MY VIEW
Modern medicine is an amazing thing
I had a problem. I was stretched out on a hospital gurney, in a cubicle, an IV needle stuck in my hand, and things were not good.
A very intent doctor asked me to explain why congested lungs and chest surgery were not part of my record. I said because I had no chest surgery or congested lungs. He peered at the blue loose-leaf binder that accompanied me into the pre-op room of the hospital.
I had been to every appointment and test a half hour early to ensure a painful condition in my foot could be corrected, and now this orderly and paced process was threatened. Things were going wrong.
The doctor joined a cluster of medical folks around desks and computers in the center of the room and obvious excitement swirled about his presence and my file. Quickly, very alert folks were peering at monitors, keyboards were clacking and half a dozen phones activated.
My own doctor appeared and explained that an erroneous X-ray had been moved into my file. He warned that if my own X-ray was not found, we would have to postpone surgery. He said something about clear lungs and I answered that my lungs were fine when I arrived that morning.
Then the modern medical system was manifested before my eyes. A very capable technician appeared pushing a gigantic green machine about the size of a small car. “X-ray,” he announced. “We have to get a good, clear picture of your lungs.”
Then helping hands propped me up, placed a plate flat against my back, switches clicked, the machine hummed and he and the machine rolled from view as quickly as they appeared.
I grew fascinated by the swirling, energetic activity of the pre-op room. It appeared chaotic, but the activity was nearly as choreographed as a ballet, or better, it had the intensity and preciseness of a successful military maneuver.
A constant stream of patients came into view. They were led to the cubicles — where green-suited folks converged on them and did a lot of stuff involving wires, tubing and pillows — and whisked away on gurneys. I watched the disciplined chaos for more than an hour without collisions. Order was obviously imposed by the dedication of the participants and the structure of their tasks.
Then my turn came. I was whipped out of the cubicle and wheeled along what seemed to be several miles of corridor to my operating room. It was fittingly scary and very antiseptic, but after responding to some merry quips my observations disappeared into deep sleep.
Later I came to in a room similar to the pre-op room called, naturally, the post-op room. But there was another problem. Because of the delay prior to surgery, I could not go home as planned and there was no hospital bed available.
Once more I had time to observe more disciplined chaos conducted with calm. I didn’t understand most of it, but I relaxed. I knew I was in an orderly place.
I was released the next day, my surgery evidently successful. As I waited outside the hospital for my ride, I watched an army of folks advance to the hospital.
They were every size, age and color, some on canes and crutches, a few in wheelchairs, some had slings, bandaged limbs and wrapped heads. Most obviously needed medical attention.
I looked down at my bandaged leg and mused about the scenes of the day before. Don’t worry folks, I thought, there is a special genius here to provide you solace.
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