The saga of Paratrooper Harry ...

    Let me tell you about Paratrooper Harry.
    He was in the emergency room near the beginning of my stay at Texas Health Harris Methodist two weeks ago. He was, as I figure it, at least 90, a tall, thin man sitting erect in his wheelchair, white hair cropped short, very large hearing aids behind each ear. 
      He was dressed -- keep this in mind -- appropriately in a tan flight suit, with brown loafers. 
      Really, he could hear little, except maybe his very loud son sitting next to him most of the time. Everyone could hear the son -- the 35-50 patients-to-be, plus all emergency-room personnel, and also people in Aledo and Granbury.
      Son -- about 50, ruddy-faced, barrel-chested, short sandy hair, let's call him Black Shirt -- wheeled Harry in not long after we arrived. As he did, he announced that he would have been there sooner but he first had to help a man having a heart attack from his car near the emergency-room drive-in area. 
       (To be sure, Bea also heard the same story out in the waiting area.)
       Black Shirt told everyone that Harry's legs were hurting badly.
       Harry did not want to be there. Not that any of us did. But he made it pretty clear. If he bellowed "LET'S GO HOME!" once, he did it 25 times. Usually followed by "WE CAN COME BACK TOMORROW."
       Each time Black Shirt told him "no," or "keep quiet," or "they'll get to us," or "just sit there and wait" -- and often they were not gently admonishments. My stomach was hurting plenty already, but hurt as much for Harry.
       And because on this day the emergency-room area was -- as my Dad would have said -- loaded, we all had long waits. (Personally, we spent 10 hours before I was placed in a hospital room.)
       At one point, Black Shirt announced that he had to go move his car and asked people nearby -- also hurting and/or waiting -- to look after Harry. While the son was gone for some 15-20 minutes, Harry sat and never said a word; a couple of people checked on him. 
       Black Shirt returned and I remember cringing when he said to Harry that his insurance was all in order, and so was the inheritance he would leave the family. 
       A couple of times, he put his cellphone to Harry's ear -- "to talk to Mama," he proclaimed -- and it was obvious Harry could not hear a thing. But, as Black Shirt noted, he wanted Harry to know that his family cared.
       And then this ...
       Coming back from one bathroom break for Harry, Black Shirt rolled him back through and said -- loudly, of course -- to those around him, "Harry (name) ... paratrooper, U.S. Army, World War II."
       That stuck with me. Let's see, 72 years since the end of WW II, so if Harry had gone in the service at age 17 or close, he had to be about 90.
       All that passage of time to come to this.
       The reporter in me wanted to hear his story. But there was that stomach pain -- this was 6-7 hours before we were given the  "bowel obstruction" diagnosis -- so I wasn't in the mood, and the timing wasn't right.
       After an initial consultation, an EKG, my first-ever CT scan and then insertion of an IV when it was obvious that I was going to be admitted to the hospital, I returned to the waiting area for another hour. 
       Harry was still urging "LET'S GO HOME" to Black Shirt, who announced to everyone that the EM doctors felt that Harry's problem was sepsis in both legs. I heard that and thought, "Oh, gosh."
       Had to feel, too, for the son, who obviously wanted the best for his father, and it was fairly obvious that Harry was limited mentally (dementia? Alzheimer's?). Tough spot for Black Shirt.
       Not sure how it came out, but Bea heard that if sepsis -- a potentially life-threatening complication from infection --  was the correct call, it was likely that both of Harry's legs were going to be amputated. 
       To think how much this man had done and seen in his years, how he had served his country. What a life he must have had, what adventures.
       No words, other than, God bless Harry the Paratrooper.

Bowel obstruction: eight slow, long days in a hospital

     Some advice: If you can avoid a small bowel obstruction, do so. I did not.
     Bottom line, on Tuesday morning, after six days of waiting and worrying, I had internal surgery, the removal of adhesions (old scar tissue) that had blocked the entry point for my bowels.
      First, I am fine. Home, as of Thursday evening. Ready to go for my daily walk. Ready to eat -- low-residue diet for a while, which is more calories than I want or need. Ready for more games, more life.
      With only the second hospital stay of my adult life -- 46 years apart (an early August 1971 appendectomy, and keep that in mind) -- behind me. 
      Eight days at Texas Health Harris Methodist, in the Fort Worth Medical District. And you were wondering why you hadn't heard from me.
      This began with a 2:30 a.m. wakeup Wednesday, Sept. 13, with severe stomach pain. It turned into a late-afternoon doctor's visit, who noting on paper that I "looked very ill," suggested the emergency room.
      And that became a 12-hour ordeal before I was admitted to the hospital. Yes, another 2:30 a.m.
      I acquired a new experience, a new "buddy" -- six full days with a foot-long NG (nasogastric) tube attachment. It went up the right nostril, down through the throat into the stomach to pump out the fluid and, well, crap, into an attached flask.
      One nurse jokingly called it my "elephant nose." Talk about getting hooked, and a very sore throat. But it only worked to an extent.

Dr. John Birbari

      On our first meeting, Dr. John L. Birbari Jr. -- my new superstar hero, a young, bright, friendly encouraging guy -- had evaluated my situation and said that by using the NG tube to pump the stomach clean, these conditions clear themselves 85 percent of the time. It is a conservative approach.
       Slow, ugly treatment. Not painful, just uncomfortable. To get up and around -- bathroom or a walk in the halls -- the tube had to undone from the flask tubing. The NG "trunk" went everywhere I went, and of course, so did the omnipresent IV pole.
       Stupidly, I thought it would be a 24-hour deal. But, no, it was 120 hours (five days). And then ... hello, 15 percent range. Surgery was a must.
       So, Tuesday at about 10:30 a.m, Dr. Birbari did a (medical term) laparoscopic lysis of abdominal adhesions. That's right.
       A single band of adhesions -- a "souvenir" from the appendectomy -- had stuck to my abdomen, layered in some fatty tissue (hey, 46 years), and thus the blockage. Dr. Birbari clipped the adhesions, put the bowel back in place -- all by scope.
       (If you really want to see, I can send you a photo or two. Not posting it here. Not pretty.)
      Done in about 25 minutes. I never knew; I was out of it.
      Fortunate, with quick recovery time and not a lot of discomfort.
      Importantly, what Dr. Birbari did not have to do was an "enterectomy," make an incision and go inside. The old way. All I have is some lower chest hair gone and three small scope entry marks. And an open small intestine.
      Dr. Birbari also provided the line of the week.
      On the weekend, his partner -- Dr. Doug Lorimer, a distinguished-looking white-haired veteran who had been my personal-care physician's recommendation (his schedule was busy), did the hospital-room visits and explained what was going to happen. He said, assuredly, "John is a magician with the scope."
      The next day, as Dr. Birbari confirmed that surgery would be needed, I relayed the "magician" remark, and he laughed, then cracked, "Glad he didn't say mortician."
      Yeah, me, too.    
---
      Look, this was a temporary setback. Not cancer, a stroke, heart problems -- those are issues that have taken friends from us in recent years, and limited other friends' everyday life. Thought much about those people this week, and about how my parents would have been so concerned.

Top-notch selfless care for us at this facility

     Only told a few friends and some of our family in advance -- no Facebook/e-mail promos. Received concern and tremendous support, and -- no surprise -- Beatrice was a rock. She has been through so many of her own physical challenges.
      Jason (son) was there twice, including the surgery time, and it is not a short drive for him. Rachel (daughter) and Elsa (sister) asked if they should come, too, from long distances.
      Speaking of supportive and caring, the Richardson Tower sixth-floor personnel here at Harris Methodist -- this is the main floor for surgical patients at this hospital complex -- was outstanding. To a person -- doctors, nurses, patient-care technicians -- they could not have been more patient and selfless (that's the word which keeps coming to me). It is all about the patient.
       So thankful, especially to the nurses and techs who made such great efforts, at any moment's call.
        Grateful, period.