From that first Saturday, the first day I remember feeling normal and understanding that I was going to be in the hospital for a while, things became a bit of a routine (although I guess they already were, I just don’t remember the first few days). I’ve spoken to my mother about this recently and she confirmed that the hospital didn’t do anything to address my head injury. There was never an MRI or anything taken.
Every morning at around 7:30, the nurses would come in and greet me with a thermometer under my tongue and a check of my blood pressure. My father would usually arrive sometime after my morning check-up. He kept me company through much of the morning routine.
The breakfast tray would arrive with food that, on the taste monitor, fell somewhere between airplane food and K&W Cafeteria food. My dad would joke about the food with some dry comment like, “That looks delicious.” Then we’d hear the guy knocking on each hospital room door asking, “Mornin’ paper?” in a thick Southern drawl. We’d here him getting closer and closer until he finally reached my door, then we’d hear his voice begin to trail off down the hall. I never accepted his offer to purchase a copy of the Winston-Salem Journal, so I don’t think I ever saw his face. But I’ll never forget his voice or his morning ritual. My father and I still joke about the “Mornin’ Paper?” guy.
My dad usually left by 9AM or so and headed off to work. Sometimes my mother visited in the mornings. Other times, I’d be on my own, but never really alone, since the nurses were always there if I needed anything. And mornings were typically an active time for nurses with regard to visiting the patients.
At some point Dr. King, the greatest orthopedic surgeon in The Triad, would enter on his morning rounds. (By the way, he’s the doctor who treated the foot I broke while doing donuts on my moped a year or two prior to this.) He was a fairly reserved young doctor who seemed to take some pleasure in my misfortune. I know that this is not true, but when I was 15 and imprisoned in that hospital room, Dr. King represented the warden to me. He was the one coming in every day to check my progress. He was the one who would decide when I was ready to be released. He held my future in his hands.
So I always tried to be positive when he visited. But for most of the time I was in there, I rarely received good news. His original prognosis was that it would take 3 1/2 to 8 weeks for my legged to be healed enough to be put in a leg cast and for me to be discharged from the hospital. In the end, I was there for just shy of 8 weeks.
Over the first couple of weeks I think I asked him nearly every day, “So, how much longer will I be in here?” and I’d receive a vague, evasive response. Often, he’d offer sage advice like, “David, this is a challenging time for you, but you will learn so much about patience.” He may have been correct, but I wasn’t really listening. Eventually, I stopped asking every day about my release date and only asked every other day.
After Dr. King left, the nurses gave me a multi-vitamin and other meds, if I was on them. I was on painkillers for the first few days. I was placed on a stool softener during my second or third week, which I remained on for a bit too long. . . more on this later. Also, every few days, at this time they’d change my sheets and/or offer me a sponge bath, which I’d give myself. Although there was one nurse that was very persistent in trying to give me a sponge bath. I’ll address her more later.
I’d watch game shows nearly every morning. Press Your Luck will always remind me of my time at Forsyth Memorial. Peter Tomarken and the Whammys provided me much comfort.
After a little more TV and/or homework, lunch would arrive. Often there was a lonely patch of time between lunch and the time I’d get afternoon visitors. There were no game shows on to provide some escape from my situation, only soap operas. Remember, cable was fairly new in 1984, and my TV picked up about 5 channels via an antenna. There wasn’t much to distract me from my reality. I was confined to a bed, in a room, with no memory of what happened to put me there.
Sometimes my mother would be visiting, so I wouldn’t go through the afternoon doldrums. But often I spent an hour or two alone until my mom came or school let out and Catherine would arrive with a card or some other thoughtful gift and a smile. I’d get other non-family visitors, too, but Catherine was almost always there, nearly every afternoon, even after drill team practice.
Any visiting family members and Catherine usually left around dinnertime. For Catherine, it was to go home, eat, study and spend time with her family, but for my family it was often to get themselves something to eat. They’d usually return and we’d spend evenings watching TV, or a movie (I had a VCR), or talking about news from the neighborhood. I felt pretty far removed from normalcy, so these stories tended to make me a bit homesick.
The nurses were pretty lenient with my family regarding visiting hours, but after the first few days, my family usually left when visiting hours were over. Then I’d watch an hour long drama and go to bed at around 11:00. I watched a lot of St. Elsewhere, which provided comfort in a strange, “I’m sort of living this TV show,” way.
Basically, this was my routine for nearly eight weeks. However, there were plenty of disruptions to this routine along the way. . . some good. . . some, not so much. (To Be Continued)
