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 25th,
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.
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