Just as she was gathering her bearings, Netta was hit with an intense migraine headache. She began to feel the aches and pains exploding all over her body as she attempted to move. She reached for the nurse call button that dangled on the side of her bed and immediately requested a nurse’s assistance.
A buzzer at the nurse’s station alerted the medical staff members to Netta’s request for help.
“I got this one. You look a little busy,” Nurse McNeil said as she watched her co- worker fill out some medical paperwork.
The African American middle-aged nurse rose from her seat and headed to the room in question. Within seconds Nurse McNeil was standing in front of Netta.
“Oh my goodness. You finally woke up, chile,” the nurse marveled. “Praise the Lord ... I’ve been waiting on this day. I’ve been praying for you, Shanetta.”
Netta was confused. She hadn’t the slightest idea how long she had be laid up in the hospital or why this nurse was so excited to see her awake.
“I need something for the pain.... My head, my body, hurts like hell. Excuse my language,” Netta admitted.
“Hush your mouth, it’s understandable. Especially for a patient in your condition,” Nurse McNeil told her. “There were days where we were wondering if you were going to make it at all. But God is good.”
At the moment Netta didn’t need a sermon. She wanted some pain medication and she wanted it right now.
“You think you can get somethin’ for the pain now?” she reiterated.
“Give me one second, Sweetie, I’ll be right back,” the nurse replied.
“Nurse?” Netta called out. “One more thing, where am I?” Netta was suddenly unaware of her exact surroundings.
“You’re in Maryland General Hospital. You’ve been here in a medically induced coma for almost a week. When I come back, I’ll tell you everything else you need to know,” the nurse said as she rushed out the room.
Netta watched as the big-boned, big-breasted nurse strolled out of her hospital room. In an instant, she closed her eyes, seeking temporary relief from the pain, while processing her current predicament. She slowly began to remember her ambulance ride to the hospital.
“Here you go, darling,” Nurse McNeil said as she entered the room with a small white cup with two pills inside. “This should make you feel better.”
The nurse proceeded over to Netta’s bed, slowly propping her up until she was in an upright position. She reached for the small pink pitcher filled with water that had been placed on a nearby counter and poured Netta a cup of water.
“Open your mouth,” she said.
After gently dumping the contents of the cup in her mouth, Nurse McNeil poured a slow, steady stream of water down her throat. The bitterness of the pills caused Netta to grimace.
“What was that?” Netta suddenly thought to ask. The nurse replied, “100 milligrams of Tramadol.”
Netta snapped. “I don’t know what that is, but from here on out bring me some Tylenol. I didn’t come in this hospital with a habit and I’ll be damned if I leave with one.”
The nurse shook her head. “Okay, calm down, Sweetie. I’m just following doctor’s orders. But I’ll make a note of your concerns on your medical chart. I’ll see what other medical options we have to relieve all that pain you’re in.”
All Netta could think of was the street stigma that was attached to these opioid pills with funny names. How heroin addicts easily exchanged a dependence on dope for another legal high. Netta despised all junkies, even though her mother Renee had been one. She hated the fact that her mother couldn’t ever overcome her demons; that her addiction never gave Netta a fair shot at a normal childhood.
So in no way, shape, or form did she ever want to become anything like her mother.
The nurse continued, “There are medicinal uses for Tramadol. You’re thinking about the ways people misuse it. It’s a pain reliever. And if a patient is in constant pain, then the body doesn’t heal properly. If the body doesn’t heal properly, then you can’t recover quickly. And if you don’t recover quickly, then you can’t go home when you want to. You wanna go home, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Netta assured her. “But it’s just that I’d feel more comfortable takin’ Tylenol. Drug addiction runs in my family. It’s like a defective gene.”
“Okay, I understand. I can’t argue with that, Miss Jackson,” she said, placing the water pitcher back on the counter before moving to the foot of the bed to examine her medical chart.
Nurse McNeil began checking all the medical machinery that had been used to monitor Netta’s condition. It all seemed to read normally. She began detaching some of the attachments from Netta’s body, then she adjusted the bed, putting Netta in a more comfortable position to talk. She was feeling trapped in her hospital bed.
“Sorry, Nurse McNeil, I didn’t mean to get stank wit’ you earlier,” she apologized. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. I know you just doing your job.”
Fortunately, the nurse was a true professional who had heard a lot worse. Netta’s words or tone of voice hadn’t offended her at all. She knew not to take most things that a patient said personally.
“Sweetie, I understand how you feel,” the nurse explained. “I only dispense the medication that the doctor prescribes.”
She continued, “Medication or no medication, all things considered, you’re lucky to even be alive. From my understanding, when they brought you in here, you were in very bad shape young lady. You were rushed in here suffering from trauma and multiple contusions. You went into shock on the operating table from the loss
