Weekends in rehab are boring. The staff is reduced, and so getting a helper if I want to get out of bed takes much longer on average than on weekdays. This is especially true during the evening and night shifts.
Since my insurance mandates seven day a week therapy while I’m an in-patient here, I get one fairly short therapy session each day. Since my supervising therapist has the weekend off, these are not real valuable sessions, but they do get me out of bed and out of the room.
I have to say whichever of my neighbors watches the religious channel on his TV every morning, and has it on Loud, is getting real old. Apparently the gentleman has been there a while, and is one of Dr. Stevens’ “good buddies.” I can’t imagine a complaint by me would have any effect or be well received. Indeed, the care level might drop, if that’s possible.
Late Saturday night —Sunday morning 2 AM really — the neuropathic pain in my foot increased enough for me to want some additional pain medication. My orders allow me one or two 5/325 Percocets as required (PRN). I push the call buzzer. I wait. I push it again. This goes on for maybe 45 minutes and I’m not feeling any better. The opposite is true.
I decide to take matters in my own hands. I pull the wheelchair close and safely manage the transfer. Remembering to use my feet, rather than my hands for power (restrictions, not that my nurses are aware of them), I power down the 40 or 50 feet to the nurses station.
There’s one nurse in the station, awake and working. I forbear asking him why he’s been ignoring my call buzzer. His surprise at seeing me there is total.
I ask for the pain meds, and he asks me to get back to bed and he’ll bring them. I do that and so does he. However, I should not have had to make the trip. There was some risk as I don’t have the bed to wheelchair and back transfers down too well. I still use the walker as an intermediate stage.
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