Opening My Heart by Tilda Shalof Read Free Book Online Page A

bad.”
    “Sorry about that.” I pointed out a possible candidate, from which she drew blood quite capably. She started an IV and hung a small bag of saline running at a slow rate. “The doctor will see you soon.” As soon as she left, I reached over and sped up my IV .
I need more fluid to flush out the stone. This nurse doesn’t know her ass from her elbow!
    A few minutes later, the doctor came in and the first thing he said was, “Whoa, this patient is getting too much fluid!”
    “I had set it at a slower rate.” Nurse Emma glared at me as she adjusted the IV .
    “It’s true, normally, you’d push fluids,” the doctor explained to me, “but not when you’re in the midst of passing a stone. One kidney might be obstructed and become swollen while the other continues to produce urine.”
    Oh, snap! Hydronephrosis
. Who’s the bad nurse now? I would hate to have me for a patient. Then, just as he was about to order a dose of that magical morphine, he paused. “Any past medical history?”No, I said, in no mood to quibble about the inane redundancy, only pray he wouldn’t examine me, which might involve listening to my heart with his stethoscope. Luckily, he didn’t bother. Soon, the narcotic kicked in and I dozed off. When I woke up, I went to the bathroom and heard a tiny, metallic-sounding clink in the toilet bowl. With a vinyl glove I’d nabbed from the clean utility room, I fished out my prize and held it up for examination. How proud I felt at what I’d produced. Famished, I was ready to reward myself with a nice lunch. I returned to my room and waited for them to discharge me.
    I waited. No one came. My IV ran dry and clotted off. I took it out myself, then tidied my room, stripped the bed, and remade it with clean sheets I helped myself to from the linen cart. After dumping my hospital gown and linen into the laundry basket, I was ready to leave. As I walked past the nursing station I overheard a doctor. “We cured her. It’s a miracle.” I chuckled at his little joke. It was exactly the kind of thing I would have said had I been on that side of things.
    Now, in the interests of full disclosure, I should mention that, yes, I told Dr. Drobac that I don’t have a family doctor, but I lied about that, too. I do have one – a very good one, in fact. Dr. Janet Morse is smart, wise, kind, and always makes time to see me. A few years ago I went to her for something minor and she pointed out that I was long overdue for a checkup. I heartily agreed. She booked an appointment and I called the next day to cancel it. Coming to her now, she may not be so agreeable to take on a “non-compliant” patient like me and I can’t say I blame her. But she welcomes me back warmly. When I tell her about my visit to the cardiologist she looks concerned. I wonder if she feels a twinge of liability for not insisting I be followed sooner. I rush to reassure her. “I neglected my health. You bear no responsibility whatsoever.”
    She reads me every bit as accurately. “Nor do you. You didn’t cause this. You did nothing wrong. This defect was something you were born with.”
    But I worry that I may have made it worse by leaving it so long. She senses that I’m feeling at fault, and faulty, too. It’s my own hangup because last night when I apologized to Ivan for this disruption to our lives his look of surprise told me he didn’t see it that way. Ivan doesn’t waste time wishing things were other than exactly the way they are. As for our kids, I’m not ready to tell them, not yet. Of what use is a sick mother? That’s what I had and I vowed never to be that to my own kids. Over the years, I’ve done everything possible to stay healthy – except for taking care of myself, that is.
    Dr. Morse orders blood work, and this time I promise to go.
    Later, at home, back on the phone with Mary, I let it rip. “What if my heart doesn’t start up again?”
The key is in the ignition, but the motor won’t turn