Grrrr

Louise Fletcher as Nurse Ratched in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”

The charge nurse tonight (whom I have not met — or even seen) has decreed that I have to be on “bed alarm” — meaning if I get out of bed an alarm goes off. I got the sense from my nurse (a.k.a., The Texan) that the charge nurse does this to everybody because of concerns that patients are at risk for falling. 

Meanwhile because I’m trying to drink lots of water to help support my poor kidneys (immunoglobulin therapy puts a strain on them), I’m having to call for assistance every couple of hours. (Trying not to be passive-aggressive about this. It’s not the fault of the people who are helping me.)

When I’m still for too long these days, my muscles get super tight (which is of course adding to my frustration and sense of being trapped). Moving is the key. I brought my travel yoga mat and have been stretching when I can. I am not a fall risk — but I could become one if confined to bed for very long.

For tonight I’ll pretend the floor is hot lava, but am promising myself that tomorrow I’ll use some of my steroid-fueled clarity of thought to send a well-constructed complaint to the powers that be.

UPDATE: This was Sunday night. Monday evening after I had taken melatonin and was starting to drift, (roommate gone, lights off and door closed—thanks to the Texan), the charge nurse came by and introduced himself. We spoke briefly. Him: “Do you need anything?” Me:  “Sleep.” (Muscle strength? A sane body at peace with its parts? To be seen, evaluated, and treated as an individual? Another trip to the loo? What do any of us need?) 

He left and I crashed, not realizing until the wee hours that the bed alarm had not been set.

HOT LAVA