I was hungry. I wasn't in prison, but I was starting to think I was pretty much on my own, 28 hours into no food.
I imagined I was in a North Korean prison camp. On my own, desolate, my body and brain tested, lacking basic sustenance to continue.
It had been 28 hours--8 p.m. Thursday night--when I ingested my last solid-ish food. It was now almost midnight, a day later, down the street at San Diego Medical Center.
The nurses' shift had changed at 7:30 p.m., so I was gathering the fact basic needs weren't going to be met soon after the change, as at least one union of other nurses was on strike, and another union (support staff?) was going on strike Monday. So, the outlook was bleak as far as the near future.
My nurse, newly on shift, was nice, but pressed for time--covering for other nurses, in the midst of working six 12-hour shifts in seven days, double her usual workload, during the multiple strikes.
My mind wasn't hallucinating, but it was verging. Normally, I keep something in my stomach every few hours, and--like I said--I hadn't eaten in over a day.
I felt strong, staying in meditation and prayer, asking my God to be near and watch over me. Especially now, as I didn't know when Tanya (*not her real name) would be able to bring me something to eat. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she had told me four hours earlier.
* * *
You cannot imagine the joy I felt when she returned at close to midnight, me confined to my bed in an otherwise empty hospital room, on the fourth floor and darkness peering in from outside (the blinds open). Tanya brought me hot water in paper cups, and syrup in packets labeled "chicken broth", since I was on a liquid diet.
Upset stomach, they didn't want to upset it further. They weren't sure what was upsetting it.
The nurse made one batch, I made more after she left the room. That was a start--chicken broth in a syrup. (Weird taste when I reached a plastic spoon into the bottom of the paper cup to scrape up the remaining.) I'd never had "chicken broth" made from syrup before.
I soon felt more energy, later asked for a toothbrush and toothpaste (I hadn't brought anything except the clothes I was wearing, not expecting to stay beyond an Urgent Care visit during the day).
Filled with an optimistic outlook, strengthened by being pushed to the limit, as it seemed, I could go on.
After the seemingly dire conditions passed, I missed that feeling of how I had overcome, again with power above. You can't make up conditions like that. Who would go 28 hours without food, if they didn't have to?
No more "North Korean prison camp" thought. I had great empathy for anyone who has to go through ongoing conditions like lack of food, lack of a secure space (which I didn't experience), and the like.
* * *
My hope had been to be released in the morning and attend the girls' CIF Division 4 wrestling meet at Valley Center. As I chewed on this through the late night/early morning, I decided that my nurse and doctor would not facilitate it if I didn't voice it. People can't read minds. They don't know if someone wants to do something if they aren't told.
So I decided to present my case and see if there was any way I could be released early in the day. If not, midday or later. The meet went until the afternoon, so there might still be time if I was released at noon--plus the long drive to Valley Center.
At 7:30 a.m., Dr. Wunderlich (*not his real name) walked in. "Did you just come on shift?" I asked him, not impolitely. "No," he said. (I was figuring he might follow the same shift schedule as the nurses.) "I would like to cover a CIF girls wrestling meet at Valley Center this morning. Is there any way I could attend that?"
He replied, "That's not likely. With observation and the time it would take to prepare to release you, it's not going to happen."
Okay. I shifted into a different gear. I'm going to be here a while for a second day (checked in last night), so I might as well act like it. I pulled out a portable mat leaning against the wall and did my back exercises. "Oh, did you fall?" the first nurse coming in said. She was surprised someone was up and out of their bed.
Then I asked for shampoo. (That might have been earlier.) I washed my hair in the sink with a bar of soap, no shampoo available. The new nurse coming on shift at 7:30, May (*not her real name), replied to my asking if I could take a shower with "Yes, I can take your monitor attachments (all across my chest) off your chest and put on a new one."
I felt like a new man.
