Day 1: Staying out of trouble

So apparently the one fashion accessory I'm in most pressing need of at the moment is a t-shirt with portraits of me and monshu and the legend "HE'S MY SPOUSE". Two or three different nurses asked me, "Are you his son?" and one doctor introduced me as the patient's "significant other". Oh, and pretty much the first order of business was to get my information moved up from the "Other Relation" category to the "Spouse" category. (The nurse I asked to take care of this went on to ask him if he had granted anyone medical power of attorney WHEN I WAS STANDING RIGHT THERE.)

Heteronormative gaffes aside, the staff has really been super. The same doctor who was fuzzy on our relationship took his time explaining everything and thoroughly answering all my questions. The nurses and techs have been great and the receptionist was a fucking hero. There's a phone on the front desk for calling cabs with a sign that shouts "THREE MINUTE MAXIMUM -- NO PERSONAL CALLS." And all during the time she was checking us in, this pushy woman kept demanding to use it, finally reaching over and lifting the receiver. The receptionist instructed her clearly and calmly to desist immediately and then followed up by calling security. When they arrived, Nasty Woman accused me of trying to take a swing at her or something but they would have none of it. After finally being allowed to make her (obviously personal and overlong) call, she stood glaring at me across the room and I half expected some summoned goon to burst through the door and have a go at me.

We'd barely settled into the room when some heavily-accented man called and demanded to know why woman who is in hospital is not given food! He didn't seem to understand the concept of "wrong number" (or have the cultural expectation that if someone at a hospital answers the phone without immediately identifying themselves and their department, then they probably aren't going to be able to help you with your issue). After that, the assaults from the outside world ceased and it was only the numbing routine of waiting uncomfortably for the staff to get their act together. First a procedure was scheduled for noon. Then 12:30. Then it was 1:30 and they were talking of switching the order. Then a doctor came and told us, no, the new new plan was the same as the old plan. Then another doctor came, obviously still thinking the new plan was the plan--or, rather, that it was the old plan already half-executed.

Having been through this time and again with Nuphy, my father, and various others, I expected it and told the Old Man to expect it, too. He was still very put out, as you'd expect someone who hadn't had solid food in over 24 hours to be. I harvested suggestions on Facebook ahead of time so at least I was able to offer the succour of lipbalm and extra blankets. But I still left him in a miserable state. Rationally, I know that I wouldn't sleep for shit on a hospital cot and it makes much more sense for me to come home, rest up, take care of the cat, and get back early in the a.m. clear-headed and presentable. Emotionally, I felt like I was abandoning him. Funny how a hospital gown and an IV can make even a big mature man look small and vulnerable.