Things got worse from there. I was moved onto the mixed medical-surgical service, and one of my bed’s cords wasn’t plugged in when they moved me; the call button was the function that was left unplugged. Furthermore, the hospital I was in had just shifted to all private rooms, with heavy doors that were kept firmly closed for patient privacy. My significant other was stuck in Seattle, chairing a conference he couldn’t leave. And I have a partially paralyzed vocal cord and can’t make myself heard across a table some days. So I had no way to summon help–which I realized I needed when my mattress got bloody.
In my addled, feverish state, the only thing I could think to do was try to make it to my room’s bathroom, where the pull cord by the toilet might allow me to summon someone. I remember sitting on the toilet for a few minutes, bleeding into the bowl and crying (MRSA really hurts!); I’m not sure if I ever actually pulled the cord. And I remember Enrique coming in and finding me on the floor, halfway back to my bed. He’d been sneaking a cigarette in the stairwell next to my room and heard me crying.
Salt Lake City, Utah