Thursday night Carl’s
mother fell and broke two bones in her wrist.
She spent six and a half hours in the ER. Friday
morning we call the orthopedic surgeon the hospital recommended. The person answering the phone said we could
have an appointment. In three days. THREE DAYS!
Now my
mother-in-law is in pain with only a soft cast and we don’t know what to do, we don't know how to bath her, we know nothing about physical therapy, and if she falls on the soft cast, she may break
the bone again.
Something positive:
the doctors at this hospital are able to access the hospital x-rays on their
computers. Half an hour later the receptionist
called back and said, “Ouch,” and gave us an appointment for that
afternoon. The orthopedist reset her arm
and created a hard cast in half an hour instead of the six and a half hours in
the ER.
I asked the nurse for referral to a service to help her get
back in her home. The orthopedic nurse claimed she’d never been asked for that before, but found three brochures. The surgeon didn’t like any of these agencies
and scribbled a note for one he liked, but neither he nor the agency told me
how to access their services. Now it's Friday evening.
We took my mother-in-law back into our cramped guest
room. Her hand was turning blue. The doctor had said it would swell and become
blue, but how blue? Should we worry? And if so where do we take her? It’s Friday night. Do we go back for another 61/2 hours in the ER? The possibility brought her to tears. We applied ice to the cast and the swelling went down a
bit.
Saturday: We spent the day trying to navigate the
system. This is what we learned.
Check insurance
coverage. She has Medicare and
AARP. AARP said she had the “best
policy” and would cover what Medicare didn’t but didn’t tell us how to get any medicare services.
Find a doctor. It’s Saturday. Her private doctor was out of his
office. At three o'clock the wonderful
doctor covering for him called back and said the magic words, “I’ll write a
prescription for a service and if they don’t call within three hours, call me
back.” At six o'clock Saturday evening we had a service.
Sunday morning a nurse came to the house, ordered a physical therapist, and said she could go back to her own apartment. Monday morning, we were there along with the
housekeeper she loves, who offered to spend the night with her for the next week.
Everything was perfect until the physical therapist arrived,
took one look at her blue, swollen hand and said he couldn’t do anything. She needed immediate medical care and we found ourselves in of health care hell once again.
TO BE CONTINUED
