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Reflections After a Hospital Stay
Clarence
by Richard L. Hopkins
For those who keep track of such things, this is a bit of background information on my personal publication for NAPA – Page Two Flag.
The first issue was dated October, 1969. Then February, 1970. A better-than-average effort was made in September, 1970. The fourth issue came in July, 1972. The fifth issue came around August, 1974 (I failed to date it!). Then as all inattentive publishers, I came out with a second fifth issue – in 1979. So, folks, we’ll make this number seven, just to get the numbers back in order.
The only thing consistent among my publications has been the size and then nameplate. I admire the beautiful, well-studied design and consistency of publications such as Harold Segal’s Campane, but with so very much typographical stuff to use, I just couldn’t possibly restrict myself!
In attempting to be a success at running your business, matters of personal leisure, work hours, non-business commitments, and even your own family become, slowly but surely, eroded to the point of non-existence.
It’s not that this progression passes unnoticed by the victim; he simply feels helpless to alter the situation. Financial debts, obligations, keeping employees busy – all demand attention and it’s only natural that things which can be put off do get put off.
Even matters of one’s own personal health continually are disregarded in the press to get other things done. Therefore, it was a small miracle that I picked up the phone and made an appointment in February for my first complete physical exam since leaving the Army 16 years ago.
That exam lead to referral to a surgeon and it came almost as comic relief that the surgeon recommended prompt surgery to correct a progressing hernia problem, a worsening problem with anal “fissures” and possible hemorrhoids, and a 30-year-old cyst on my forehead which, although benign, certainly was not complimentary to my overall appearance.
His word: plan for four to six weeks away from the job. My translation to customers: “I’ll be out for a few days.”
My date for surgery was fast approaching and, naturally, the workload became even more intense. “No need to sleep now,” I told myself. “I’ll get my rest in the hospital.”
And thus, work continued past 2 a.m. on my last night of “freedom”; I polished off another job at 11:30 a.m. the next morning, packed four job jackets under my arm and headed for the hospital for my long-awaited “vacation.”
As with many small businesses, both husband and wife are deeply involved and Lynda was doing all within her power to take over – to assure continued production in my absence. Insurance would be inadequate to cover all the hospital costs, yet we agreed the extra expense of a private room would be merited, so I could have the privacy to concentrate on the jobs I had taken with me, and so I could make and receive phone calls without bothering anyone.
I fantasized myself as J. R. Ewing of TV’s “Dallas” fame in his hospital suite complete with private secretaries running about, but the fantasy broke up instantly when the receptionist informed me only one bed was open in the hospital – a semi-private on the third floor.
After formalities of check-in, the nurse informed me my roommate was an elderly man and most likely would be quite disoriented because of drugs when he returned from surgery in progress on a broken hip.
Getting undressed and into bed in the afternoon was so foreign to me, I opted to take my job jackets to the lounge area and do my work there as eventless afternoon hours slowly passed.
About 5 p.m., my roommate did return from surgery, but I remained in the lobby. I could hear his frail voice responding to the nurses, but somehow, I was hesitant to return to the room to meet him.
When dinnertime came, I had no option but to swallow my silly reservations, go into the room and introduce myself.
What I confronted was a startling array of plastic tubes, adhesive tape, gauze and elastic wrappings, and a very frail but bright-eyed old man staring up from a place he couldn’t identify at all. He was silent except for a dreadful and persistent cough heavy with phlegm, which the nurses assured me was “good” for his lungs after surgery (to keep them from filling with water), and he was being treated also to try to break up the congestion in his lungs.
Names seemed unimportant. So I just said, “Hello. I’m your roommate.” He accepted the statement with an unwavering reply: “That’s good.” And so our first conversation proceeded with me doing the talking and him providing clear answers – but no more.
Warned that he would be disoriented, I figured I would handle the situation with wit and intelligence. It appeared to be working until I realized how late it was. Working too late the night before, plus anxiety over surgery the next morning, convinced me I should be going to sleep. Yet his horrendous cough continued. Was he speaking to me or someone else? Silence often would be broken with a shout: “Who’s there?” or “Still there, Buddy?”
By 1 a.m., I quit trying to sleep in my bed, grabbed my pillow and headed for the lounge. Surely this move would bring me some sympathy and corrective action. But I was ignored. People passed through the lounge hardly noticing the pajama-clad character spread out on the couch.
Finally, at 2 a.m., sleep dazed, I dragged myself up the hallway, dangling my pillow behind – a remarkable resemblance to Peanuts’ “Linus” and his security blanket. “Where can a guy get some sleep?” I asked the nurse on duty. I was given a portable bed in the hallway for a few hours of sleep. My J. R. Ewing vision was shattered now; mere survival had become more important.
By the next morning, my roommate still was quite restless and his condition remained unchanged even after I returned from 3½ hours of successful surgery.
Our aimless conversations ensued. He was either 78 or 86, his wife was either alive or dead, he had been in the hospital recently for a stroke – or was it a double hernia operation? And although his hearing was excellent, he was very close to blindness. He constantly was telling people to stop yelling at him – he could hear them and always responded, but they still yelled.
And he was very obviously suffering from an ulcer which gave him constant fits of indigestion. Although his diet card was quite clear – “bland, ulcer diet” – things like orange juice and grapefruit kept appearing on his tray and aides got annoyed when he refused to consume these items.
As my hospital stay continued, I became aware that I had become more concerned with Clarence’s condition than my own. He was a very kind and most responsive patient. His bowel activity, for some reason, had become uncontrollable and/or unpredictable. He was aware of this and was most apologetic to those whose duty it was to keep him clean.
Most hospital personnel treated him with dignity and respect, although some were abusive verbally, or in handling the fragile man while changing his bed.
As I lay there contemplating the astronomical cost of my own uncomplicated hospitalization, I wondered how this frail old man’s costs would be met.
The obvious answer was Medicaid. Suddenly I found myself face-to-face with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, I had been a die-hard conservative screaming “cut the unnecessary, wasteful costs of government programs.” And then I found myself praying for this man’s care and good treatment.
He had five visitors. Two nieces, both of whom were employed, had families of their own, and knew Uncle Clarence only as a once- or twice-a-year acquaintance. Two more visitors were the man’s older sister and her granddaughter (her chauffer) who lived several miles away and saw him only occasionally. The fifth visitor was the man’s son, about 35 years old, very mildly mentally retarded. The father and son lived together on one social security check, and that was their whole subsistence.
To me it was obvious that none of the family members could tackle the hospital expenses and continue to meet their own financial obligations.
Thus, Medicare was Clarence’s only salvation. Recently, I read in Newsweek one person’s idea for reducing massive government expenditures for Medicare. He advocated withholding care and treatment when the prognosis was in question. Somehow I was thankful no one had made that kind of decision for Clarence.
A harsh person would conclude that the man’s life was behind him and he had very little – if anything – to live for. Nearly blind, suffering from a double hernia, an ulcer, and now a broken hip, with a slightly impaired son alone to care for him, one could conclude Clarence’s hospital care was not worth the effort. I studied faces for evidence of this feeling as physicians and nurses came and went. Thank God, I never sensed this attitude in others.
I garnered bits and pieces of information about him from others. He lived in a rather remote area, had endured the pain of his broken hip over three weeks before asking his son to call for help (he thought it might be an extended case of sciatica). After hospitalization for a mild stroke two years ago, his attending physician tried to have him placed in a nursing home where he would get better care. He steadfastly refused, and had spent most of his time since then cutting firewood for his home with a bone saw. “I really enjoy being outside cutting wood,” he said.
Clarence talked of “getting out of here.” He made the effort when the therapist got him to his feet and tried to reestablish the man’s ability to walk. He never spoke of despair – only of temporary uselessness. And under these conditions, he deserved all the care he was getting plus a big pat on the back.
There is clear question as to whether Clarence ever will return to his farm and his woodcutting pleasures. At 78, one might conclude his chances are slim. Yet I know other people much older than he who still lead useful lives. It would be a travesty of the greatest magnitude for someone else to arbitrarily decide this man’s recovery was either improbable or not worth the effort.
I hope we never see the day when our government makes life-or-death decisions based solely on monetary considerations.
I am glad Clarence was forced into my daily routine; living with him nearly a week taught me first to better appreciate my own existence in this world. Secondly, it taught me to respect and give sacred value to the lives of others, no matter what their status in this human world. We’re all God’s creatures and he’s sent us here to work together, to take care of ourselves and each other. Human considerations, not financial considerations, must continue to guide us if we are to move toward the Example of perfection He gave us nearly 2000 years ago.
Following the Growth of My Shop as Noted in This Infrequent Journal
Page Two Flag, so very infrequently published, nevertheless does chronicle in a very spotty way the growth of my hobby printshop and my totally consuming involvement with the Monotype.
When my first three issues were published, I had no Monotype. I used hand composition, and I did have access to a Linotype machine, which I did use. My fourth issue announced “My Wildest Dream Comes True: A Monotype in My Basement.” The fifth issue announced the addition of 32 fonts of matrices.
The current issue of the National Amateur allows a bit of insight into my shop, yet it, too, is now out of date.
Having had my “feelers” out for Monotype equipment for so many years, folks whom I may have contacted several years ago are now contacting me, often in last-ditch efforts to assure them preservation of Monotype materials which they have worked with – implements they have learned to love and find most difficult to part with. A lot of 89 cases of composition matrices came my way just last month from a former Monotype operator who saved them, disobeying direct orders to toss them into the trash heap.
I am poised to significantly increase my collection once again, but I shall not reveal this deal before it’s consummated.
At present I have nine casters, over 1000 fonts of display matrices, and about 500 cases of composition matrices. Border matrices and Giant mats remained uncounted.
I showed 22 12-point faces back in 1974. Now I can’t even count all that I have, much less find time to cast them all. If you have need of sorts or fonts which were available on Mono, I invite your enquiry about special casting. Somehow I have to pay for all this equipment…. – Rich Hopkins
June 1982
Typeset and Printed by the Author
at his
Hill & Dale Private Press
The Seventh Issue of
Page Two Flag
“Never Blow Page One on Me”
Monotype composed in Bodoni 375 by the author on his own equipment. Borders also cast by the author, Richard L. Hopkins, Terra Alta, W. Va. 26764.
Issued for distribution in the monthly collective mailing for the National Amateur Press Association.