CATHETER BLUES
Late Wednesday afternoon I had to make a run for the Emergency Room at Marin General Hospital where my mother worked as an RN when it first opened. The hospital, now a mammoth rambling complex, was just across from a slough where a kid named Eddie LeVan and I swam off his porch. Eddie lived in one of a row of shacks known locally as The Arks. Marin, and America wouldn’t be rich until the later 1960s. Marin today, except for Mount Tamalpais, is unrecognizable to me.
Nurse Anderson had a low opinion of her profession. She was almost 90 when I took her to see a neurologist about easing her night rages. “When’s the last time you saw a doctor, Mrs. Anderson?” Nurse Anderson fairly bellowed, “I’ve never seen a doctor. Why do you think I’m still alive?!”
The valve on my catheter bag had cracked, and blood-enriched urine had begun to leak onto the floor of my living room. I grabbed a big plastic bag and a rubber band, fitted it over my sloshing foot and headed for the ER, where I’ve become something of a regular.
I created quite a stir as I made my way to the check-in desk, having neglected to pull down my pants leg over the see-through bloody mess of my drowning foot, now lapping just below my ankle. For all anybody in the crowded room knew as they stared at my apparent injury, I’d cut my foot off. A nearby geezer commented, “That looks pretty bad, son.” I laughed. If I could still talk I would have explained I’d stepped on a land mine outside Safeway.
An operation on my throat last March cost me my voice, but has spared me talking on the telephone. Another problem has since developed; I seem to be under a two-pronged attack with me serving as the prong.
Because I can’t talk, I write down in big block letters why I require medical attention. If I’d had a spare bag like any other prudent person would have had in my catheterized situation, I would not be bothering the ER people with a task I could have, should have, managed myself.
I handed my explanatory note to an enormous fat guy at intake. He stared at it, puzzled. “Catamaran… uh, Catawampus… ah…” He gave up and handed my mysterious message to the man seated next to him, an efficient black man with a Caribbean accent to whom I also handed my driver’s license and Medicare card. I didn’t bother to renew my license when I turned 75 and went on driving on the assumption renewing it was one more bureaucratic task I would never do again and would pay the fine if I got caught out, which is simpler than dealing with the DMV. If Trump kills Social Security and Medicare, I will pick up the gun, and I won’t be alone, I’m sure.
Hospitals have their protocols. Although a young guy quickly fitted me up with a new bag, a tall Chinese man, a doctor I presumed, led me into a room, handed me a hospital gown and told me to undress. But… but… but all I needed was a new bag. I got it. I didn’t need anything more.
Voicelessness leaves one vulnerable to a whole new world of misunderstanding. A nurse appeared. She asked me a few questions beginning with, oddly, are you afraid of anything or anyone? Novels by Joyce Carol Oates, I guess, but no one living.
A large tattooed woman approached. (The staff at Marin General is not undernourished.) She said she was taking a blood sample like I had no choice but to give it up. If she’d said, “We’ve decided to amputate your foot,” I wouldn’t have been surprised. But I’ve given blood bank quantities of my precious life stuff over the last year, and I was only present today with a minor bag change, much simpler than a vehicle lube job. The new bag was strapped to my leg, and all systems were again go, but here I was apparently being surgery-prepped.
In between each step in what was shaping up as an endless process, there were waits of about twenty minutes each. I lay there in my hospital gown mentally kicking myself for simply not fleeing.
Finally, a young female doctor appeared. I was ready for her or any other authority figure who could set me free. I’d again written in big block letters that all I’d come in for was a new bag and I was sorry to have put the ER people to so much trouble for a task I should have done myself if I’d had the sense to lay in a supply of spare bags. She read my note and laughed. “That’s all you’re here for?”
Yes, I mimed cupping my hands in silent prayer. She laughed again. “You can leave, Mr. Anderson.”
I did the fastest catheter scuttle outtathere I could manage, and mentally put another ER notch in my lengthy medical belt.
A READER WRITES:
The Editor’s catheter stories bring back memories for me! I sure hope you were able to get a stash of catheter bags to have on hand in case such emergency happens again! Anyway, I have been a private caregiver for many years. I do have a background in medical services. I used to work for a surgeon here in Ukiah as a Medical Assistant. I learned a lot! For many years, I had an elderly client who had prostate problems and for the 10 years that I assisted this man at least six of them he was attached to a catheter. Unfortunately, he also had dementia and a girlfriend. He lived at Brookside retirement home in Ukiah. Because of that during the day he had to wear a leg bag and at night the big bag to catch all the urine. I would attend to him every morning and evening to change out to the appropriate bag. One morning I arrived, and there was no bag attached to him. I could not find it. There was no tube hanging out from his penis. I was frantically trying to find the bag and lo and behold, I found it in the trash! So where was the rest of the tube? Then I realized it had been cut. At first I thought he pulled it out, but he had cut it. He found a pair of scissors and cut that sucker! I quickly realized what had happened to the tube and called the urologist for an appointment! I took him in, and when he had cut the tube of the bag at about 3 inches of tubing retracted back inside his penis. They had to numb him up and use some forceps to pull out the tubing! That was crazy. Then I scoured his residence for every single possible tool that could be used to cut — knives, scissors and whatever else I could find and removed it because I was not about to let that happen again!
Of course it was not funny at the time! Now we can laugh about it. The poor guy, he passed in 2020.
PS.The other part of the story which you must know is that if a catheter bag gets full, it is heavy. It has to be emptied. If you have dementia, you’re not going to remember on your own to do that task. When this person lived at Brookside and I saw him all the time I was able to help him accomplish that. However, once he moved to Mountain View assisted living in the memory care unit the care was not that grand! They often would leave the bag full, and as it got full, it would pull down. The weight would be heavy and pull on the penis and believe it or not, this actually caused his penis to fillet down the middle just like someone fillets a fish! Split open the shaft. They were afraid it would eventually split all the way through!! Poor guy. Luckily it it did not do that!
JEFF BURROUGHS
Our California fisheries management is a joke. They do this every year and wonder why the salmon they plant in the river don’t make it back as adults. They drop the little hatchery salmon in the river when the striped bass are moved up in the river spawning! Why they don’t plant them in the river before, or after the stripers are in the river is beyond understanding. Where is the common sense?
This is the house located about 4 miles east of Boonville, on Highway 128. It was built in the late 1800’s by Mr. Thomas Edward “Ed” Singley. Ed was pretty much a self made man. He hauled tan bark in his youth, saved his money, bought property and raised sheep for wool. At the turn of the century wool clothing was in high demand and when America joined WWI in 1918 the demand for wool uniforms sent the price of wool through the roof. The house in the photo was his home which was part of his ranch that contained a couple of thousand acres. Ed’s nickname, “Fly” came about when drinking his coffee one morning a huge horse fly flew into mouth just as he took a swallow of his coffee. He coughed and gagged and made such a fuss over it that everyone who saw it, from that day forward, called him “Fly”. It’s in the Boontling dictionary.
I wrote a story for the AVA some years ago about Ed Singley that goes into great detail the story of his life in Anderson Valley. If I find a copy of it I will share it with the group.
After Ed Singley passed away the house was occupied for many years by the Palmer Family. I think the Palmers sold the house and most of the property in the 1990’s. Who owns it now ?
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LAURI ROMESBURG:
I just want to say that Facebook has become so full of scams that it is ridiculous!!
I am a single mom looking for a rental. 90% of the rental ads in Mendocino county are BS. People wanting to scam your information for background check.
Is there anyone in Anderson Valley that has a granny unit or small house for rent $1200 or under? I have a good job, ref, quiet, clean. If so please contact me. Willing to do property maintenance or other work for a livable deal.
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