Collected Item: “Becoming a Care-Giver During a Quarantine”
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Becoming a Care-Giver During a Quarantine
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While walking outside in early March, my husband suddenly bent over, grabbed his chest, and gasped for air. We got an emergency appointment for an electrocardiogram (EKG) and a sonogram, which were scheduled about one hour apart. While undergoing the sonogram, the doctor who had read the EKG burst into the exam room and exclaimed, "You have to take him to the hospital NOW. Drive slowly—don’t rush. They’re ready for him; go in through admissions, not emergency."
A few days later, Arnold underwent open heart surgery—a triple-bypass procedure. After his first week of recovery, his hospital nurse informed me that I was no longer allowed to visit because of pandemic safety measures. Complications arose, so Arnold stayed in the hospital for 23 days, while I remained at home able to communicate with him only by phone, and unable to talk to his doctors and nurses. Arnold was finally released under the condition that he would participate in cardiac rehabilitation but, on the day of his release, all of the rehab facilities closed due to the pandemic. So the doctors; their assistants; and physical & occupational therapists explained, by phone, what I needed to do to become Arnold’s care giver and therapist at home. This, in addition to having to learn how to nurse the 1-inch wide by 1-inch deep hole in his leg from where they had removed the veins they used for his bypass — the stitches had broken loose.
In the weeks that followed, I drove Arnold to the office for his follow-up visits with the surgeon, but I was not allowed to go in with him. I, the care-giver; pseudo nurse; and physical & occupational quasi-therapist, was prohibited from seeing the doctor and his assistant while they examined my husband and gave instructions about how to continue his recovery. Instead, I sat in the parking lot while my husband insisted that these medical professionals conference me in by phone. I received oral instructions over my cell phone about how to modify Arnold’s ongoing care, but with no demonstrations. So I did not know if I was doing things correctly until his next visit, when they would correct me and provide more detail about how to keep him alive.
During this time, all encounters involving other human beings were my responsibility, while Arnold remained in quarantine. I remained vigilant—or, more accurately, constantly on edge—about not bringing the virus into our home, sterilizing myself as well as all groceries and packages that crossed our threshold. I had to replace my wedding band with a thinner one because of the skin damage that formed from so much hand-washing.
Once the surgeon released Arnold to his cardiologist, we began video-visits—at last, I was allowed into the appointment—virtually. The cardiologist urged me to invent activities my husband could do around the house that would take the place of formal occupational therapy. Quite a challenge, since Arnold was prohibited from lifting anything that weighed more than five pounds so he wouldn’t pop the wires that now held his sternum together—wires that could puncture his vital organs if broken. No pressure.
Fortunately, Arnold survived his surgery, and we both survived his unorthodox post-op care. He can now lift up to 25 pounds and, just yesterday, he asked when I was going to "stop coming up with all of these crazy projects" for him to do. I told him to take it up with his cardiologist. We’re approaching normal again. Now we’re anxiously awaiting the release of the COVID-19 vaccination.
A few days later, Arnold underwent open heart surgery—a triple-bypass procedure. After his first week of recovery, his hospital nurse informed me that I was no longer allowed to visit because of pandemic safety measures. Complications arose, so Arnold stayed in the hospital for 23 days, while I remained at home able to communicate with him only by phone, and unable to talk to his doctors and nurses. Arnold was finally released under the condition that he would participate in cardiac rehabilitation but, on the day of his release, all of the rehab facilities closed due to the pandemic. So the doctors; their assistants; and physical & occupational therapists explained, by phone, what I needed to do to become Arnold’s care giver and therapist at home. This, in addition to having to learn how to nurse the 1-inch wide by 1-inch deep hole in his leg from where they had removed the veins they used for his bypass — the stitches had broken loose.
In the weeks that followed, I drove Arnold to the office for his follow-up visits with the surgeon, but I was not allowed to go in with him. I, the care-giver; pseudo nurse; and physical & occupational quasi-therapist, was prohibited from seeing the doctor and his assistant while they examined my husband and gave instructions about how to continue his recovery. Instead, I sat in the parking lot while my husband insisted that these medical professionals conference me in by phone. I received oral instructions over my cell phone about how to modify Arnold’s ongoing care, but with no demonstrations. So I did not know if I was doing things correctly until his next visit, when they would correct me and provide more detail about how to keep him alive.
During this time, all encounters involving other human beings were my responsibility, while Arnold remained in quarantine. I remained vigilant—or, more accurately, constantly on edge—about not bringing the virus into our home, sterilizing myself as well as all groceries and packages that crossed our threshold. I had to replace my wedding band with a thinner one because of the skin damage that formed from so much hand-washing.
Once the surgeon released Arnold to his cardiologist, we began video-visits—at last, I was allowed into the appointment—virtually. The cardiologist urged me to invent activities my husband could do around the house that would take the place of formal occupational therapy. Quite a challenge, since Arnold was prohibited from lifting anything that weighed more than five pounds so he wouldn’t pop the wires that now held his sternum together—wires that could puncture his vital organs if broken. No pressure.
Fortunately, Arnold survived his surgery, and we both survived his unorthodox post-op care. He can now lift up to 25 pounds and, just yesterday, he asked when I was going to "stop coming up with all of these crazy projects" for him to do. I told him to take it up with his cardiologist. We’re approaching normal again. Now we’re anxiously awaiting the release of the COVID-19 vaccination.
Who originally created this object? (If you created this object, such as photo, then put "self" here.)
Marilyn Haight
Give this story a date.
2020-11-31