Fortunately, I don’t find myself in a hospital very often. Unfortunately, the last two times I did, total strangers had to call my children, who now live out west, and let them know.
The first time here was eight years ago when I was with my Sunday School class and fell coming out of a restaurant, ending up at Piedmont Fayette, where I received a ball for a hip and a 7-inch rod down my leg.
The children came, and when they repeated some of the things I said to them as I came out of surgery, I could hardly believe them.
Neither my sister nor I have ever been able to take really strong pain pills; not sure who we inherited this from.
I told my son, among other things, that if he didn’t get me out of that hospital room, I was going to sue him. Other comments, not suitable for a community newspaper, included words I didn’t realize I even knew.
Having lived here for half a century, I have developed friends who have come to know me only too well.
Last week one of them called and said she was coming over, I assumed for a visit. Shortly after arriving, she informed me that a number of my acquaintances had called her with concern about the seemingly deterioration of my health. She asked my permission to call the EMTs and, in my amazement at the suggestion, nodded my head yes.
About that time, another friend came in and echoed the sentiments just uttered by Friend No. 1.
In no time, over a half dozen young men in blue filled my living room. After a few simple tests, a chorus of everyone facing me announced I was going to the hospital. They picked me up and away we went.
My good friends had come to my rescue in the nick of time. It seems I have a slow blood leak in my tummy I didn’t know about, and in the past dozen months I had only lost three pints of blood.
The hospital just happened to have three pints of A positive blood and had the time, space, and personnel to replace what I had lost.
My only complaint is that my last meal was on a Thursday noon. The hospital kept promising to feed me, after the next test. Only the tests kept coming one after another until Monday, when the last test finally took place. Other than that, I enjoyed my stay at Piedmont Fayette Hospital.
I just hope it’s another 8 years before I’m back again.
[Carolyn Cary is the official Fayette County historian and the editor of the county’s first compiled history, “The History of Fayette County,” published in 1977. She lives in Fayetteville.]
