The Rest of the Story

July 25, 2011

One of the WORST days of our misadventure

in an out-of-state facility.

(Comment: This story is NOT in Condemned to Die: Ask me how. Tell me why. Condemned was written to tell Brenna’s story.) The facility mentioned in this story can no longer harm my precious daughter. Today, on the anniversary of this nightmare, I will share with you, “The rest of the story.” (Thanks Paul Harvey for leaving us this comment.)

Each day as Brenna waited for therapy, her PEG (feeding tube) was disconnected prior to therapy, usually, sometime around 11 AM. Sometimes, the PEG would be disconnected for up to an hour before she was wheeled to the therapy gym. The scheduled disconnect time for the PEG was no more than two hours each day. After the best nurse (my opinion) in the facility (and certainly the best to take care of Brenna) lost her job 10 days into Brenna’s stay, no one else seemed to monitor that two hour disconnect time.

After Brenna’s therapy sessions, a therapy aide would wheel Brenna back to her room. From then until 16:30-17:00, no one on staff would come in to reconnect Brenna to the PEG.

For those of you who do not know, after a PEG tube is disconnected, the formula hardens in the tube and you can’t just reconnect without flushing the lines. Many times the call light to Brenna’s room, the last on the hall, would not work and, since the adjacent room and the one across the hall were frequently empty, as it was this day, staff was seldom around that end of the hall to hear a cry for help.

On last July 25^th, the aide brought Brenna back from therapy and left her in her wheelchair. The room was small and cramped. He forgot to lower the leg rest on her chair.

As I had learned to do in Boise, I took on the task of reconnecting Brenna’s PEG each afternoon. I flushed the tube every afternoon, prior to that procedure. This day was different. I was between Brenna’s chair and the bed. The formula had hardened and needed to be flushed. I came around her bed to get water. That is when it happened.

I tripped over the leg rest of Brenna's wheelchair and hit the door frame to the bathroom. My head split open and blood was all over the wall and the floor. I don’t know how long I lay on the floor before I came to enough to look up and see the big dark spots of blood on the floor.

At first, I didn’t know what those spots were. Not until I touched them with my fingers and watched more blood dripping from my head.

I was a long way from Brenna’s call button. I couldn’t get up. I yelled for help. No one came. No one was anywhere near that end of the floor. The blood was still dripping from my head.

I remembered my cell phone in my pocket. I had the cell phone number of the mother of another brain injury patient down the hall programmed into my phone. I knew she was in the building. I called her to ask her to get help to me. I closed my eyes.

When I opened my eyes, I could see faces around me. I didn’t know who they all were, but later learned that one of them was the Director of Nurses. She ordered the ambulance and chose the hospital where I was to go.

As I was being wheeled out, my last concern was addressed to her and the others in the room…“Flush Brenna’s PEG and get her reconnected.”

I was taken to a downtown Ft. Worth hospital where began another nightmare. The ER doctor examined me and sent me for a CT scan. Then I waited. While waiting, I began moving all my extremities. I wanted to be sure for myself that everything was working. Arms, legs, fingers, toes…everything was normal.

While waiting to have the wound stitched, a nurse came in and ordered me to disrobe completely and put on a hospital gown. Since the problem was with my head, I could not understand why I needed to have all my clothes off. I told her that I just needed my head stitched and I didn’t think I needed to have my underwear off for that. She said it was the doctor’s standard procedure.

I questioned her again. By that time, the doctor (one I hadn’t seen already and dressed in white) had appeared in the cubicle and said he thought by then the ER doctor would have told me that I was being admitted to ICU.

I panicked. My only thought was getting back to Brenna. My little girl needed me. She didn’t know what happened to me. She didn’t know where I was. Two little dogs needed me. Who would take care of them in that Texas heat? The last place I wanted to be was staying overnight in an ICU ward. He insisted.

He walked around the bed, moving my extremities, talking fast about my need to be in ICU for observation overnight and that I couldn’t leave. How could I? My cell phone was dead. I had no idea where I was. And, I had no way TO leave.

He said I had a hematoma that would require brain surgery and at least 2-3 weeks in the hospital.

My panic was increasing. I needed to be with Brenna. I begged to leave. I cried and told him my little girl needed her mother, that she couldn’t understand. He told me I took the chance of dying and leaving her anyway.

His patter kept me upset. He knew it. He was playing a game like the old shell game: keep talking to the audience, ME, so the nurse wouldn’t know what he was REALLY doing with his hands while checking my extremities. Quick as a wink, his fast finger invaded an area of my body that had nothing to do with a brain injury and everything to do with a physician copping a feel on a helpless patient.

I asked, “Is this what happens when you come into ER with a head injury if you haven’t seen your own doctor in months…you get a pelvic?” She never blinked or acknowledged my question.

The ER doctor came in and stitched my head. He did a great job. At least 12 stitches, underneath and on the outside of the wound. You can barely see the stitches today. A neurosurgeon came in to discuss my stay. He did not believe I would need surgery. He assured me that the stay in ICU was strictly for observational purposes but necessary.

I was taken to ICU where I was informed that I had missed dinner and the kitchen was closed. Someone brought me graham crackers and juice. Where do hospitals find this cheap quality food? It felt like cardboard in my mouth and the juice tasted like a watered down version of one of those children’s fruit flavored drinks.

When the neurosurgeon came in to check me before he left for the night, he assured me that if I had no headaches through the night, I could go home the following morning. He assured me that absence of any headache or pain, he saw no reason for another CT scan.

During the night, the nightmare continued. I was periodically awakened for a battery of tests, then the ICU doctor ordered a CT scan for 3 AM. I refused the CT. I declined the blood tests at 3 AM. I just wanted out of there. I wanted to be back with Brenna.

Early in the morning, a nurse came in with my “morning pills”. Since I hadn’t taken a prescription medication for years, I asked what those were. She said I needed a laxative. WHY! She said it was because patients who were in a bed for long periods of time needed to have laxatives.

I had been walking around that room all night. A laxative!!! I think not! I was so irritated about the laxative that I don’t remember what the second pill was for. I didn’t take it either. I just remember it too was for something for the “impending” brain surgery.

“Brain surgery! The neurosurgeon assured me I was NOT having brain surgery and I am NOT taking those meds.” (The surgeon who performed my radical mastectomy years before could attest to my aversion to unnecessary meds and shots! He had sided with me when a nurse was adamant about my taking a hypo and I was equally adamant about not taking it.)

The neurosurgeon came in and told me that he had re-examined my CT scan. He said he believed the small mark seen on the scan was NOT a hematoma but just a thickening of brain tissue that happens with getting older. That was a relief. He said the dark spot was so small, about the size of a pinhead, that even if it were a hematoma, it would be far more risky to have surgery than to leave it alone and let it heal.

I just wanted to leave that nightmarish place behind. I wanted to be with Brenna so she wouldn’t worry about me. I knew I had to be out of there so I could continue to monitor her care. After he left, I called the mother of the other brain injury patient and she came to get me from the hospital.

My eye turned black and the cut gradually healed.

The dogs spent the night at the Ft. Worth Humane Society.

When I got back to the nursing home, I just wanted to crawl up beside Brenna, cuddle close to her, and relax. The blood was cleaned from the floor, but until Brenna was released, a small amount of blood was still on the door where my head made contact.

At least my nightmare was over. I told the Director of Nursing about the event in the ER with the doctor’s wandering fingers. She told me that a pelvic exam was necessary to assess the extent of any brain damage I might have. Really??? Brenna was 14 months post her brain injury and she had NEVER had a pelvic as part of the assessment process. She assured me she would contact someone at the hospital to report it.

After Brenna’s death, I went online to report the incident to the appropriate agency in Texas. I never heard back. I contacted lawyers. None were interested.