what I thought should happen. Since medications don’t usually work for me, I didn’t want to try them. I mentioned Ketamine and how I had received it at the affiliated children’s hospital a few years prior. They made some calls, then came in to tell me that that hospital had never administered Ketamine, and they made it clear that they would not give it to me.
The other options that my family and I had suggested, including Magnesium (one of my Cleveland docs recommended that) and PT/OT, something that has worked many times in the past, didn’t work. Wait, scratch that. Magnesium didn’t work. The hospital wasn’t even willing to let me see a Physical or Occupational Therapist, with the exception of one very short OT eval where the woman had never heard of RSD and didn’t know how to help. I begged for some kind of therapy, but they wouldn’t allow it. They said I didn’t need it or something.
The evening was spent with different visitors, trying to get my mind off of things. The doctors and nurses had told us that we had overstayed our welcome and needed to leave the next day…I would have happily ran out of the hospital that very moment, if my legs…or any body part other than my face, worked. I was ready to leave, eager to be done dealing with doctors, and feeling pretty frustrated.
I went to bed that night and tried to sleep. The pain kept me up, along with the flow of thoughts. I wasn’t sure what the next day would hold. Would they really send me home? Would my mom have to become my “nurse” again? Would I even be able to get home? Eventually a cocktail of medications knocked my thoughts out enough for me to sleep, holding tightly to hope that things would change.
Stay tuned as the roller coaster ride continues…
College on Crutches 