Now If I Could Only Find My Shoes

Saturday morning begins with visits from the various providers who provide confirmation for two important pieces of information:

1 - If you want to get healthy, the worst place you can be is in the hospital. The best thing I can do to get better is get the hell out of this hospital.

2- If I want to get out of the hospital, I need to be walking.

So the minute the doctors are gone and the phlebotomist has taken her blood, I’m back on my feet and out the door.

But now that it’s morning, some new challenges have arisen.

Prepping to walk has been a challenge since the start. I’ve been on an IV since day one, so going anywhere -- even just to the bathroom -- requires unplugging the IV pump from the wall, strategically draping the cords and tubes so I don’t trip over them, and then heading off with the IV pole in tow. In the course of my surgery I acquired a catheter, so now I’ve got a tube running down my leg connected to a bag of pee (not to put too fine a point on it) at the bottom of the IV pole. Both distasteful and undignified, as well as being something of a tripping hazard.*

And with the catheter and all, I’m still stuck in a hospital gown. Admittedly, the hospital does provide robes, but said robes don’t come in extra tall. As long as I stand up straight I’m (presumably) okay, but if I forget and bend over for any reason -- like, say, adjusting my catheter tube so I don’t trip over it -- the folks behind me get an eyeful. And now that it’s daytime, there are a lot more folks behind me. (Eventually it will occur to me to safety pin a pillow case to the back of the robe which adds two feet to its length. I’m sure I look absurd, but at least I stop flashing people.)

But, frankly, the inadvertent exhibitionism is a fairly minor issue. The far bigger problem is that all those people who might see my backside won't get the hell out of my way. At this point in the morning the hall outside my room is swarming with people. There are doctors on rounds, nurses and patient care technicians conducting shift changes, phlebotomists drawing blood, hospital workers delivering food, visitors appearing to keep their family members company, and other patients pursuing their own doctor-mandated exercise. Half of these people are also pushing their own personal wheelie carts. It’s a freakin’ madhouse, and I quickly figure out that I can’t actually get from one end of the hall to another.

Walking in tiny circles isn’t going get me out of this hospital, so it’s time to go exploring.

* For presumably obvious reasons, I’m inordinately afraid of stepping on the tube and ripping out the catheter. When the catheter is actually removed and I can see how it works, I’ll see that this was pretty much impossible, but during my walks it has me concerned.