I'm trying to find the lighter side of a hospital visit

Joe Fusco Jr.

5:15 a.m. Tuesday: The needle prick in my left arm greets the morning.

Reminds me that I’m still in the ER with blood clots in my lungs and left leg.

Four hours ago they moved me to a basement area with 20 empty beds.

I thought it was The Morgue.

It was just me and a young nurse sipping ginger ale, adjusting my CPAP, and popping an Ambien.

“Maybe, heavens,” I thought to myself.

Around 3 a.m. they moved me back to my original emergency room.

“They need oxygen and we don’t have it down here,” the statement reads.

The emergency room is a circus, entertaining and scary.

Patients in beds choking the hallways, screaming or sleeping. Extensive law enforcement. An elderly woman wanders from one wrong room to another.

I checked in at 3pm on Monday with a swollen apple red left leg that suddenly manifested and chest discomfort/difficulty breathing that had been occurring for six days and was diagnosed as costochondritis.

I had blood clots in my legs after knee surgery in 2011, so I assumed I was now a repeat offender. We didn’t expect the tests to reveal large blood clots in my lungs.

By “we” I mean my wife Cyndi, who dragged me to the emergency room when she saw the apple redness in my left leg.

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It probably saved my life, as emergency doctors believe the blood clots in my lungs had entered my body days before and were preparing to move into my Grinch-like heart.

Cyndi and I shared a moment after being diagnosed with a lung clot.

She had just retired from me this August and our plans for the “golden years” had hit a potentially life-threatening hurdle.

We hugged each other tightly and I knew she would pray fervently for my recovery. She is a very good person, much better than me. The chances of their prayers being answered are much better.

Speaking of the Supreme Being: God bless the emergency room staff! They put up with so much crap (literally) and every nurse, doctor, or orderly I met was patient, thorough, and somewhat pleasant.

(They need to find a better way to draw blood from 70-year-olds with rolling veins. My arms look like I’ve gone 10 rounds with Dracula.)

My daughter Amanda came into my room around 10pm on Monday. There was no other chair in my ER room, so she sat on the porta potty.

Amanda was dressed in her leadership attire, so the image of her sitting on the dresser brought some lightness to a very gloomy evening.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so after the Lovenox shot in my stomach (ouch!) I was allowed to eat a hospital sandwich.

“Turkey, ham or tuna,” the nurse asked.

“What’s your recommendation,” I replied.

“Tuna,” she replied, and it was the best damn sandwich!

Amanda brought Cyndi home around midnight and I was left alone with my thoughts until I moved into the basement at 1:15 a.m. on Tuesday.

I’m a half-empty, snarky old guy, but with a great wife, four incredible children and nine perfect grandchildren, I have a lot to be grateful for.

So I hoped the show would go on.

8:12 a.m. Tuesday: They take me to another room in the basement that is super nice and very quiet, like I’m moving from Times Square to Idaho.

My nurse James is very thorough and talkative. Breakfast consists of two pancakes (one very charred), two turkey sausages and cream of wheat.

The one thing I eat is uncharred flatbread.

Late in the morning, my senior doctor tells me that the blood clots in my leg and lung are under control. I will have to take blood thinners for the rest of my life. I can be discharged or remain under hospital observation for another day.

“Is there tuna for lunch?” I inquire.

Thanks to Amanda’s husband Rich, who chauffeurs Cyndi and I back to our humble home, I’m home by 2 p.m.

I’m trying to find the lighter side of a hospital visit

ByAmelia Journalton

By Amelia Journalton

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