I Kicked the Doctor, and the Doctor Cried

After waiting in the emergency department for six hours my name was finally called  by a nurse and I and my sisters were lead by her to a cubicle containing two stretchers, one of which was occupied by an elderly lady with her family sitting around her and the other offered to me.  There was only drapes handing from the ceiling that separated that patient who was a complete stranger to me, and my stretcher.  I was given a hospital gown (certainly not a gown for a red carpet appearance) with the fastener at the top of the back, leaving the rest of the back open. I was assisted to the stretcher where I laid down.  After a moment I asked my sisters to raise the head of the stretcher  because the hard pillow supplied no comfort.  I folded my pillow  in half to support my head in in my semi-sitting position. Diana and Trisha continued to keep me company seated at the side and end of my stretcher. The nurse took my vitals and documented my history. I reviewed the evolution of my current mobility impairment as well as any previous surgeries, allergies and previous conditions which included high blood pressure and severe acid reflux and long standing depression.  All the while the person in the other bed in the cubicle and the visitors were suddenly quiet as they listened with interest.

Diana bagged my clothes "I'll take these home and wash them" she said.  I knew she did this due to the smell from my house permeated my clothing. After a short wait, the emergency resident came in and asked me to describe the progression of my mobility impairment again. I repeated to him the exact description I had given to the nurse.  He then began strength and sensory testing of each leg. As he moved each of my legs in various positions and asking me to push as hard as I could against his resistance I was focused on my unshaven legs appearing as porcupines; And then there was my lengthy toenails which captured and held dirt. Reality broke through my embarrassment as I realized my strength was impaired as I could not resist the emergency resident's push on my legs in the various positions. During the sensory assessment I did not think about the unkempt hygiene of my legs as I became more and more impatient with answering whether I could feel him moving my toes, ankles and knees which I could not. Then I answered whether I could feel him touching various spots on my legs which I could not. He asked me when my last drink was. As a medical professional I knew they had accessed my history on my electronic medical record and saw that I had previously been diagnosed with alcoholism.  Still, the patient and the visitors in the next stretcher were privy to my assessment.

Im sure that my poor hygiene was documented on my emergency paper record.  I can almost with certainty predict what was written by the nurses; "Thin middle aged women arrived with sisters complaining of inability to walk. Patient was unkempt.  Sisters reported that patient was found in her home on a make shift bed which was a broken chair, on the floor.  Patients home was reported to be filled with garbage with little room to move around."

Not determining whether I would be going home my sisters remained. The nursing staff told us that the emergency resident was making a referral to neurology. I was not surprised at this because I knew my strength and sensory assessment of my legs revealed grave results.  As my sisters watched the assessment from the foot of the bed they became aware of the gravity of my condition with horror.

After a while the neurology resident came, asked me to again repeat my history and then began a neurological assessment.   The testing the neurologist did was exactly the same as what the emergency resident did.  I took deep breaths and sighed with impatience and frustration while complying to  repetitive demands of reporting whether I could feel the pokes and prods,  or resist resistance through various positions. On one occasion, the neurologist while resting my leg above the bed on his arm, did something that caused my leg to jerk and kick him in the stomach, or I think maybe a bit lower.  "Ouch," he cried, "you kicked me." " I didn't do it on purpose"I replied.  At least I responded to something."  He then left without telling me about his findings or what he had planned for me.  I felt satisfied that the assessment resulted in me kicking him after all the repetitive assessment I endured but glad it was not intentional and a response he caused himself.

By the time the neurologist did his assessment it was revealed that I was a hoarder; a new diagnosis along with my alcoholism was on my electronic medical record that will follow me forever.   The details of the revelation my sisters made to the hospital staff about the condition of my house was recorded on my emergency paper record secured on a clip board and kept on a side table beside my stretcher.  No one asked me about my house or asked  me questions about my behaviour or hoarding tendencies,  All it took was the mention of the aberrant condition of my house by my sisters to the nurses and doctors and there it was, I am a hoarder.  No one asked me why my house was such a disaster or made a referral for me to talk to psychiatry.  The omission of a referral to psychiatry made sense to me at the time because my physical condition was a greater concern to both me and the medical staff.  I quickly adopted the label of hoarder and I became quick to admit it or reveal it from then on.  I felt that I needed to be completely honest about this in order to provide insight into my condition.  There was no point in denying it.  Appropriate intervention would not come unless I accepted it and owned it I thought.

Finally Diana asked a nurse whether I would be going home.   Only upon the enquiry by my sisters of what was ahead for me, the nurse told us that the neurologist wanted to admit me for further testing and treatment to improve my mobility.  Once the notification was made that I would be admitted to the hospital my sisters left and I remained becoming part of the hub of activity and the noise of indignity in the emergency department.

As I look back through all the medical intervention I received throughout what became a very lengthy stay in the hospital, my hoarding was never addressed.  I didn't know it then at the beginning in the emergency department, but admitting to hoarding only labeled me.  It became a descriptor such as thin or obese, a judgement as is a drunk instead of being addicted, and not a condition that needed to be addressed.  I think my readiness to admit to being a hoarder was a cry for help which was unanswered; a cry that that said it is not my house that is a disaster but my life.  Help me.  The garbage in my house is desperation and I am on my way to destruction.  My cry was not even noticed because there were no tears.