After a weekend in a hospital

May 2025

I was taken to urgent care on Saturday morning early, when I awoke, laboring to breathe. I had been sick for several days, coughing and feeling exhausted, and had taken a COVID/FLU test to be sure I was not that sick. The home test registered Negative for both.

But when I awoke and found my oxygen was down in the 80s, and felt too weak to get dressed, I knew I needed to get medical help. My sister and brother-in-law had left for a week-long trip by car. I was alone in the house, in my little apartment, which they had built for me in the basement.

I called my niece, who was on call for me in their absence. She came over, made me some toast and a cup of coffee, helped me get dressed, and into her car. We took a walker since I was unsure how much walking I had to do.

I was taken into a room immediately and tested for COVID. This time the test was positive. I was hooked to oxygen, and an EKG was taken because I have a history of aortic stenosis, moderate, but there. Then I became upset when I was told I had an abnormal EKG test. Not bad, but enough that 911 had been called, and I was going to the nearest hospital by ambulance.

The EMT fellows were more than pleasant and helpful, but once in the truck, they did another EKG on me. They got the same reading, and I could hear my test results being given on the phone to a doctor at the hospital. Although I had no chest pain at all, no pressure, or nausea, it was obvious the men in the ambulance were afraid I was having a heart attack.

While one of them drove, another one inserted an IV in my right arm. Just in case, he told me. My blood pressure was soaring, and I am sure that was because I was stressed out. In a very short time, I was being removed on a stretcher at the Emergency Room. The nice young men were doing all they could to comfort me and let me know they were right there with me, and medical help was coming in to care for me.

I was feeling better with oxygen going into my lungs, but alarmed at all the concern about my heart. Finally, someone told the EMT guys that the doctor who read my EKG did not think I was having a heart attack. However, they would test my blood and see why my test had some abnormalities.

Soon, my niece came in to be with me. She was a great comfort, and I looked forward to their letting me go home soon. I knew she would be sure I had what I needed at my apartment.

But, a female doctor came in and told us that she felt I should be admitted to the hospital at least for a few days until they could check me out. My heart sank. I hate to even visit hospitals. I have spent far too much time in them when I cared for my mother for ten years and then spent awful times at Emory when my husband was admitted for cancer.

I was with my father when he was dying in the hospital. I had no good feelings about hospital. I stood by my dear aunt when she died in a hospital begging for help which never came. I saw the sketchy care given my mother and my father and grew angry and sickened at the kind of care given to my poor husband as I sat with him day and night for weeks.

I dreaded the following hours I would spend with total strangers who knew nothing about me, my health issues, my medicines, my needs. Nurses came and drew many vials of blood from my arm. A nurse hung a bag of liquid that dripped into my veins. I was told it was to hydrate me. Kind men with breathing machines came in ever three or four hours and had me breathe in chemicals that helped me for a short time.

When my niece left me to go and bring back some of my things, I called and asked for someone to help me go to the bathroom. I was tied to those tubes providing me with oxygen and fluids so I could not get up and go. As I waited for help, my need grew more urgent. I called and pleaded with them to send someone to help me. When finally, Val, the nurse arrived, she said, “Oh, I will put you on a ????, so you don’t have to get up.”

 She began busying herself putting together some kind of apparatus. I sat up on the side of the bed and in tears, I cried, please help me now to the bathroom. I can’t wait. 

Then she came over and began pausing the lines as I stood up. But she was too late. By the time I got to the bathroom, my gown was wet.

“Ok,” she said, “let me go and get you a fresh gown.”

This entire situation had turned out just as I knew it would. My stress level was over the moon and that did not help my breathing. I was furious.

Back on the bed, I sat with the wet gown just over my shoulders while she got the new gown open. At that time a man appeared in the doorway. His voice boomed out in broken English.

“Hello, Glenda Beel?”  No one ever pronounced my last name correctly.

With no regard for my privacy, he continued to talk while Val helped me into the clean gown.

When the nurse left, he came into the room and sat down. He asked me a hundred questions which I answered.

Then he asked me if I had my end-of-life directive. My gosh, I thought, he is planning for me to die here.

I told him my sister knew my wishes and I had them written down at home. “So,” he said, “if we have to put you on a ventilator, she would be able to tell us how long you would want to stay on it or if you would want to be taken off at some point?”

I can’t begin to express how this made me feel. I went to Urgent Care to get medication that would help my breathing as I had done before. I often get bronchitis and usually am given a Z-Pac. Instead, I was admitted into a hospital and talked to about my end of life wishes.

When my niece returned, I was very emotional as I told her about this experience. She was also concerned and went to talk to the nurse. She felt terrible because she had not been there with me.

She stayed with me that night. 

I will continue this saga in my next post.