FIGURE
I awoke, nauseated, to a searing burn in my stomach. The room was dark, hot. Where was I? The sense of isolation was terrifying. But worse than that, I had no idea who I was or why I was there.
Overcome by the need to do something, I saw some kind of line coming doing there? I didn't understand, so I pulled it out. One thing I did know: I had to get out of that room. I looked to my right and saw light coming from behind a door. Climbing over the bars on the bed, I made my way toward it.
I found myself in a bathroom; in the mirror I saw a woman. She was ghostly white. Her lips were blue; her hair was wet with perspiration and matted to her head. Her eyes were wide and frightened, searching. Who was she?
I heard my heart pounding and felt woozy. I grasped the sink. I tried to fight the darkness that had begun to envelop me. I couldn't. I was going down. The floor was cool and felt good. I saw a sign that said, "Pull for help." Yes, I needed help. I reached for the string and pulled. Soon, I heard voices; hands were touching me. Everything became dark.
Later, I woke up and tried to move. I couldn't. Oh, God!! With just a few months left in nursing school, I'd agreed to the hysterectomy. But now I panicked. Could the results be even worse than I ever imagined? Did the spinal leave me paralyzed? The last thing I remembered clearly was my surgeon exclaiming as I lay on the operating table, "What's going on? She's flapping all over!!"
Frightened, I looked down. The explanation became clear: I was in wrist restraints and a Posey vest. How could this have happened? Slowly, memories of that strange ghostly woman in the mirror came to me and I began to understand.
I don't know how long I'd been crying before my doctor came into my room. My nose was running profusely and I turned my head, ashamed, wishing so hard for a tissue. He untied my wrists and asked the nurse who had suddenly appeared if my restraints were necessary. (I don't remember her reply, but she did give me a tissue.) He told me my confusion was a result of the anesthesia. In other words, "nothing to worry about." How could one not worry? I was living a nightmare. Throughout my hospital stay, nurses would charge into my room, lift up my gown to assess my dressing, and ask me brusquely, "Who's the president?" And then they were gone-before I could ask a single question of my own. I vowed I'd never act this way with my patients.
Years later, as a nurse in an acute care facility, I entered the room of Maria Zapata, who had undergone an emergency appendectomy about six hours earlier. Her IV pump was running, the peripheral line was disconnected and dangled on the floor. Her bed was empty. Then I saw her in the bathroom; a 60-something-year-old woman, staring in the mirror. She was extremely pale. I shivered as she turned, looked at me and said, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do." Her eyes were imploring, panicked. I went to her and put my arm around her shoulders. I told her she was safe, that everything would be all right. Again, she asked, "What am I supposed to do?" "You are supposed to get better," I answered, gently maneuvering her back to bed.
She didn't know why she was in the hospital or why she was in pain. As I explained, her tension abated until she eventually drifted off to sleep. A sitter was called (fortunately, the facility used sitters, not restraints). I instructed the sitter that when Maria awakened, she should be gently reassured about who she is, where she is, and why she is there. I also called her husband; his familiar face would be comforting when she awoke.
By lunchtime, Maria was lucid but remembered little. The doctor reassured her that her surgery went very well and explained that her confusion was probably related to the anesthesia. I described her actions in her confused state and then shared my own experience (leaving out the detail about the restraints). She seemed surprised-even a little relieved-that a young person could have a similar reaction to the drugs. The mood in the room became more lighthearted, and Maria and her husband began joking about "the incident." As the doctor and I got up to leave, she thanked both of us and smiled.