Don’t Call Me a Widow  – Part 64 –

One Week Later

What a difference a day makes — even a week. Last Sunday morning I sat at my computer mapping out my plans, never imagining that by evening I’d be in the ER. After a few hours at the condo pool, I came home, showered, slipped, fell, and crawled out of the bathroom trying to reach the refuge of my bedroom. That’s when the truth hit: I was in PAIN. I tried to breathe through it, tried to rest, but within minutes I called 911.

After Rich died, I had a knock box installed at my door so emergency responders could enter even if I couldn’t get up. As I lay on my bed counting the minutes — 5, 10, 15, 20 — my phone rang. It was 911. The paramedics were outside, but the fire chief with the knock‑box key was at a fire. “Can you open your door?” they asked. Excuse me — do I now have a choice?

Somehow I got up, inch by inch, dizzy and nauseous from the pain, and made my way down the stairs to let them in. After a quick evaluation they asked if I wanted transport to the hospital. Yes. I was alone, in pain, and unsure what I had injured. If Rich were here, he would have asked the same question — though he always believed I was stronger and healthier than I actually felt. So off we went. Not exactly a Sunday Fun Day.

The ER Ordeal

I arrived at Ahuja and was immediately placed in a room, moved from gurney to gurney, and left alone with the door closed and no call button. My nurse was kind but difficult to understand — a heavy Jamaican accent muffled further by her mask. Even with my hearing aids, I caught only fragments. If Rich were alive, he would have been my second pair of ears.

After exams, X‑rays, and a CT scan, a doctor told me I had major fractures and a possible spinal injury. I was being transferred to UH Main Campus to be evaluated by the trauma and surgical team. No real explanation, no clarity — just movement.

During the transfer, someone forgot to lock the wheels on one of the gurneys. At “1‑2‑3,” I nearly fell between them.

At UH Main, I spent over an hour in the hallway waiting for a room. When I finally got one, several medical staff hovered over me — not the trauma team, just the initial crew trying to settle me in. Again, no call button.

Then came repeated X‑rays and scans. No one could tell me why. No one could tell me what they saw. “Someone will tell you,” they kept saying.

Hours passed before an ER doctor explained that the trauma team was reviewing everything and I’d need another full‑body CT. I was told I had multiple rib fractures, concern about lung puncture, and a fracture at T12 — a vertebra that, depending on severity, can affect everything from pain to paralysis.

I kept waiting for panic to hit. For hysteria. For the emotional collapse that grief sometimes primes. But I stayed calm. Maybe shock. Maybe survival mode. Maybe the muscle memory of being a wife who once had to stay mindful and alert for someone else’s care.

Still, the truth was unavoidable: being alone in a medical crisis is terrifying. And if I hadn’t been fully cognitive, aware, and reaching out to family and friends by phone, my care might have been even worse — because yes, the care was lacking.

The Lapses in Care

• No call button — repeatedly.
• A cervical collar placed on me by mistake.
• Nearly dropped between gurneys.
• Left in a hallway for over an hour after a trauma transfer.
• Repeated scans with no explanation.
• Almost 48 hours in the ER.
• Moved to a basement ER area with no cell signal — unable to reach family.
• Finally placed in a semi‑private room with a groaning roommate.
•  Told my nurse was “busy” and waited 45 minutes before anyone came.
• A nurse whose soft voice and accent made communication nearly impossible — even after I explained my hearing limitations.
• Medication pushed on me despite my chart clearly stating I do not take it.

And yet, woven through all of this, were individual staff members who were kind, gentle, and clearly strained. The problem wasn’t them — it was the system they’re forced to operate in. A system where business decisions overshadow medical judgment. A system where staff are expected to smile, say little, and move fast. A system where patients become tasks instead of humans.

One example says it all: On day two in the ER, I asked if I was allowed to eat. I wasn’t on an IV and had only had water with medication. The nurse looked confused, checked my chart, and said, “Let me order you a tray.” How was I supposed to know I was allowed to eat?

The Outcome

The good news — and there is good news:

• I have five fractured ribs.
• The T‑12 fracture appears minimal and may even be old.
• OT and PT gave me clear guidance on movement and recovery.
• I came home Thursday to recuperate.
• I can walk around my house, make simple meals, and rest.
• Friends will help with what I can’t manage.

This experience has taught me more than I ever wanted to know about our broken medical system. We need change — real change. Business majors should not be making medical decisions. Medical professionals need the authority to care for patients the way they were trained to. And patients need to be heard, because we know our bodies.

This experience has taught me far more than I ever wanted to learn about the cracks in our medical system. Change isn’t optional — it’s urgent. We cannot keep letting business majors dictate medical decisions. Clinical judgment belongs to medical professionals, not corporate strategists. And above all, patients deserve to be heard, because we live in our bodies every day and we know when something is wrong.

#yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com