ER, here we come . . .

Helpful hint of the day—plan your emergencies after lunch on a Wednesday afternoon. We were checked in immediately at United's ER, and in the time I ran out to park the car in a ramp and returned to the check-in desk, Bob had been whisked away. I was escorted down the hall to a curtained room, where Bob was already sporting a flimsy hospital gown and talking with a doctor and nurse. I listened to them talk, Bob explaining what was going on, the doctor listening attentively. When Bob finished his story, the doctor paused for a moment, and then gently asked what Bob hoped they could do for him at the ER. By this time, I could tell Bob's pain medication had begun to wear off. He was wincing in pain, trying hard to fight back tears. I knew that by the time the tears appear, he is in unbearable pain. I started crying, too.

"Well," he began, "if I could just get some better pain relief, that would help—" It never occurred to me at the time, but after the fact, a nurse-friend of mine commented that the ER sees lots of prescription pain med addicts; was that what the doctor was thinking? Could have been . . . I interrupted, and between sobs, I begged the doctor to admit Bob to United. "He needs specialists to see him . . .this has gone on for two months! Look at him—he's wasting away—he weighs less than 120 pounds!" I was crying uncontrollably, and felt a kleenex being pressed into my hand. It was the nurse, and she was patting my arm. "I'm so sorry," I gasped.

"It's okay, honey," she said. "I'd be doing the same thing if it were my husband . . ." I thanked her and gratefully took the kleenex. She gave one to Bob, too, as by this time, he was crying openly.

"He's done everything," I continued, as there's no stopping me when I'm on a mission, "PT, chiropractor, two cortisone shots, copious amounts of pan medication, and now, two weeks after back surgery, he's in worse shape than before." I stop to catch my breath. "Please. I called the U of M and the Mayo clinics, hoping to get him in to see a neurologist, but we're told we can't get in for months, but he's already been like this for months—it can't go on any longer, he can't be like this for even a few more days . . . " I can't tell if the doctor is looking at me with sympathy or with disdain.

I finished my pleading request with, "I know this might not be the most orthodox way to see a specialist, but he needs to be seen by a someone who can figure out what's going. He needs to be admitted . . ." The doctor was nodding his head slowly, trading his gaze from me to Bob. "Bob, what do you want me to do?" Bob nodded and said quietly, "I would like to be admitted, if you can do that for me." The doctor stood up and told us he'd be right back. He left us alone in our curtained corner of the ER. I apologized to Bob for my pathetic performance, but I told him this is where he needs to be. If he can get admitted, then he'll have access to specialists who can help him. I'm repeating what Julie had told me earlier that morning, but even as I was saying this to him, I was skeptical. I wasn't sure if any of that would happen at all. What if the doctors at United dismiss his situation as "classic sciatica," as everyone else has? We sat in the ER room, and waited.

Not long after, the doctor reappeared. "Bob, we're going to get you in to the hospital. It's going to take a little while to get a room ready for you, so hang tight. We'll give you an injection of Dilaudid for your pain—it's a little more potent than what you've been taking at home." I'm pretty sure Bob's ears perked up with that one. From his experience with injectable opiates during his stint in United two years ago, he's a big fan. Not that he's used them since then . . . "Once you're admitted, you'll be able to be seen by specialists who can help you figure out what's going on here. I wish you both the best. Take care." And with that, the doctor disappeared behind the curtain.