VA Hospital Nightmare, 1968, by G R Johnston, Col. USAF, Ret
From MemoryArchive
Who: Gerald R. Johnston, Colonel, USAF – Ret. What: VA Hospital -- Treatment When: 1968 Where: VA Hospital, Florida
What's it like to go back to a military hospital after a 20-year lapse, to receive medical treatment?
To some 65,000 military retirees and families in the St. Petersburg-Tampa area who are entitled to and dependent upon the medical facilities at MacDill Air Force Base the answer may be enlightening, or at least illuminating. Although many swarm into the base hospital for outpatient care and medicines, few [are able to] avail themselves of inpatient care -- "There is a war on [Vietnam], you know, and medical people are scarce."
Those who qualified -- say an officer or enlisted man with 18 years active duty and 17 more in reserve -- do so reluctantly. They feel they're excess baggage under "space available" policies established by law. So they do what they can under their pensions and also because of disheartening outpatient experiences -- the limited number of doctors can see only ___ patients a day, and those who live in Sarasota, Clearwater or Newport Richie often return home after [their] failure to receive a "supermarket" number in the daily quota.
If they find themselves admitted for a serious condition, they follow established routine, of course -- routine that hasn't changed since Florence Nightingale.
Take this example.
After an "acute infarction" -- heart attack and a week's confinement at Clearwater's Morton Plant Hospital, I was transferred to the MacDill base hospital. My civilian doctors sent along a summary indicating I had made a remarkable recovery, but that he recommended further treatment and observation at MacDill -- me being a military man.
What happened after that developed into something akin to a nightmare. After many hours, a young doctor -- one of those drafted for a two-year tour of duty -- gave me a thorough examination. He probed, he listened, he poked, he looked into my ears and eyes. Then he put away his stethoscope and asked me a few questions.
"What's the verdict, Doc?" I queried.
"Well, you've had a severe heart attack," he answered, "but you seem to be recovering in fine shape."
"What are you going to do?" I asked apprehensively.
"Nothing," he said blandly.
"Then why can't I go home?" I said, puzzled.
"You've only been in the hospital a week," he said, consulting my records. "We'll keep you a couple more. Regulations, you know. You need rest and relaxation."
Rest and relaxation. Well, I could use that. I did the next several hours.[?] Nobody brought around any medicine, took an electrocardiogram to see if the old ticker was still functioning, or made other tests. Nobody bothered me except to bring me some excellent, though plain, Air Force food.
The ward lights went out at 10 p.m., and the three enlisted men and a retired major in the ward with me went to sleep. So did I, thinking "Peace -- it's wonderful."
Someone woke me at 11:15: "Wake up! Here's your sleeping pill!” I mumbled thanks, thinking groggily -- "That's odd," and went back to sleep.
Forty-five minutes later a medical corpsmen shook me.
"We need a urine sample," he said.
"Sure," I said. "Anything to oblige."
I went back to sleep, still thinking "Peace, it's wonderful." Nobody bothered me. Everyone was snuggled safe in their beds and I emulated them. Rest and relaxation -- that was what I needed. I fell into the first peaceful sleep I'd had since the heart attack.
Crash! The window went down beside my bed. Flash! A bright light went on over my head. A hand shook me firmly.
"What's up?" I demanded hoarsely, staggering out of bed.
"Here's a pan of warm water, Colonel," said the attendant. "I'll have to get you soap and a towel."
He disappeared into the darkness of the ward. I swayed in a half-stupor while waiting. It was pitch dark outside. There were pinpoints of light in the sky across the bay, which I finally decided were stars. Everything was deathly quiet, but an air of mystery and expectancy prevailed.
The attendant came back with the soap and towel.
"What time is it?" I asked hoarsely.
"5:15, Sunday morning."
"How much time do we have?" I whispered, finishing my ablutions hastily. "I'm ready."
"Ready for what?" His tone was puzzled.
"Are we going over the top?" I queried. "Where's the enemy, just over the hill?"
He laughed.
"Oh, this is just routine."
"Just routine," I said sadly, now fully awake. "I thought for a moment we were being attacked and you needed me again. What do I do now?"
"Oh, you can go back to bed now," he said, hustling busily off to wake the other patients.
Ah, Peace! Ah, rest and relaxation!
The Air Force -- the Army -- the Navy -- they haven't changed much, I reflected, facing some 14 hours before I could do it all again.
Nobody came around as the day progressed.
"Be patient," I said to my fluttering heart -- "There's a war on, you know."
Where had I heard those words before to explain some nebulous military need?
-- He probed -- he rammed his finger up my rectum. "What are you going to do, Doc?" I asked when the exam was over, apprehensively. I could imagine all sorts of things happening to me. "Nothing," he answered blandly. "You've made a remarkable recovery. What you need is rest and quiet."
I raised a grizzled, incredulous eyebrow.
"Nothing? No medicine, none of these modern heart miracles that will make the old thong snap back like a rubber band?"
He shrugged.
"Oh, if any medicines are indicated --" he left the sentence unfinished. "The main thing is rest and quiet -- keep calm and cool for another two weeks."
"Two weeks? If you're going to do nothing, why can't I go home? There I would sit under the trees, sip a mint julep, give helpful hints to my two bairns [Scottish for one's children] cutting the grass, and like Buddha contemplate my navel."
He appeared shocked. "Oh, you can't do that. You need rest and quiet. You've been in the hospital a week -- we'll keep you another two."
Then he added solemnly: "Regulations, you know." Familiar?
So I had peace and quiet the rest of the day. Nobody came around with anything, not even an aspirin -- except the library cart. The Major and the Lt. Colonel went home, minus any nostalgic gleam, I noticed. The day wore on. There was TV, and the blood-curdling book [In Cold Blood?] by Truman Capote I had selected thinking it was a story about Lancelot and Guinevere, maybe, but both bored me.
Then there burst upon the scene an orderly with the supper tray, triumphantly presenting me with a really tasty meat loaf, peas, lettuce salad, bread, milk, bases of boiled potato with bits of skin attached, and canned apricots. (Remember the 20th bomber command mass on Guam, where you had canned sliced peaches every morning, and halve peaches at noon, and ditto at supper -- until you swore you'd never work another canned peach in the face as long as you lived? But these were good.)
I was appreciative of the orderly as reluctance to insult my exalted rank and obvious intelligence by suggesting that I wash. Anyway, there was no basin or warm water, cloth or even soap. So I toddled off to the latrine, head -- though it says bathroom now -- to perform whatever you perform in such a place.
Coming out I was met by the only nurse on duty -- a lieutenant -- who affixed me with a baleful eye and demanded, "Did your doctor say you could be out of bed?"
Being married, I've learned when to mollify an irate female, so I said truthfully, "Well, he didn't tell me anything, but he didn't object when I told him the previous doctor had allowed me up three hours a day, and bathroom privileges."
"Well, you'd better get back in bed till I find out," she said, mollified.
"But I have to go in there at times," I said, gesturing at the bathroom door.
"Why can't you use your urinal?" she queried.
"I don't have one," I said solemnly.
"Well, I'll get you one, "she said.
But she never did. The next day I borrowed one to give a sample somebody belatedly requested -- but I never did have one I could clutch to my breast and chortle gleefully, "This is my very own!"
