Tuesday, October 5, 1999

            I am wheeled into an area with about six other patients.  One by one they are taken away. I am hooked up to an IV.  That's the last thing I remember.

            When I awake, I see a line of conveyer belts and hear that I would be put on a treadmill and injected with chemicals.  I go bananas.  I start to scream, "Don't kill me."  I call out, "Rhoda, they want to kill me."  The nurses tie me to the bed and try to subdue me.   Later, I am told that this behavior is a reaction to the morphine, but I think that it was triggered by an event that occurred ten years ago.

            A dear friend of mine had been in an automobile accident and was recovering in the hospital.  His wife was at his bedside when a nurse came in and put something in his IV.  "What are you giving me he asked?"  She looked at his chart and said, "Oops, it's for another patient."  My friend told his wife that he sees sparkles and bright lights.  Within minutes he was dead.

Wednesday, October 6, 1999

            I am wheeled out of the intensive care unit to my room.  I share the room with a patient who had a burst aneurysm and almost died on the way to the hospital. He had a 4-way by-pass.  He complains that he is hot although he is near the window.  I am always cold.  He has a lot of pain and requires high doses of painkillers.  I am lucky.  I have minimal pain. I am hooked up to an IV and have a tube under my nose feeding me oxygen.  I am also hooked up to a heart monitor. A plastic bag acts as my bladder.  It is connected with a flexible plastic hose to a large plastic receptacle, which stores my urine.  The urine is red.