The Cost of Spending Three-and-One-Half Days in Hell

Having made poor choices for careers, my wife and I, ages 78 and 74, have no retirement other than Social Security. When we reached the age making us eligible for Medicare, we had to make a choice: pay for “part B,” or pay our mortgage. I never understood why, after working for more than 40 years, paying into Social Security and Medicare, why I had to pay premiums to have health insurance. Only in America.

Last year my wife found something we could afford. It is a program designed for low-income Americans who have no health insurance, or in our case only Medicare part A.

Let me warn you, this is a relatively long, but true story. I understand if you choose not to continue. I had to get this story off my chest.

Beginning in 2020, the strength in my legs began to diminish, and the pain in my lower back escalated. I still don’t know if it was caused by Covid-19 or something else. In early August of this year, as I prepared for bed, I was unable to get off the toilet. For a couple of hours my wife and I tried multiple solutions. Eventually she was forced to call our local firehouse and ask the paramedics for assistance.

Within a few minutes, several men arrived, helped me off of the toilet, and took me to my favorite chair. They wanted to transport me to the hospital, but I declined.

Just over a week later, I took a fall and couldn’t get off of the floor. I wasn’t hurt, but I lacked the strength to get up on my feet. My wife was once again forced to call the paramedics. This time I agreed to go to the hospital.

About 20 minutes later, and a trip of about eight miles, I was pushed into the emergency room entrance. I don’t know exactly what time it was, but it was getting close to midnight.

15-20 minutes later I was placed in an examination room. I had soiled my pants, and was very uncomfortable. I was cleaned up and taken to a room with a big machine. I assumed they were giving me a CAT Scan. I was then admitted to the hospital sometime very early on Saturday morning, the 10^th of August.

When I was wheeled into the room I noticed several things. It was large, but had a single bed with some unknown equipment on one side. It was in the far corner of the third floor and there were no rooms adjacent on either side. I began to feel very isolated.

When a nurse came in, I was informed that I was not allowed to get out of my bed until further notice. I would be required to use a bed pan and if I needed assistance, I had to press a button on a control device which no one showed me how to operate. My life in hell had begun, but this was a minor discomfort compared to what would happen next.

I watched the television until I fell asleep. A few hours later I was awakened by someone who took my vitals. Then I was wheeled away again, this time for a CT. When I returned, a doctor came into my room and told me that my weakness was the result of an E-Coli bacteria in my blood, and that it could have become fatal.

However, that didn’t stop the hospital from conducting more tests, apparently to look for other problems, but in reality to increase the amount of my bill

I was sent back to the basement to have an MRI. I had one in 2008 and remembered how uncomfortable this procedure could be.

I hadn’t eaten anything since Friday morning. When I was returned to my room, I began to projectile vomit several times. My wife had come to visit me, and was obviously shaken.

Not once since I had been admitted had anyone asked if I needed water or Kleenex, or anything else. When I had been cleaned up, and my wife was ready to return to our home, I asked her to bring me some Gatorade. I had not eaten or had anything to drink for nearly two days.

That afternoon, when I was alone, I began to think clearly as I looked around my prison. I realized that I was not in an ordinary room. I put two and two together and believed that this was a room where nurses and other personnel were trained.

At about that same time, a nurse came into my room. She had been assigned to place a new intravenous tube in my right arm, which had not been damaged from constant use. She prodded and prodded without success. I needed the tube to receive intravenous injections which would kill the E-Coli bacteria in my blood.

Eventually another nurse replaced her. I felt like I was a guinea pig, being used to train new personnel.

From that time through the following day, a Sunday, I was ignored by hospital personnel. My sleep was interrupted by blood tests, and someone testing my blood pressure, heart rate, etc.

When I needed a bed pan, I often waited 20 minutes or longer to receive assistance. Discomfort quickly turned into pain.

I do not blame the nurses. I have reason to believe that because I was a “charity” patient, they were instructed to perform only the duties required by hospital procedure.

My clothes and bedding had been changed only once. My back was covered in bed sores, and every moment I was awake was spent in extreme discomfort.

I was unable to eat what was referred to as food offered to me with the exception of a single hamburger, which was dry and tasted like it was at least a day old. On Sunday morning I had asked for a piece of toast and a cup of tea. The toast was not composed of any bread I had ever tasted, and the tea was barely warm. I could imagine that the toast was actually compressed cardboard.

About 9;30 on Monday morning I was told that the intravenous injections were successful, and I would be released. I would receive antibiotics in pill form which I would take twice daily for the next five days. However, it was about 12:30 before someone finally arrived to take me to the person who would release me from captivity.

Only once in three-and-a-half did I physically talk to a doctor. Not once did anyone check to see if I was still alive or needed something. I am positive that wealthy patients are treated very differently.

Now for the pain which will be endless. The bills began to arrive.

The first was from the Reno Fire Department. Transportation to the hospital without any medical care, and only a single attendant who was obviously behind me on his phone cost nearly $2,400. I should have taken an Uber. Because we had no insurance, the bill was reduced to $1,700.

Next, we received a total list of all charges for my stay in the hospital. If we had to pay the total amount the cost was over $24,000. This did not include radiology, emergency room charges, and fees from several doctors I never met. I had to laugh when I read that I was being charged for “physical therapy.” I laid in my bed for four days. My feet never touched the floor until I was discharged.

The moral of this story is simple: I will die at home; it’s too expensive and too painful to die in a hospital.

James Turnage