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IF YOU LIVE IN MONMOUTH COUNTY (NJ) OR SOUTH OF RARITAN RIVER AND MAY HAVE TO GO TO JERSEY SHORE UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL PERHAPS READ THIS LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF  HOSPITAL DOCUMENTING MY 2 DAY HORROR FILLED EXPERIENCE THERE AS A JOURNALIST AND PATIENT.  March 26^th 2014

 

INTRODUCTION:  Yes, as of this writing (for my blog) here on March 26^th 2014, I have not received any acknowledgment nor apology from the hospital administration as to my time as a patient so I’ve begun the process of sharing my article/letter as a form of journalistic enlightenment which is an appropriate word since I refer to all of my post-op care and stay there as “dark ages.” (And even the pre-admission testing with the medical waste garbage can bespeaks dark ages before the world knew about germs and nasty microbes)

Yes, I spent two days at Jersey Shore University Hospital in March 2014 to have a cardiac ablation procedure; that’s when they go inside my heart for a few hours and find those renegade cells causing rapid heartbeat. I’ll say it again now; the medical care, my surgeon (electro-physiologist) and the operating room team including the nurses for my procedure were absolutely perfect and amazing. And yes, that’s what a hospital is all about; receiving that kind of care. But from the moment they wheeled me out of the operating room on an undersized gurney, my time at Jersey Shore University Hospital was horrific and without compassion or basic human needs care.  Fortunately, I was only subjected to post-op care for a 23 hours but more than enough time for me to say with conviction how someone having to face Jersey Shore Hospital should be aware what I endured.  Yes, I am an informed consumer.

My tongue and cheek take of  Jersey Shore University Hospital; if you have to go there, perhaps rent a van, drive to the hospital, gather up your surgical team, operating room doctors and nurses, load them into your comfortable van, head up to the New Jersey Turnpike then through the Lincoln Tunnel, get into New York City and go to one of their hospitals for obvious reasons; the world goes to New York City.

Now my letter to the President:

 

CALVIN BARRY SCHWARTZ

 

 

Mr. Steven Littleson, FACHE

President

c/o Jersey Shore University Medical Center

1945 New Jersey 33

Neptune Township, New Jersey 07753

March 17, 2014

Dear Mr. Littleson:

I was a patient in Jersey Shore Hospital on Monday March 10^th and 11^th for cardiac ablation surgery which was wondrously, spiritually and ostensibly medically overwhelmingly successful. I am now going to take a significant amount of precious personal time to reach out to you in the hope of establishing a dialogue with educational bridges so you may understand the depth of my concern over my anguished and horrific time spent at Jersey Shore Hospital and perhaps I can understand your administrative viewpoint.

Firstly a brief background into my confidence evolution on why I’m writing a hospital administrator in the first place. I graduated from Rutgers University College of Pharmacy in 1969 with two degrees and briefly entertained enrolling in a PhD program in Pharmacology at Washington University. After a 12 year pharmaceutical career, I entered sales and management with the world’s largest optical company; I was fortunate to “hang around” one of the world’s wealthiest men for 25 years where I learned an infinite amount of inter-personal and management skills contributing to the success of my 12 years as a regional manager.

One day, randomly and serendipitously, I was directed by a higher authority to begin a writing career. My first novel was published in 2010. In the summer of 2011, I became a journalist and cut to present day where I now enjoy a modicum of success covering/reporting on many aspects of Monmouth County life. I host a new internet radio talk show that has brought in national guests. My blog reaches 15,000 people a month and I contribute regularly to local magazines and NJ news outlets and have produced national video content. One of the world’s most famous musician’s families has enlisted my writing for a major biographical effort. A lot of personal energies have been expended recently in efforts for the homeless and hunger where I’ve written several articles about our Food Bank of Monmouth and Ocean Counties and helped to produce a music video to raise funds after Sandy. Simply, I care deeply about the people of Monmouth County.

Now let me share a chronological history of the events with me and Jersey Shore University Hospital which continues to leave me in an agitated and incredulous state. I was horrified over my experiences in your hospital. Let me again reiterate how pleased and thrilled I was with the medical ablation team and the amazing Dr. Ashish Patel and the nursing staff. Perhaps I should add how much of a “medical snob” I’ve always been. Some years ago when I developed knee problems, I ran right to the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York; I researched their mortality rate; 0.05%. When the notion of ablation surfaced, I thought about University of Pennsylvania Hospital which does pioneer work in the field but my confidence with Dr. Patel and Monmouth Cardiology was indefatigable so I was prepared for my first experience with Jersey Shore.

This horrific odyssey for me began on Friday February 28^th at your Amdur Outpatient. The registration process was smooth and seamless but when I entered the CAT scan room for the gathering of my blood and an IV injection of contrast dye, Jersey Shore deteriorated. The nurse who was borrowed from intensive care walked over with a handful of IV needles and blood collection test tubes. She was looking for a place to drop the material and with her free hand she wheeled over a medical waste garbage can and deposited the IV needle that was to enter my body and soul (and the test tubes) on the lid of the garbage can. I was shocked and petrified and asked “Is that hygienic?” to which she replied, “Everything’s covered.” I wanted out at that moment; a bad omen of a hospital. I persevered. Next I knew she was taking the IV out of my arm and moving it another two inches up; my thinking was that the needle is ever so close to that garbage can. The needle went in (I never look; too squeamish) and when I did look, my arm was covered in blood. MRSA popped into my consciousness. The nurse called out for a piece of gauze to clean my arm. No alcohol or disinfectant was used and my arm remained an off color red. The notion of ‘dark ages’ circled my cerebral consciousness.  The rest of the CAT scan was uneventful and those nurses were good.  An hour later I was in Belmar at the Shark River jetty for a photo shoot. I was going to be a cover boy for a New Jersey Shore magazine which came out yesterday.

My ablation procedure was scheduled in January for March 10^th. I arrived promptly at 7 AM and by 8 AM was secured and hospital gowned on my undersized gurney. I am 6’ 5 ½”. By 9AM, I was just about to be anesthetized; I did view the operating room and its most amazing equipment for entering/viewing my heart for up to six hours. At 11:30AM and way ahead of schedule, I was in recovery and everything I was told prior to that indicated I would be there for 45 minutes before being taken to a room for the overnight. My family waited patiently and apprehensively.

There was no bed or room waiting. That would have to wait for 9 PM.  Therefore 9 ½ hours basically in the hallway of your recovery room; the pain of being on my back for so long was excruciating and adding to that was the undersized gurney and the endless wait for a room. The doctor had ordered morphine; the pain was that bad. I declined; I prefer being alert; something told me I was going to need all my sharp senses. All that time waiting for a room and I was pretty much the first patient back (and the last to be moved to a room which baffled and angered me because this was planned back in January.) All that aside, I had to yell and scream to have my family with me. It would seem common sense that if Jersey Shore couldn’t give me a room for 9 ½ hours they could at least bend a rule and accommodate an agitated post- surgical patient and keep my family with me (dark ages and no compassion).

Now in all that time at NO time did anyone ask if I wanted water, drink or food.  By this time I hadn’t eaten approaching 20 plus hours. So I started asking and pleading for some kind of lunch food. It took a long time of pleading but a nurse brought a sandwich which was two slices of stale whole wheat bread and one half slice of turkey folded over itself in a David Copperfield attempt at sandwich illusion. I ate it. Still no room for me but I did make it to a chair partially in the hall and was covered with a blanket so I didn’t get arrested for overexposure.

 

 

Dinner time approached and I was ravenous with hunger and angry at still no room/bed. I asked for a patient rep. An hour passed and a patient rep arrived. I angrily expressed my predicament of no food or room. She roamed around for a while and nothing was resolved with food or nourishment. Finally I asked for her name. This was one nasty, unsympathetic, confrontational (to a post-surgical distressed patient) patient rep when she yelled from a distance, “I have nothing to do with you not having a room and if you want food send your family down to the coffee shop.” My wife and I were horrified. I wanted a real hospital dinner. The patient rep walked away and ½ hour later asked if I wanted some kind of beef or chicken. I opted for chicken as I do not eat red meat. The chicken arrived. What a culinary joke. It was late and the best I could figure is this chicken was standing around in the kitchen for a long time. I’ve got precious pictures; a great photo op. It was oven fried and stale to the point of being completely inedible and along with that chicken was a portion of macaroni and cheese. I wondered if this was standard procedure food for post-op cardiac patients. The patient rep still refused to give her name. The entire dinner went into the garbage (except for a few pieces of leafy green broccoli) and my son brought me a tuna fish sandwich from the coffee shop.

Part of my post-op therapy was IV Lasix for accumulated fluid in my body. I refused that treatment and had them write it on my chart. I was not about to suffer the indignity of a bed pan in the hall without a modicum of privacy and a bathroom (dark ages once again). That therapy would have to wait until 10 PM. Yes I keep using the expression of dark ages in referring to my overall post-op care at Jersey Shore (and the week before).

Fascinating; some of your hospital employees conveyed to me this kind of negligence of not having post-op beds/rooms happens all the time (every day) (dark ages). Their messages were confidentially delivered to me in tones barely above a whisper. They knew I was a journalist by then. Finally late in the afternoon a nurse told me that room 6002 was ready for me. A few minutes later she sheepishly informed me that my room was given away to someone else. When that happened, I lost it and got even angrier. I wanted to rip the IV out of my arm, throw on my jeans and get the hell out of your hospital. I should’ve. Nothing that would happen until I was discharged the next morning was grounds for keeping me there. You did nothing for me except exacerbate my anger and frustration. Back in recovery, anger and frustration raised my pressure. I watched it hit 164; high for me. I was so angry that a nurse sent for my wife to calm me down. I’m still angry all these days later. As a matter of fact, I have not slept one night through since this happened. Words of conveyance (my story) keep interrupting my REM and all phases of sleep. Words like ‘never again’ surface. Words of ‘what should I do as a respected journalist’ keep me awake. You are seeing some of the energies of those words now as I write you.

Another thought about not having a room. I wondered how you folks triaged rooms. Was I the victim of bias and prejudice? Was there some kind of reverse discrimination? Curious; the things in my thought process but I do know at 6’ 5 1/2″  there was a pressing physical need for me to get to a room and bed and get far away from the maddening environment of your recovery room. Then late in the afternoon, next to me, a hospital employee took sick. Everyone rushed to his side. So did he preferentially get my room? When you are angry and frustrated many things come to mind.

It was 9 PM and my room 6030 was cleaned after discharging a dialysis patient. I wasn’t keen on knowing my room was filled with particulates from a sick dialysis patient. As I was being wheeled into Northwest Tower, I marveled at the surroundings; like a four star hotel. I settled into my new room and bed; they took my vital signs and bar-coded me. I accepted the IV Lasix now; it was 10 PM. Pure orgiastic glee; I had a bathroom with a wooden door. My wife and son left. I asked the PCA room person about breakfast. I was still hungry. He informed that I could not order breakfast anymore; I got to my room too late. Once again I was angry. The nurse said I could have a tray delivered; but I have no say in what’s on the tray. I was so angry. The room had nice amenities; TV, phone and WIFI but I knew all I’d remember is the looming battles I was going to have to get breakfast; an inevitability of the ineptitude of Jersey Shore Hospital. I was so right with premonition.

I tried sleeping to no avail because my long legs/feet hit the end of the bed. I rang for the nurse and asked for help. She summoned the PCA and asked him to get an extender for my feet. Time was around midnight. At 2 AM, I put on my shoes and walked to the nursing station. It was surreal; no one was anywhere around (and I waited and paced) which reminded me of the hospital scene from ‘The Godfather I.’ Were they coming to finally get me and rub me out? When he finally showed up, I asked the PCA about the foot extender. He obviously lied and forgot; I knew there could never be another 6’ 5 ½” patient on this floor. He just never looked because he didn’t care. This was all typical of the care I’ve received at Jersey Shore. The PCA was shamed at 2:15AM into coming into my room and moving the mattress. So I thought about my status as a post-op cardiac patient and the ever present words ringing like a tinnitus in my ears: “dark ages care at Jersey Shore Hospital.” The sad observation for me at this point is that this new facility at Northwest was state of the art, my medical team was superior and perfect, the nurses were the same in the surgical section (not where I was) and Jersey Shore Hospital spent hundreds of millions of dollars on this facility and all I’d remember and write and talk about for a long time was the ineptitude and lack of care and compassion as well as my constant battles as if I were in the Sahara Desert or on a survival expedition foraging for simple fresh food and water. Yes, I had to repeatedly ask for ice water.

At 5 AM, the PCA, perhaps in a demonstration of revenge, awakened me (but I wasn’t sleeping. But what if I was?) (But curiously he never did bar code as if he forgot to do this earlier) for my vital signs and then the best happened: He had me (a post–op cardiac patient) get out of bed (the built in scale did not work) and instructed me to walk into the hallway and get on a rolling scale at 5 AM. I was angry for a change so I called the diet/kitchen at 55021 and left a soft toned scathing message on how I could not get any substantive food for almost 24 hours and I would love my own choice for breakfast. At 6 AM the nice diet person called and took my order and apologized. At 6:30 AM she called back and couldn’t get me breakfast because the hospital had not yet assigned a room for me. I was so angry. She promised to take it up with the nurse on my floor. At 8:33 AM, my hand picked breakfast arrived almost intact. I did not get my hot cereal because I exceeded the carb count so I played ‘Let’s Make A Deal’ and gave up my container of 1 % Milk. I did get the scrambled eggs. I got only one orange juice. And finally I laughed. Earlier after cardiac ablation surgery they sent me fried dried chicken and macaroni and cheese and other assorted carbs but that was alright? Dark ages care is all around at Jersey Shore.

I wanted out of this nightmare (dark ages for two days) as soon as possible. On my daily medication sheet it had 81 mg aspirin which they gave me with my meds cocktail. My doctor told me NOT to take aspirin for three months (also in a reminder email). Could I have had a bleeding episode (taking Xarelto)? I was discharged around 10:30 AM and needless to say, it was euphoric and the words of a hero of mine came to mind. “Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.” Free from dark ages of lack of basic compassionate common sense care of a post-op patient.

I write this expansive letter in the form of an article because you never know. On Wednesday March 12th, I called Chris in Guest Relations and she was sympathetic, understanding and we talked for 30 minutes or so. Actually I talked mostly. But she did ask me what I wanted from all this. I was quick to answer. Recognition of what I endured from someone really high up the ladder. And an apology would be nice and appropriate because… And I’ll leave it at that for now.

Wishing you only good things. (President Kennedy used to sign off this way)

 

Calvin Schwartz

IT IS MY HOPE THAT THOSE READING THIS BLOG – ESPECIALLY WITHIN THE GEOGRAPHICAL AREA OF THE HOSPITAL FORWARD AND SHARE THIS BLOG LINK WITH AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE. AN INFORMED PATIENT IS THE BEST PATIENT.

THANKS,

CALVIN