Care

Barbara Fisher

Without
Care
Chapter
XIV
 Barbara Fisher

Care
Without
Care
Chapter XIV

First published by Avon Books

(a division of The Hearst Corporation)
in September, 1972

© 1972 Barbara Fisher

All rights reserved.

For information address
Ten Penny Players, Inc.
www.tenpennyplayers.org
 Ernie received a phone call in his office on
Friday saying that a bed was available. They
wanted Athelantis in the hospital the following
morning at 10:00 A.M. I’d been feeling dizzy and
nauseated for days. I’d called his office asking him
to come home early. When his secretary told me of
the impending hospitalization, I didn’t know what
to worry about first…Athelantis’s temperature or
my stomach. My Doctor hadn’t been able to find
anything wrong with me, but that didn’t mitigate
my nausea.
Ernie came home. I took to my bed and stayed
there until it was time to take him to the hospital
the next morning. I took his temperature. It was
ninety-nine. We packed the suitcase, ate break-
fast, and went to the hospital.
The minute we got to the admitting area he
started getting squirrelly, whining and hiding
behind Ernie. We went up to the pediatrics floor.
It was only a short wait before we were called into
the examining cubicle. He started wailing as soon
as his name was called. He kept it up until after
the examination was over. His temperature had
risen to 100.4. The doctor probed and prodded.
The resident was a young woman who had exam-
ined (and rejected) him once before. She worked
stolidly, but thoroughly. She said that he looked
all right, even though his temperature was up. His
chart had written all over it that he ran a high
temperature she said. She was admitting him.
She said that the anesthetist would eventually
decide whether or not to operate. They’d have him
over the weekend for observation.
We went up to his floor. The nurses hadn’t
been told that he would be coming in and there
was no bed for him. We waited in the lounge while
he wandered around for about an hour and a half
until they formally admitted him and made ready
a bed. One of the nurses asked me the standard
questions about allergies, previous history, previ-
ous admissions. I said, “But it’s all in the case-
book; we’ve brought that to the nurses’ station.”
The student nurse said, “But that’s the routine.”
It is routine for an orthopedic resident to come
and give an admission examination. He never
arrived. He broke the routine. Athelantis’s tem-
perature was still up. It had risen further to 100.8.
I asked, when would we see the orthopedist.
The nurses said probably that evening. He never
arrived, either. I had never met him. He was just
a pleasant middle-America-type voice over the
phone. I still didn’t know what digit they planned
to separate. The phone call had been from the
admitting office to Ernie’s office and they hadn’t
had any information. The head of ortho surgery
never made up his mind until the last minute any-
way. But he was on vacation. I wondered who
would supervise the resident.
I went up at a little after ten on Sunday.
Athelantis had received a present of a seven-week-
old kitten that morning. I’d helped settle her in.
The dog seemed pleased about the new acquisition,
but the two older cats were pretty huffy about it.
The kitten is very spunky and aggressive. She
doesn’t seem to realize that she’s smaller than the
others. When they hiss and slash, so does she. I’d
slated everyone for a nail clipping that night when
I returned.
I asked the nurse when I’d be seeing the sur-
geon. She said probably that afternoon. The day
passed. The nurses still weren’t sure what hand
had to be scrubbed, shaven, and bandaged for the
next day. They finally discovered it was the right
hand. I helped the nurse. He hates that procedure
and it often takes two to prepare him. The head
nurse told the student to shave the groin area for
the patch as well as the thigh.
I said that I wouldn’t allow a patch to be taken
from the groin. “I’ll sue the hospital up the ying-
yang, if they take a groin patch,” I said.
I kept asking to see the surgeon. The nurses
finally discovered that he was off-duty and would-
n’t be in until the next morning for the operation.
“It’s the weekend,” one of them said. I said,
“Either I see a doctor and have my questions
answered or we remove Athelantis.”
At six-thirty a strange doctor finally arrived.
He asked what the problem was. I said that we’d
been there for two days and had yet to meet with a
doctor. What were they gong to operate on? He
said that he thought that had been made clear in
the clinic. I said the head surgeon always makes
up his mind at the last minute. He said they would
be performing a syndactoly, a separation of the
right forefinger from the middle finger to which it
was attached. I then asked where they would be
taking a patch from. He said the thigh or the
groin. I said, “I won’t allow it to be taken from the
groin. They did that the last time. The sutures
came out and it was infected. It’s a stupid thing to
do to an untoilet-trained little boy and I won’t
allow it.” He said, “You’re right. I’ll call the sur-
geon immediately and talk to him about it.” He
made the phone call, but the surgeon wasn’t home.
He said that he’d speak to him later and make sure
that they took it from the thigh or the elbow. He
asked, “Will that be all right?” I said, “Yes, as long
as it’s not the groin.“ He asked, “Can the surgeons
use their discretion?” I said, “Yes, as long as it’s no
the groin.” We shook hands. I thanked him, and
he left. I put Athelantis to bed and we left.
The next day one of the students told me that
if we had added no groin graft to the surgical-
release form, they wouldn’t have been allowed to
touch that area. I always added no amputation
without consulting the parents. From then on, I
added no groin graft.

I called at eight-thirty in the morning to see if

Athelantis was still scheduled for surgery. He
was. The nurse said to come up about noon. I
arrived at twelve-thirty and went to the reception
desk. She called upstairs. After much confusion
about the child, since they’d reversed his name and
it took some time to understand that Perry
Athelantis was really Athelantis Perry, we learned
he was still in the operating room. I went to the
coffee machines stuck my dollar in a machine, got
change and a cup of coffee. Ernie hated the
machine room. I loved it—the only place in the
hospital where you have to talk, smile at, and be
charming to no one. Just read the sign, insert the
money properly, and extract goods.
I went upstairs through the other wing. We
called the recovery room every few hours… noth-
ing. The phone rang. The nurse said that my sis-
ter was downstairs. It was Barbarah.
I had told her to come up through the other
wing. She was worried about her sense of direction
and called up for me instead. I went down for her.
We got more coffee and went back upstairs
through the other hospital. Ernie arrived at five.
The baby didn’t get down until six-thirty.
He was lying was lying very quietly in his crib,
clutching his blanket. That was a shocker. No one
had ever thought to send the precious blanket up
with him. It was very thoughtful of one of the
nurses. His I-V was strapped to him, but he was-
n’t complaining. His arm was in a cast. That both-
ered me. He’d never been in cast before. I didn’t
understand why he had one and what they had
done to cause its need.
I asked the nurse when the doctor would be
arriving to explain what they had done. She said
that she didn’t know, but that she didn’t think he’d
be coming down. She paged him for me. He didn’t
return the page. He wasn’t in the hospital. We
waited and waited. Ernie went down for sand-
wiches. The baby was drifting in and out of sleep.
We paged the doctor and again nothing. We
finally told the nurse that we were fully prepared
to stay the night unless they sent a surgeon down
to tell us what they had done in the operating room
and why Athelantis was sporting a cast.
The nurse said that she thought it had been
put on him to keep the area clean and prevent
infection. Maybe. But why hadn’t they done that
before? They had taken a thigh patch, right below
the first one, and it was fully bandaged.
We talked about the possibility of transferring
him to another hospital. You can do that without
the doctor’s permission, even in the middle of the
night, as long as you sign a release form saying
that you absolve the hospital of all blame if some-
thing happens in the transfer. It was our feeling
that if we made the change, it was because the
staff had been negligent and weren’t treating him
properly and that the hospital should accept
responsibility for the ambulance transfer. We
decided to wait awhile longer before calling
“friendly” doctors.
The senior surgeon who had supervised the
young resident in the operation came through the
corridor. He as going to remove the cast from a lit-
tle boy so he could go home. The mother had been
waiting all day for this to be done. I didn’t go to
talk to him. The other mother leaped into action
first.
The young surgeon was still on duty. When
the older doctor returned from removing the cast I
went over to him, introduced myself, and asked if
he’d been in the operating room with Athelantis
and what had been done. He said that they had
separated the forefinger from the middle finger
and had taken a small patch. That everything had
gone according to plan. I asked why he was in a
cast. He said that was a personal preference. Our
other surgeon prefers bandages; he likes casts. He
said that it would give the arm more support and
protection, and since Athelantis was older and
more active he felt it was necessary. I asked when
we could take the baby home. He said, “As soon as
he’s comfortable, in a couple of days.”
I said, “That’s marvelous. Our other doctor
always keeps him in a full week.”
he said, “Well, he’s older now.”
We started to pack up and prepare to go home.
The phone rang. The nurse came running out and
said it was the young doctor finally answering the
page. Would I please talk to him. I went to the
phone, and had a replay of he conversation I had
just had with the senior surgeon. He said that
another reason Athelantis had the cast was
because his arm was so thin. They felt the dress-
ing might otherwise slip off.
Before he had called I’d asked the nurse what
he was like. She didn’t know. She’d never seen
him. None of the night nurses had ever seen him.
The next day I spoke to a day nurse; she said that
she hardly ever saw him. He rarely visited the
floor.
On Sunday night, the night before the opera-
tion, we had returned home tired and hungry.
Before we could eat or unwind the phone rang. it
was from a narcotics treatment and prevention
group for whom I act as a fundraising consultant.
They were calling for help in delivering a message
to someone we all knew. I forgot that the phone
was an open line and that most probably there
were more people listening to the call than the lady
who had made the call, Ernie and I. I mentioned
that Athelantis was in the hospital. Ernie deliv-
ered the message and returned home. The next
morning, I was in a funk, worrying about the oper-
ation and brooding in general and I began explor-
ing my paranoia. Was it possible that someone
might kidnap the baby from the hospital in order
to head off the work of the narcotics program? I
called the hospital and spoke to one of the nurses.
Could someone other than Ernie and I remove
the baby from the hospital?” I asked
“Not legally,” she answered, “but they could
just come on the floor and snatch him.”
I explained my nervousness and she said that
they’d keep an eye out for strangers. I called the
orthopedic social worker and she said that anytime
I was worried about anything I should call her, but
that there wasn’t really anything that could be
done.
The day after the operation I arrived early.
The head nurse asked to speak privately to me.
We went into the nurse’s lounge and she told me
that the young nurse had told her of my phone call.
Would I explain it to her, she asked. I launched
into an explanation. She said that she’d spoken to
the head of security and he had some ideas on how
to prevent any problem. She asked me why I wear
a police whistle on a chain around my neck. I said
it was because I travel on the subway by myself.
End of interview.
The head of security arrived about three
o’clock. He looked like a cross between a cop and a
prize fighter… burly and flat-splayed walk. He
took me back into the sanctum. I went into my
story for him. He was very cordial. He had once
been a narcotics officer for the city police and
understood how I worried about my involvement
extending to the safety of my child. He said that I
was probably overreacting, but that I had done the
right thing to mention it to the hospital. He said,
“Don’t worry. I have security officers all over the
hospital. My sergeant is on duty twenty-four
hours a day. If you hear of anything else, or have
any worries, call my special extension (he gave it to
me) and I’ll return your call immediately.” He
then wanted to know when Athelantis was going to
be released. I said soon.
The episode was amazing. Although I did have
a legitimate, unusual worry, so did every other
parent on the floor. Nobody checks visitors’ pass-
es; they aren’t even issued anymore, it seems. I
know of five different ways to get up to the chil-
dren’s floor without being stopped. I’m sure there
are more. Despite his charm, and obvious good
will, I wasn’t reassured by the security officer’s all-
seeing, ever-present staff. He told me not to men-
tion our talk to the other mothers. I hadn’t intend-
ed to and I didn’t. I didn’t really expect anything
to happen to Athelantis. I’m hipped to my own
paranoia. I thought I’d tell them about it, because
it was a possibility. The response was interesting.
I was very tired out. In addition to dragging
through the hospital, I had decided that it might
be a good idea to add a chapter to the book about
the rights of patients. I called various legal associ-
ations in the city to try to get the names of books
and reference materials from which I could quote.
I was amazed to discover the lack of material relat-
ing to this area. There were many things on the
rights and obligations of doctors, but very few
things written from the patient’s point of view.
One attorney told me that it was because there
were few things on statute. Most things were
accepted practices because they’d always been
done that way… not because there was a law to
that effect. I began to hear terrible things about
the hospital in which Athelantis was encamped. I
had been feeling more and more strongly, that part
of the problems we were having was due to the
administrative bottleneck. I was right. It was part
mad medicine, but a good deal peculiar, imperson-
al, poorly managed administrative programs.
The feeling was that my book wouldn’t cause
any obvious change in the delivery of treatment to
Athelantis. My biggest problem would be the doc-
tors’ subconscious reaction to what I had written. I
told one lawyer I had started carrying my tape
recorder to the hospital. He thought I was very
brave to do it. He said that we had two things
against us at the hospital—I’ve a big mouth; Ernie
is black. The hospital is definitely wasp-oriented
and not set up to deal with us.
 I called the hospital the second day after the
operation to find out if we had a release date. The
nurses didn’t know anything. When I arrived at
the hospital, the nurse checked his chart. They
were going to change the cast the next day. I had
to call the following morning to find out if they
would be releasing him after the rebandaging.
When I arrived at the hospital he was very
grumpy, rushing around bullishly. Cast and all he
was no less agile than usual. I walked into the
playroom and found him standing on the win-
dowsill. he had climbed up to look at the cars.
Late in the afternoon one of the mothers came
over to me and said, “I just opened my mouth.”
“What happened?” I asked. “My son had a bowel
movement earlier. They emptied his bedpan, but I
just went to bring him the bedpan again and dis-
covered that no one had bothered to clean him. It
was all caked and dried to his skin.” Her son is
four and toilet-trained, but his legs are encased in
casts. He must use a bedpan and he needs help in
cleaning himself. She had asked who was respon-
sible for him that day. No one had wanted to
accept responsibility. She said that she told them
where there was cotton and lotion and everything
they needed in his bedside table. She expected
them to be used.
It was sort of sad to see how she had changed
since her son had been admitted. She had come in
friendly and calm, feeling that everyone was there
to help and heal. She said that she had quickly
wised up. The doctors were no longer gods. The
nurses no longer ministering angels.
There were few nurses on the floor. Most of
the mothers were there taking care of their chil-
dren. At dinner I offered Athelantis his food and
coaxed and wheedled him. But he didn’t accept
much food. One of the children had been left in a
carriage by himself. His mother hadn’t arrived.
His tray was sitting on the serving cart. None of
the nurses or aides had bothered to bring it to him.
He hadn’t been eating well; maybe they felt he
wouldn’t be interested that night. Yet they didn’t
bother to find out. He was two and half in a car-
riage, with both feet in casts. He couldn’t walk to
the cart, get his own tray, and serve himself. After
Athelantis had finished, I brought the little boy his
food. He accepted a cookie and a triangle of bread.
They should keep a dog in the hospital pantry.
It would live comfortably on all the things the chil-
dren rejected.
I called the hospital in the morning. the nurse
told me that the doctor had changed the bandages.
Athelantis couldn’t go home that day, maybe the
next. I hung up and my hands started shaking. I
was angry. If the bandages were changed, why
couldn’t he go home? I called Ernie. I knew that
I’d stutter and cry if I called the doctor. In some
situations it helps to cry; many men wilt, I felt that
this situation merited strong action, not tears, and
that if I cried they would feel that they had the
upper hand. I had never seen this doctor. For all
I knew he could have been sent from Central
Casting. Ernie tried to reach him, but couldn’t and
left a message.
I know that doctors are busy, that they can’t
spend too much time with each patient, but this
was boorish behavior. This man, whom I’d never
met, was making decisions about the welfare of my
child without bothering to consult us and give us
explanations.
Previously they had changed the bandages and
released him the same day. At that point it was
dangerous for him to remain at the hospital. Cast
and all he was scaling heights, standing on window
sills with no support, climbing in and out of
strollers, marching all over the floor. He had come,
he had been through his operation, and he was
ready to go home.
I vacillated in my moods about the hospital.
When someone does something nice (like the blan-
ket episode), I felt warm and friendly. But the nor-
mal hospital attitudes and routine quickly froze
me again.
One of the mothers wanted to do something
nice for one of the night nurses. She was East
Indian, very warm and friendly. She smiled a lot
and was always kind and thoughtful to the chil-
dren. The nurse refused to accept a gift. She said,
“I don’t feel it necessary to exchange services. I’m
a nurse because I love being a nurse. That’s
reward enough.”
Most of the others were different. They were
very American in their attitudes toward gratuities.
I arrived at the hospital and called Ernie. The
doctor had never returned his call. I asked one of
the nurses to put him on a page for me. I went to
get Athelantis out of his crib and dress him. He
was up from his nap and eager for action. The day
after his operation, and he was ready to go home.
He became more and more crabby the longer he
had to stay. He paced up and down the corridors,
dragging his blanket behind him or wearing it
Arab fashion over his head, with a dour clerical
expression on his face, hunching forward, scowling
at the floor. Nothing pleased him. He stared for
long periods out of the window, a pathetic little fig-
ure looking forlornly down at the passing cars.
The doctor returned my call. I said that we
had understood that Athelantis could go home as
soon as he was comfortable. He had changed the
bandages. Athelantis was comfortable, but still
confined to the hospital. Why?
He said that someone had allowed the bandage
to get wet, that the patching area on his left leg
was consequently still a little runny, and he want-
ed to rebandage it and look at it again the next day
before releasing Athelantis. He asked if I were at
the nurses’ station. I said I was. He said that he
wanted to come down and meet me. Fine, I really
wanted to see him.
Central Casting came through again. A Robert
Lansing type, blondish hair beginning to gray
through the clip cut, wide set blue eyes, good teeth,
and basic American speech pattern. He reared
slightly back when I put my hand out to shake his.
I always shook hands. His grip was surprised.
He repeated what he had told me over the
phone and proceeded to preach like a convert about
the medical procedure and postoperative healing
process. Since it was Athelantis’s fifth hand oper-
ation, I didn’t learn anything new. He told us that
we’d go to outpatient hand clinic the following
Friday and they’d remove the cast. I said that I’d
call the next morning to find out Athelantis’s
release time and he left.
I asked to take Athelantis down to the garden
for a while. It’s pretty down there. One of the chil-
dren said that if you cut down all the trees it would
make a great camp site.
We went back inside after an hour and stopped
at the machines. I bought him a cup of iced tea.
He’ll drink anything as long as he has ice cubes in
his cup.
He spurned the mashed potatoes, brown insti-
tutional gravy, string beans, and cube of meat,
along with milk, applesauce and a triangle of mar-
garined bread that was curling slightly at the
edges and dried. I pulled a jar of pears and pineap-
ples out of my purse. His eyes widened and
sparkled. He ate the pears, Munster cheese, some
butter cookies, and finally a few string beans and
the milk.
He was cranky the rest of my visit. He wanted
to be wheeled up and down the hall. He also talked
to me a lot and cried—protesting, chewing me out.
When I left him in his crib he was still standing
and berating me.
I went home and chopped up another disorgan-
ized meal. After walking the dog I hauled myself
into bed and was out. I woke during the eleven
o’clock news to find Ernie massaging my neck and
back and then I fell asleep. I woke around 4:00
A.M. and stayed awake until 7:00 A.M. I was nerv-
ous, afraid they’d call and wouldn’t release him.
I went with Bob and Fran at eight-thirty to
shop at the Coop. It was better than hanging
around the house until ten. I waited until ten-
thirty to call the hospital. I could pick him up at
any time. Salvation.
I grabbed his suitcase and left. When I arrived
at the hospital, he was sauntering down the hall
with the blanket. The day before one of the main-
tenance staff had taken it away from him and
thrown it into the laundry hamper. Athelantis had
shrieked in fury. The man had retrieved the pre-
cious possession from the offending hamper. I
dressed and packed Athelantis. He stayed in the
playroom with the children and occupational ther-
apist while I went down the hall to get his pink slip
. They marked it eleven o’clock so I wouldn’t have
to pay for an extra day.
One of the nurses said that the doctor had left
special instructions about the leg. I had to keep it
dry and remove the bandage when he napped so
the patch would dry out. The nurse also gave me
extra bandages and tape in case it got wet. I col-
lected Athelantis. He started crying and dragging
heels. he went limp. I had to pull him along. I
finally picked him up. I kept telling him we were
going home. It didn’t seem to register. He bawled
all the way to the elevator and grumped silently in
the corner of the elevator as we went down. When
we reached the first floor and I turned toward the
front door he finally believed we were leaving. He
smiled at me and raced to the door.
He was quiet and peaceful during the ride
home. Before going home we stopped to get some
supplies at the stationery store. I also took him
into a little pizza stand. He likes the swivel stools
and he shared a slice and a Coke.
The dog greeted us ecstatically. I went into the
living room first and was sitting in a rocker, hold-
ing Ingrid, his new kitten when he arrived. He
smiled beatifically at her and held out his arms, I
put the kitten into his arms and he buried his face
in her fur. He kissed her nose. For the rest of the
afternoon he chased her through the loft, picking
her up and stroking her fur.
He started nursery school on Monday. It was
a new experimental school and they didn’t mind
the untoilet-trained state or frequent hospitaliza-
tion. Cast and all he went. Motherly apprehen-
sions and all. Fatherly reservations cast aside. He
loved it—five little girls and four female teachers.
What more could a little boy ask? The cast didn’t
prevent him from participating in class activities.
After the initial shock of good-bye he was mar-
velous about being left every day. He looked for-
ward to it. He was ready to leave as soon as I had
him dressed. He recognized the block even before
we reached the building and went racing to the
stoop and up the stairs. I was lucky when he
remembered to say good-bye.
I left a box of Pampers. I hoped they would be
luckier than I at training him, but I was resigned
to buying larger and larger pairs of rubber paints.
On Friday I took him from school early so we
would be at the hospital in time for our appoint-
ment. We arrived at the clinic at twelve-thirty. He
was very good. He ate the sandwich I’d packed,
rolled around on the floor playing with one of his
cars, and napped on my lap for about an hour.
They kept calling people ahead of us. We were sit-
ting in a chair close to the door. The doctors could
easily see us. The receptionists knew we were
there. I spoke to them twice and asked why we
weren’t being called. “Your chart’s inside,” she
said. “They’re numbered by turn,” she said.
They didn’t call us until four o’clock. We were
the last people left on the floor. Every other clinic
was closed. I was holding Athelantis because he
kept trying to leave. I was shaking very hard and
so angry my voice kept cracking. I wouldn’t let
myself cry. I said, “This child has been very good.
He’s been waiting since twelve-thirty. When is the
doctor going to see him?” The doctor finally hus-
tled up. “Why didn’t you let me know you were
here?” he said. “You should have let me know you
were here. I always try to get the children in first.”
“I told the receptionist we were here, “ I
answered.
 “But why didn’t you come inside and tap me on
the shoulder,” he said. “You should have come
inside an told me Athelantis was here.” He would
have had to have been blind and deaf not to have
known. Athelantis wandered into the treatment
rooms several times and I had to call him back. He
was the only two-and-a–half–year-old child wear-
ing a cast at the clinic.
He and another resident looked down at
Athelantis. “What do we do now?” they asked each
other. “The cast could stay on another week,” one
of them said. “It’s been on ten days already,” the
surgeon said. “It could stay on another week,” the
other one answered. “What do they usually do
now?” the surgeon asked me.
“They remove the dressing so I can start soak-
ing the hand,” I said. “That’s what we’ll do then,”
they said.
We went into the plaster room. He covered
Athelantis with a sheet and himself with an apron.
He turned on the saw. Athelantis wailed; the saw
whirred. The hand was unveiled and the doctor,
the nurse and I looked down at it. Two more fin-
gers, swollen, full of sutures, but two definite fin-
gers. “What do they usually do now?” the doctor
asked. “They usually put a light dressing on it so
I can take him home on the train,” I answered.
“Fine, that’s what I’ll do,” he responded.
We finished and I took him home. When we
took the dressing off at home and I put him in the
bathtub he looked at the two new fingers, looked
up at me, and grinned. He tried them. He wiggled
them slowly. He smiled happily and continued
moving them gently, letting the water flow
between the new digits.