Care

Barbara Fisher

Without
Care
Chapter
XVII
 Barbara Fisher

Care
Without
Care
Chapter XVII

First published by Avon Books

(a division of The Hearst Corporation)

© 1972 Barbara Fisher

Reprinted August, 2010

All rights reserved.
For information address
Ten Penny Players, Inc.
www.tenpennyplayers.org
 When we went back to hand clinic they had
looked at his hand and decided he was ready for
the next procedure. They were going to do a
release on his left hand so that his forefinger and
middle finger would be free. That only left the
pinky on each hand to be separated from the fin-
ger next to it. I was beginning to feel at the end
of a long tunneling expedition. Only two more
fingers.
The main thrust was to get him past the pedi-
atrics’ examination and into the hospital. We
planned to take him out of school several days in
advance to guard against a cold. Our pediatrician
had given us an antibiotic to administer four days
prior to admission. It all went according to sched-
ule. He was pulled out of school and started dos-
ing up . . . antibiotic and decongestant. He was
annoyed at having to spend so much time at
home. His whole routine was fragmented. I was
all keyed up.
I was right in the middle of a children’s the-
ater production. We’d been having an unbeliev-
able amount of administrative and production
trouble. Barbrah and I were tired and harassed
endlessly with the play and I was desperately
worried that Athelantis wouldn’t be admitted for
the next operation.
The antibiotic worked. His temperature only
went up to 100.2 while he was being examined.
His ears turned a brighter red, but not enough to
get him sent home. The pediatrician at the hospi-
tal hedged and said, “Don’t blame me if they send
him home.” I assured him I wouldn’t. I was so
happy that we were in.
We took him to the orthopedic floor. The
nurses weren’t expecting him. Nobody had told
them that Athelantis was going to be admitted.
One of the nurses called housekeeping to order a
crib. They hung up on her. It took nearly three
hours for the crib to be brought down.
It was Saturday and we stayed all day and
evening. the floor resident never showed to give
him the admittance examination. There were few
nurses on duty. They seemed delighted to have
all the parents hanging around. During his
whole stay we were never hassled about our
arrival time. Half the nursing staff had quit.
The parents were needed.
Athelantis strode about the floor. King baby.
He was angry when we left. He turned away,
wouldn’t kiss us good-bye, and he stalked down
the hall.
The next morning he came running down the
hall to greet me. It was a long, boring Sunday. It
was very hot on the floor. It became very hard to
stay awake. Going down to the coffee machine on
the first floor was the only reviving agent. Not
the coffee itself, just the walk to the machine.
The anesthetist never arrived to introduce him-
self. The surgeon’s apprentice came though. I
had written on the permission-to-operate form—
no groin graft. He asked permission to use his
discretion. I asked why. He said that they often
did a groin graft instead of a thigh graft. I
reminded him of what happened the last time they
had been similarly inspired. He wanted to use his
discretion anyway. I said no, there was plenty of
thigh left. He was very charming as the youngish
doctor, but no groin graft. He left. We left.
 They operated the next day. Athelantis was
the second child up. Both he and the first child
were there for hand surgery. The little girl was a
private patient of the surgeon who was supervis-
ing our operation. When I arrived at the hospital
with Barbrah we went right up without announc-
ing ourselves. The little girl was already awake
and in a stroller. Athelantis came down at 5:30
P.M. He had gone up at 9:45 A.M. He was calm
and clinging to the blanket that they’d remem-
bered to send up to the operating area. His arm
was in a cast. I had requested one because he’s
rough and I knew that a bandage would no longer
protect him.
The doctor arrived. They had taken a thigh
graft and performed the operation we had expect-
ed. I asked how long Athelantis would have to
remain in the hospital. He said only a few days,
that they’d release him before changing the band-
ages. They’d operated on Monday; he could go
home Friday or Saturday. They wanted to watch
the patching area and make sure that it was
healing properly before releasing him.
 I asked when the next operation would be
performed. He said in about two months. I asked
if that would be the schedule, every two months,
until finished. He said yes, barring respiratory
illnesses. I asked, will that be it, just the two
separations? He said maybe. It depended upon
Athelantis’s growth. They might want to do some
tendon transplants if they saw his hands weren’t
functioning properly. He said that as long as
Athelantis was still in the city and available for
surgery they would consider continued opera-
tions.
That was really eye-popping. As long as
Athelantis was available they’d continue to oper-
ate. I understood that they couldn’t give me defi-
nite plans because things might change as he got
older. The bones might start to curve; the mus-
cles might not be strong enough. But these
things would be determined by need, it seemed to
me, the need of Athelantis to use his hands bet-
ter. If they’re functioning well, that’s it, no more
operations. If they’re not, then we discuss what
to do, but to continue to operate just because he’s
there, “available,” is bizarre.
We fed Athelantis some consommé, a little
apple juice, with some jello. He threw up twice.
So did the little girl. Neither had ever had that
reaction after anesthesia. I asked the head nurse
for more information. Had they changed the
anesthesia, had they been given too much, was
the anesthetist experienced or interning? She
said, yes that was all possible, but never did get
the correct answer for me.
The next day Athelantis was very cranky. He
sat on my lap for hours and crabbed. When the
head surgeon arrived on the floor to see the little
girl I captured him for a minute. I wanted an
explanation of the projected procedures. He told
me that it would take four operations, not two, to
separate the last two fingers. He said that the
bone had to be separated by inserting a plastic
substance between the two sections first. They
would then wait for a webbing to form and then
they would split the fingers. Four operations. I
had been primed for two. The younger doctor had
allowed me to think that there were only two more.
 I felt incredibly dimmed. I had thought that
it would be over by May. We had told Athelantis
that there would only be two more operations. He
was at an age where he understood those things.
Before he had gone into the hospital I had told
him what they intended to do to his fingers.
When someone mentioned the expedition to him
he would hold up his hands for people to inspect.
My paranoia was unleashed.
I called my friend and asked the name of the
hand surgeon from her hospital. As soon as
Athelantis was sprung and removed from the cast
we would get a consulting opinion. Ernie and I
decided that if the other hospital agreed we would
let him stay at our hospital (at least until the
book came out). If they offered another course of
treatment, a shorter one that sounded feasible
and realistic, we would consider transferring. We
would also have to consider getting a bank loan to
pay surgeon’s fees. If we were going to switch
hospitals the prospect of paying a bank loan
seemed infinitely more attractive to me than
being forced into another clinic. I can cope with
bank payments. You know what to expect from
the bank and they know what to expect from you.
It’s beautiful, clean, clear, and finite. I never
know what to expect from the hospital. Each
time we go in I think—aha, everything awful has
already happened to us, this time it’s going to be
a snap. Each time something new happens.
There’s no room for complacency when you’re
dealing with the clinic.
Athelantis stopped talking at the hospital. he
also stopped eating. He didn’t speak to me for
five days. He would only eat the fresh fruit I
brought him, sometimes take a little cheese, and
drink his milk. That was after he broke a total
fast. The nurses were concerned. They ordered
cottage cheese and yogurt for every meal. He
wouldn’t eat their food. He wouldn’t talk. The
day before he was finally released he began
speaking again . . . and eating cookies and
donuts. He would go into the nurses’ own room
and grub from them.
When we brought him home he headed right
for the refrigerator. He ate and ate and ate the
entire weekend. He also began talking properly.
Two of his teachers came to visit him and
brought him pictures and get-well cards the other
children had made for him. I returned him to
school on Monday.

I’ve finally adjusted to the possibility of four

operations. I’m also prepared to switch hospitals
and plunge into debt. The biggest adjustment
that I’ve had to make and continue to force myself
to consciously verbalize is that when dealing with
the hospital you’re talking of survival. You’re not
talking about health or care or abstract philoso-
phy of treatment. We are talking about rights
and the purchase of services. When you go to a
department store and pay for a product you
expect a certain level of quality or you return the
product and complain. When you hire an
accountant or a plumber or a locksmith you
demand a high level of competence or you com-
plain. The doctor, the hospital, must be treated
in the same manner. I pay seventeen dollars a
visit to outpatient; Blue Cross is paying eighty-six
dollars a day for room and board plus all the
other items, like equipment, medicines, and
rentals, on your bill. The foundations and the
government are helping to support the hospital.
The public is supporting the whole medical struc-
ture. We are purchasing services and have the
right to complain when the level of services is too
low.
It requires too much energy to constantly con-
front the hospital system. But there’s no alterna-
tive. Athelantis is very aggressive about express-
ing his ire. I’ve become rude and nasty and no
longer feel guilty about putting staff members in
their place. I don’t like the role they’ve chosen to
play and refuse to be docketed in the role they’ve
chosen for me. We’ll continue until Athelantis is
free.
However, it will take something really drastic
to make me put Athelantis back into a hospital.
Ernie and I don’t want to think about accidents
either to Athelantis or ourselves. To fight for my
child is dreadful, but I’ve been healthy through it.
If something happens to Ernie and me and we
have to hospitalized (especially after this book)
who’s going to fight for us? Everybody hates a big
mouth. Who’s going to fight for me?

(To be continued.)