Insomnia

Finally, I struggle out of bed. Struggle is a strong word.

I wince, roll, shuffle. I unplug my IV. I wrap my gown around me and make my way out the door.

The night nurse crew is still out. Some of them are reading magazines.

"Uh... hey. I haven't slept in forty hours. Really. I'm just out of surgery, and I need sleep bad. Please. I just need to sleep. Isn't there anything you can give me?"

Four pairs of eyes stare at me blankly.

I look terrible, I know. I smell worse. I just watched a wall clock turn from 10 P.M. to 7 A.M.

One pair of shoulders shrugs. I bite my tongue and breathe slowly. Four hours prior, I was given an IV dose of Solumedrol, which pins your eyelids back with violent force. No sleeping pill available.

"Really. Is there nothing?"

I'm clearly agitated.

"We can page your doctor."

More agitated.

"The doctor responsible for my care is Briesboit. I just heard Stars land. I'm not paging him for a sleeping pill. We both know He's operating on some traumu case."

"Maybe we can get you something tomorrow night."

Tommorow?! Are you @%$#! kidding me? When the hell am I going to be able to sleep?! Tell me! I feel like I'm mainlining Redbull!

Shrug. Back to the magazine.

Nothing sets your teeth on edge like this. I give up.

Turns out if your doctor forgets to allow you a sleeping pill or a tylenol, you're not getting it. And there is little worse than not being able to sleep in the hospital.

Tough luck.


I manage a shower, and Vanessa shows up. This calms me down. I manage an hour of blissful unconciousness, and that's it.

Doctor Briesboit shows up later, and I expound my tale of woe. His solution? Send me home. I've been here nine days. Nothing makes a man sleep like his own bed. I like the cut of his jib a little more.

I haven't dropped a single point of hemoglobin since my surgery, so that looks positive, to say the least. The spleen worked. It worked.

However, Wetaskiwin is not so great; I'm over an hour away if I start hemolizing again. He's concerned.

I don't care. Send me home.

Briesboit calls the hematologist and suggests that I leave. Within minutes he writes discharge papers and prescriptions, and sets them on my table. I stare at them like they're Christmas presents. All I need is the OK from hematology.

And three hours later, when Doctor Hamilton does her rounds with an intern at her side, that is what I get.

Get me outta here. This is over with. Home cooked food. Oh, God, home cooked food. Oh, my bed. I won't have to kink my legs to fit. I fit in that bed. My clothing. My couch. My house. My family.

This is over with.

Right.