Also, Love (Part 11)

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BY PETER SOLIS NERY
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Monday, February 26, 2018
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TWO hours after the tube was removed, R started to get nauseated. He was given an antiemetic.

Then, he complained of pain, but he couldn’t point out where exactly. There was pain on his side, where the tube was removed. There was pain in the stomach. On the back. In his chest. And in his left leg, which he was limping on even before we went to the hospital.

Around six, I noticed his distended abdomen. I called the nurse, and asked that the doctors be called. An x-ray was taken. Blood was drawn. A few questions. And then, we were left alone again. They reported that, compared with the previous x-rays, there wasn’t any significant difference in the latest result. But we should wait for the official reading of the radiologist. They also said there was no heart attack.

Then, someone coded in the ICU. A code blue, which means a cardio-respiratory arrest — the patient had stopped breathing, the heart has stopped beating, pulse was absent, as if the patient was dead.

The doctors rushed to the ICU, but they never returned to see R, even if their last words were, “We will be watching you. We will take care of you!”

While waiting for the doctors to return, R started vomiting. And nobody was helping me, so I went back and forth to the toilet to throw his vomitus. I wiped his mouth, and made him gargle water to get rid of the sour aftertaste. His oxygen level was dropping, and the monitor’s alarm was going off, Teng-teng-teng-teng! But nobody was coming into the room to help us.

R started feeling cold and chilly. There was a visible fear in his eyes. I went up to the nurses’ station five times.

First, I asked, “Where are the doctors?”

I was told, they have been paged. They were aware. They were just waiting for the official x-ray result. Then they were going to come over. R’s doctors were still at the emergency room attending to someone else.

So, I went back to the room to do what I was allowed to do: collect his vomit, empty the pan to the toilet, wipe his mouth, make him gargle, wipe again.

“Sweetheart, I’m dying!”

I ran back to the nurses’ station. And this time, there was yet another new resident doctor. But she, too, was still waiting for the x-ray result. She said there is a communication breakdown in the computer system.

I pleaded, “What other tests can we do, Doc? A CT scan, perhaps? Maybe an ultra sound? His belly keeps on getting bigger. Should we wait until it explodes? It is not his normal abdomen size. I know because I always rub it before we go to sleep. I rub it like Aladdin’s lamp. Have mercy, Doc. His tummy keeps getting bloated and rigid. Please, have mercy!”

And then I flew to R’s side.

I held his cold hands. The alarm of the monitor kept ringing Teng-teng-teng-teng! But nobody comes in to help, or even to check on us. R was desaturating. His oxygen level was going down. I’ve seen a 67, a 71 — when it was not supposed to go lower than 95. The alarm goes off when it gets below 95 percent, and it had been ringing forever. The constant Teng-teng-teng-teng! was becoming a nuisance. It was annoying and getting me irritated. But still, nobody was paying us any attention. I increased his oxygen flow from 2 liters per minute to 4.

Again, I ran to the nurses’ station. “His vital signs are going down! Please, come and check on him! If you are not going to help — if you cannot help, please, oh! please, bring him to the emergency room. Please, please, please? I am begging you!” (To be continued/PN)
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