Sleeping in the hospital is difficult even without anyone around to make noise. I was still hooked up the IV which I was watching anxiously as the fluid fell lower and lower until it ran out. I was extremely worried about it letting air bubbles into my blood stream which I believe are very painful (I am not going to confirm this since any web search results would induce nightmares). Once the IV ran out, a nurse was nowhere to be found. What to do? As I was hooked up and enjoying my book, I decided to wait.
What a costly decision to do so. Since there was no longer any fluid flowing through my IV, my body clotted up the intrusion. A nurse finally arrived to change my IV packs and the fluid had trouble flowing. This was no shock to me but it seemed to be news to the nurse. Before I knew it, she was feeling along my vein to un-clot the blood which was particularly painful. However, things began to flow once more and my heart beat declined to a more moderate pace. For the second time that day, I had been forgotten about by the hospital staff (the first time was in the “ER” restroom). Upon awaking from a nap, the IV had run out again. After wandering up the hall in search of medical attention, I was told to go back and that someone would be along to change my IV. A Ghanaian wait, a change in IV bags, and the fluid again refused to flow. The same painful procedure followed but it failed to get things moving. I did not even have my glasses on as I had just awoken so I failed to anticipate a large needle being inserted just downstream from my insert. It hurt more than words can describe. In retaliation for my blood being so forcefully un-clotted, it boiled up in anger. This was avoidable if the nurses would actually check in on their patients every once in a while. I asked as politely as my boiling blood would let me that this not happen again.
It was either bed or reading so I choose bed. I woke up a few hours later to find for the third time that evening, my IV had stopped at halfway long ago and that my blood had likely clotted the intrusion. This was the last straw. I had no faith in the nurses’ abilities to watch over me. I could have died in that room and upon the discovery of my body hours later, they would have just said “ooohhh” in that apologetic manner of Ghana with perhaps a “charlie” which is what sorry sounds like. When the nurse came by to change it, I said no more. I thought that the medicine was my last bag and it was still half full, indicating that I had received half of my medicine. I told the nurse that I was stopping treatment, that I did not want to be forgotten again, and the procedure to restart the IV was too much to go through again. She did not take kindly to those words even thought I was polite as one could possibly be under the circumstances but left to report the uncooperative “obruni” patient to the nurse in charge. This second nurse did not argue and told the first nurse that it is the patient’s right to refuse treatment. Before I knew it, I was free and unable to sleep, went back to my book. As far as I was concerned, I had received most of my medicine and would check out tomorrow. No one had volunteered any information to the contrary.
I have always wondered why patients stop treatment but here I found myself selecting it as the most rational option at the time. The IV problems were the first reason as I had never had an IV before and was scared to death about the air bubbles. Second, the general lack of attention and care to my well-being was thoroughly unnerving. It is not that I am a needy person but both times my IV clogged were preventable with even a little attention from the nurses. Third, I felt very much alone. I left my phone in an unusual location in my room so my roommate could not find it. I have not memorized any Ghanaian phone numbers so calling one of my friends was not an option. My only connection to the outside world was when my program director arrived the next morning.
Finally, I was overwhelmed by Ghana, anxiety about the IV and air bubbles, lack of faith in the nurses to help if my condition worsened, and culture shock at the hospital conditions led me down the most rational path of stopping treatment. I was shocked that no one was informing me as to what was happening, I have no idea what sort of medication was put into me, when I might check out, or anything unless I asked and I was in no mood to ask. Much to my annoyance, the insert was left in my skin as they fully anticipated me restarting. I went back to my book since my boiling blood utterly discouraged sleep.
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