“The orthopedist felt he [Scott] was too old and fragile, and decided it was best to let the fracture heal itself…” read more.
I exploded into tears. I was ready to hit that doctor over the head with Scott’s cane. Raising my voice, I asked, “Why then did I need to bring my husband over to the ER?” The doctor said nothing, turned away from us, and walked out of the room. I went out into the hall, and saw the doctor talking on the phone. I heard her say “I just walked out of the room,” and then she started laughing.
I lost my cool, and entered into the restricted area to find out why she was laughing. Security came and escorted me out of the area, (yes, I could have been arrested) and back into my husband’s room. Here Scott is, deaf, not hearing much, unable to figure out what’s going on. I was hysterical.
In my opinion, the doctor’s laughter was inappropriate, considering that Scott had to sit in the waiting room for 3 hours, in immense pain, for no reason. The hospital could have called the rehab center, and gave them the message that, “in the orthopedic doctor’s judgment surgery wasn’t necessary.” No one explained the thoughts behind the decision to see Scott in the ER. I thought well it’s an admission, they will get paid by Medicare for doing nothing.
As the situation intensified, and I tried to explain why I was so upset, the doctor decided that I needed a mental health evaluation. Before I knew it, a staff member was putting an admission bracelet on my wrist.
At this point, I settled down, and decided to cooperate. We sat in that ER room for about 30 minutes, my husband still in pain. Finally, I asked the staff person in the room, what was going on. He said the mental health team would be there soon. We continued to wait another 30 minutes, and when I protested, the staff person called the mental health team, and whomever he talked to informed him that they had no idea when they would arrive at the ER. We left.
The day after this fiasco — the day I looked in the mirror, and saw a woman with horns coming out of both sides of her head, I tried to justify my rude behavior. For a very long time. For several days. No way. I behaved like a gritch (short for great big b—-) I felt shame. I knew that type behavior didn’t belong in my “after Jesus” life.
Amazingly, as God’s child, I felt his love surround me that day. It seemed as though Jesus agreed with my angst, just not my reaction to it. God is good, folks!