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A few days ago, I felt a creative urge, so completed two dozen informal thank you cards, to send to friends, colleagues, and family to express mahalo and appreciation for the kind gestures while I was hospitalized at Queen’s Medical Center.
I would have wanted to spend a bit more time on these notecards, but I wanted to send out quick Wild Cards notes to acknowledge the courtesies and niceties.
This works, for now.
Thought I’d share….
A hospital is a hotel for broken bodies, I’m discovering.
When you check in, you leave your attitudes and anxieties outside and forget about your worries and embarrassments! Toss out modesty, too~
And oh, no underwear allowed, too.
I’ve been in Queen’s Medical Center for a week, not by choice but necessity, and I’m blessed with having a team of 10 or so doctors monitoring my situation, with supported by a very devoted and helpful staff of nurses.
I was broken, and needed fixing.
The day I was wheeled in via an ER ambulance on Aug. 11, I didn’t realize the cause or seriousness of the health; the doctors helped solve the mystery through X-Rays and Cat scans. The problem:
I developed abscesses in my liver and gall bladder and the treatment included draining both gooey messes. Now, when I go home, I will still have drains next to my right rib cage. Surgery to remove the ball bladder might be an option, but will have to wait.
Patience and perseverance will be required, since treatment and healing have to best buddies to resolve this problem.
A hospital also is like an opera and a drama. There’s a lot or orchestrated treatments and roles, with blood drawn and tested, and a chorus of liquid drips, including antibiotics.
The roles are plentiful and varied, most performed by a corps of nurses, both male and female, who arouse you in the wee hours to dispense your meds, or bring you extra blankets amid frigid nocturnal corridors.
In theatrical terms, they are dressed in chic work uniforms in stunning hues, from black to baby blue, from purple to dark green, from hot pink to olive green, and more.
Last night, the hospital’s fire alarm screamed for an hour and 10 minutes, the second day for this fire drill faux pas to happen. Life moved on like nothing happened.
There was a fella down the hall, I could only hear, not see. Mostly during the evenings, he would moan a mantra probably only he could understand.
There are many house rules; you don’t get to decide what you’ll wear, so yep, the noble hospital gown, with backside open to show your derriere, is the only garment you wear. So you get used to it.
if you cannot walk normally, buzz for your needs. In my case, a therapist on my team mandates I use the walker to go to the bathroom, or move from bed to a chair for meals. I cannot eat meals in bed; the logic being, I need to regain my awareness of the need to re-evaluate my life at home.
On several mornings, he’d visit the room and we’d walk the walk in the corridors together, engraining in my mind how to properly navigate with the walker. The secret: with arms on both sides of the device, your legs and body must be close to the front of the walker, the best way to avoid a fall. He asked how many shows I saw in New York, and he couldn’t believe it.
My doctors clearly have bright minds and know how to put the puzzle together. You know the old adage but not being to read a legible doctor’s prescription? Kinda true; there’s a daily chalk board of sort lists the daily nurses attending to me; the docs scribble instructions in shorthand, I can’t fathom what’s what.
OK, this is a revelation. The hospital has no shower in the rooms, so nurses wipe you down, with brisk moves like they’re washing a car, from top to down there. I cringed a bit, the first I had this bath. Now, it’s part of my daily routine.
I’ve eaten more heart-healthy meals since becoming a patient. You can order breakfast for lunch or vice versa, but I highly recommend the Angus on a bun with lettuce and cheese, the chicken jook, the chicken salad sandwich, and the roast park. Fruit faves: watermelon and pineapple, and have not yet a veggie salad I like. Forget the bagel, bad! The waffles can be had with low-cal syrup, and the wedge of haupia is ono. But skip the so-called ice cream; like bad ice cakes on a stick, but an assortment jello and puddings fulfill a sweet tooth. You order in advance, but even with a late, you’ll get it anytime.
So an update; I’ve not crossed that bump in the read yet, so I’ll likely be bedding here for another two daysl Around here, you take one step at a time, one day at a time. There can’t be a tomorrow if there’s no today or yesterday. Every day matters…
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Just asking…
Are you eligible and if so, have you had your third Covid shot?
Received my “booster” shot yesterday, at Longs Hawaii Kai. I qualified for one, due to age and medical pre-conditions.
So, how’d it go? Quickly, with no pain when the shot was administered. Had my earlier two shots six months ago.
Tips: Call your pharmacy or doctor, to determine if the shot you need is available; the serum must be compatible to your earlier vaccinations: Moderna, Pfizer, Johnson & Johnson. Walk-ins acceptable; you’ll need to fill out a form; your temperature will be taken, so if you feel feverish, go another day when you’re OK.
Bring: Your previously issued Covid vaxx card; the third shot will be logged onto it as documentation of the procedure.
Aftermath: My left arm, notably the area where the shot was given, aches this morning. Hopefully, no other side effects.
It started with an email:
“I was surprised you didn’t own WayneHarada.com. I’m also surprised it’s still available! Let me know if you want to pick it up, I can set it up for you, free. It never hurts to have a space you own on the web to post or at least archive your independent writing.
Either way, keep doing what you love, we love you for it!”
The dude asking me about my establishing my own website was Ryan Kawailani Ozawa, a technologist who was the last of three who–over the past decade or so– suggested I should launch my own site. I’ve declined mostly because I was retired as a life-long journalist and turned to Facebook to post reviews, share entertainment and other chatter, and communicate with former friends and new followers as I began enjoying retirement and the uncertainty of unemployment.
When I exited the Honolulu Advertiser in 2008, I was invited to continue to write my “Show Biz” column for nearly a dozen more years. It was an easy commitment at a livable pace — a column every Sunday – posted from anywhere, home or a trip abroad. Tuesday was the deadline day.
In March 2019, however, the paper terminated the column under crude and deceptive means, abandoning me in what they claimed was part of the pandemic cutbacks of freelancers… which was untrue since freelancers still populate the paper; I was one of only two terminations, but I appreciated the freedom but was not yet convinced my own website was a destination.
Facebook and beyond
Facebook has served me well. I post, followers respond. Many are ex-colleagues and longtime friends; but strangers have become “friends,” all virtual.
Ozawa was genuine in his email, and if WayneHarada.com was up for grabs and he did the snagging, I figured why not?
If he had faith in me, I thought I should reciprocate.
The timing was not ideal, however, since I was recuperating from minor back surgery to address an alternative to pain management for a sustaining lower back issue.
Clearly, I am not a techie, doing things as simply as possible, so I had to go on a fast track of learning.
With Ozawa as a mentor, I made the leap. He set up the initial perimeters and I had to learn the ropes without a manual, so this has been an educational journey, too.
I informed him that a May 10 launch would be ideal, since I was doing “test” posts, some winding up on Facebook, too, but others confined to wayneharada.com.
The kick-off date became moot, since Ozawa turned on the switch much earlier in May.
As he suggested, the Show Biz column now exclusively runs at my site.
Generous, gentle guru
Ozawa has been a generous and gentle guru, providing kokua and tips on how to manage a site.
In repeated email exchanges, I pose questions, he provides solutions.
I’ve not met him face-to-face for Q&As; he prefers email.
I provided my cell number; he still prefers email. I still don’t have his number, so I email. Constantly. My Qs might seem dumb to him, but the mentor has been patient and persistent, sharing support with a cool demeanor.
Sample exchange: Since I’ve been cross promoting my site on Facebook, Ozawa provided this advice:
“What you want to be sure to do is, every time you mention WayneHarada.com, is include a full link to the site: https://www.wayneharada.com — with the “https://www.” part — so that people have something to click to go directly to your site.”
Logical, of course, but how would I know that – without the tip he provides. I never quite understood why the https://www precede was vital.
A journalistic background
Yes, I’m flattered that he’s put up with me, and continues to do so, but it feels somewhat like a phantom relationship. He’s there, but not there, if you get my drift.
And he won’t allow me to reimburse him for paying for the website.
Ozawa also has become a contributor of tidbits for my column. So his savvy and voluntary “service” has been invaluable. He’s also approached and helped others, to some degree.
Then there was a confession:
“Yes, I have a habit of helping writers I admire start publishing independently online. Not all are as lucky as you to have their website domain name available, which is why I was a little more excited to contact you! I have a journalism degree but never had the guts to work in media, but I give lots of credit to those who do… and given the tumult in the industry, it’s important to me that great storytellers can still have their voices heard.”
So that’s the saga on how a retired journalist was thrust into launching his own website.
Write on!
Yikes, hate to admit it, but I slipped and fell in the bathtub the other day.
I landed on my spine precisely where some wires were inserted a few weeks back (yes, on my spine, just under the skin) as part of a neurostimulation therapy to ease my, um, back pain.
The spill was avoidable; I was trying to get window curtains removed (for window-cleaning) when a stepstool glided in the tub (I wasn’t bathing) and whammo, I fell and hit my back.
Yes, it hurt – for about two days. My wife was there, watching helplessly, and furious that I wasn’t cautious.
No, I didn’t bleed nor bruise. Luckily, the fall wasn’t damaging (I hope) to the wires inside me.
But my ego was hurt. I plead recklessness. I felt stupid.
Both my bathrooms have grab bar handles for ease in and out of the tub or shower stall. But bathroom surfaces are slippery, and risks of slipping are high.
Not surprisingly, statistics from NewsUSA – based on findings from the National Institute of Aging – cite that slippery surfaces are the common culprit and that a third of senior citizens over age 65 slip annually, with 80 per cent of mishaps occurring in the bathroom.
Of visits to the ER, more than 60 per cent of injuries are linked to the bathroom, and 50 percent of deaths are caused from bathroom falls.
So the stats say it all. Bathrooms. Are. Dangerous.
No one falls intentionally, and yes, most spills are accidental. Like mine.
I haven’t yet told my pain management doctor yet, but will, when I return in June for a follow-up visit.
And yes, I expect a lecture then.