A year had to pass since the installation of three bypasses to try to describe the experience of a few weeks in the arms of Serbian healthcare. There I watched in amazement how ordinary people every day, few in number, in terrible conditions, poorly paid and insufficiently respected, do real feats to return us to our loved ones and society in a usable condition. At a time when we are witnessing the unimaginably evil actions of some healthcare workers, I think it is in the vital public interest that we do not identify the white coats with such atrocities and that we are prepared to see those among them who, despite the inhuman environment, still shine with humanity
I was lying under observation in the emergency room, connected to a monitor that measures seven things at once and says "blip". At two in the morning, the only patient under observation, with a sleeping nurse behind the curtain, I was busy with heavy thoughts between terrible episodes in my chest: my heart was on the verge of stopping. I forbade myself, under the neon light of the unfortunate Serbian healthcare system, to think about my family and what would happen if I opt out of this madness of life or unload on them as a person with special needs. I wanted, with all my strength, to bring myself to a state of mind in which I could confidently say to myself and my family: "I am ready". Whatever happens to me.
Let's not be naive. No one is ready for that. But like everyone else in my situation - I had no choice. There is no other way to that readiness except through trust in the people who are treating you. I fought for peace of mind, against constant paranoia caused by ignorance and hypochondria aggressively trying to take over the brain. Not only because of the many excellent people who treated me and the love for my family, but also because, as I said, I had no other choice, I can proudly say that I really became ready. And it helped that I had no idea what was actually waiting for me.
When I checked into the emergency room at the Zvezdara Clinical and Hospital Center (the popular "City Center on Zvezdara"), in a pre-infarction state, under attack, but completely conscious, during the two-three hour waiting period and after the results of the measurements, analyzes and recordings , they determined what was happening and put me in bed, there in the emergency room, connected to a monitor. I guess to see if the attack will stop. In front of the emergency room, Maja remained, a full-fledged, better part of me for decades. She was trying to be calm and she seemed to be, even though I knew she wasn't. If I showed any weakness, I was perfectly clear, it would further distract her.
When, at two in the morning, they determined that I was still under attack, they told me to stay under observation. I texted Maya: "I'm staying here, love, go home." There is no more sense or need for you to be there." I also added a few words of thanks knowing that the room I am in is not to be entered without a serious health problem or a white coat. However, no one could stop her. I listened as she walked down the hall and opened door after door until she barged in like some decent robber. She will very politely say: "Good evening", but you will not stop her. I wanted her to leave, so she wouldn't have to be in that depressed place, but I almost cried when I saw her. They didn't say a word to her. Smart. "Now is the moment for you to find out my secrets, my love, just ask and look at the monitor". We giggled a bit, and the short conversation between the two emotionally drained, middle-aged lovers before she left is none of your business.
"BLIP"
By then, intervention by intervention, the standard motley troupe of patients for that night was exhausted and everyone had gone somewhere. There was complete silence in the emergency room, interrupted only by the rhythmic "bleeps" of my monitor. There was no one else. Except me.
And cats. To my extraordinary satisfaction, that whole night, and I hope many more, no one forced her out of the warm waiting room into the cold October night. In the peace of solitude, she settled down on a seat, tucked her paws under her and looked into my eyes. So I watched my friend's cat through the open observation door for a good part of the night. She blinked with therapeutic calm and eventually fell asleep without a care for anything but her furry bottom, transferring some of her beneficial peace to me. I lay with the electrodes on my chest and tried to compose myself between attacks. Outside, far from this neon sterility is my family. They are left to struggle without me and everything I contribute to their lives. The dark trauma of possible loss hovers over them. Of course I will do my best not to arrange my death for them, but if I do not send them positive signals on the way to the outcome, whatever it may be, it will be even more difficult for them. I begin a lightning-fast mental intervention on myself in which I manage to convince myself that the absolute best way to help all those medics is to trust them completely.
So, until the moment when, after about an hour, they transported me on a rickety gurney and placed me in a bed in the Coronary Unit (officially the Clinical Department for Cardiovascular Diseases of the Zvezdara Clinical Hospital Center), where I will wait for the decision on how I will be treated, I turned myself into a positive , kind and compassionate patient.
I had my last attack when they put me in bed. He was mercifully mild and left in a few minutes. When something in your chest grinds your heart, you have no choice but to listen to it intently. Your whole being "knows" it's important and focuses like crazy on every body signal. But soon the medicines I was given stabilized all that, and forced rest also helped. There is no sitting in bed, let alone getting up. This department's job is to keep me alive until they decide what to do with me. When the nurses settled me, gave me therapy and left, I could look around more calmly.
First the sound. Each of us has electrodes on our body that lead to the monitor, and it continuously says "blip". It's a chorus of beeps, each with a clear and consistent echo from the control computer behind the counter at the nurses' station. So: "blip", pause, "blip". Then my monitor says something else - two blips, then a higher one. Something has changed, I look up, looking for what it is. My sister came by, she knows I'm new: "It's normal, don't worry." Sleep if you can”. But I can't. Some snore. One man shouts every few minutes: "Sisteroooo". He's drunk and kind of sad. At least five machines are doing something to someone and they all emit sounds. Voices are heard from the corridor. The main light is off, but the neon lights above our heads are not. The windows are small and high, we cannot see whether it is day or night outside. Blip. Hrk. Dull. Blip-blip. Grgolj. Blip-blip-blip. "Sisteroooo"…
UNCLE
The thing that worries me the most is worrying about the uncle across the street, on a ventilator. He is fighting for his life. His face is gray, his lips are purple, his mouth is wide open and his head is thrown back because of the tube in his throat and deep in his chest. The gurgling sound of the liquid in the machine is somehow corporeal and disconcertingly imprecise.
And then, in the middle of the night, Chika's machine changed its sound. She started hissing irregularly and hysterically, and he started mumbling and growling in a kind of guttural, panicky way. His monitor went crazy, making an alarming noise. I get up in bed, I see how he tries to get up or turn around, breaks the infusion, grabs the tube in his mouth with his hands... I look at the counter for nurses on duty, there is no one there. Now I'm panicking. I don't know what to do.
A second later, two nurses arrive, then the doctor on duty. They are trying to physically prevent him from hurting himself. "Don't bite," shouts the nurse. Chika seems to have woken up and, not knowing where or why, he started frantically biting the plastic pipe, his own air supply. That's how he started choking, then biting even harder in panic. The other sister, the younger one, who is holding Chiki's hands so that he doesn't fall over, so that he doesn't tear everything to which he is connected, manages to turn his head towards me in the midst of all this and with considerable urgency in his voice says: "Lie down, please"... So the unfortunate uncle led me to another in a series of mental breakdowns: now and who knows how long, maybe forever - I'm no longer the one who jumps to help. It comes to me. Patient. Helpless. Cargo.
Chika is still biting the pipe and, for someone on the brink of death, putting up a respectable resistance. The older sister clamped the tube on Chika's mouth with all her strength so that it wouldn't flatten, and she put the other hand gently on his cheek, trying to calm him down: "You're in the hospital, sir," the doctor says quietly in his ear, trying hard. to sound calm: "The machine is breathing for you, calm down, please, you mustn't bite that pipe, accept it, please, I know it's hard, but it will get better, hold on..."
Chika's expression is horrified and desperate. The nurse injects something into the brownie, they change places, positions, they constantly fight for the air to flow through the tube... It goes on, it's hard, it's painful. In one particularly awkward moment, the sister lets out a muffled yelp, jumps back, and clutches her fist with her eyes closed in severe pain. "Did he bite you?", the doctor asks. She looks at the finger, says: "It didn't break the skin", and throws herself back into wrestling. The younger one came up with an intermediate solution - when the chick's bite subsides, she pulls out the tube a little so that next time she bites a place that hasn't been started. Chika is slowly losing the strength to fight. The medicine starts to calm him down. At one point, he seemed to recognize the situation, so he looked infinitely sad at the sister he had bitten a while ago, and calmed down, still sobbing in agony.
photo: b. ChechenBLIP, BLIP, BLIP: Listening in a hospital bed
A minute later, the three of them stand around the sleeping uncle and watch him sleep, exhausted, breathing heavily. They talk quietly, then the doctor leaves. The nurses fix the bed, inject him with something else. They also leave, and the older one passing by puts her hand on my shin for a moment and gives me a look that says mischievously: "We're not bad, are we?" A few seconds later, the legs of her coat slide past the door and the room sinks back into its previous, uncomfortable peace. Blip. Hrk. Dull. Blip-blip. Grgolj. Blip-blip-blip. "Sisteroooo"…
Before dawn, the extensive preparations for the handover of the shift begin and the two sisters rush around the room. They quietly and quickly bring and take away everything and anything, take our blood pressure and temperature, take blood, do an EKG, tidy up the rooms, bypassing the cleaning lady who is busy mopping the floor.
The head nurse of the next shift, quite serious, walks around the ward and gives instructions, with her are the nurses of both shifts, a seemingly chaotic flock that is constantly doing something and constantly communicating, and then, when a visitor appears somewhere in the corridor, she calms down completely and somewhat ridiculously , like pressing a button. One of the visiting doctors, a short, athletic guy, spoke only once, and that was to tell the nurses a little disappointed how a piece of plaster remained stuck to the frame of Chika's bed. The doctor who was wrestling with his uncle with his sisters silently rolled his eyes.
In the first visit I learned several things: 1. Doctors will tell me the least they can if I don't ask; 2. My questions must be precise, they don't have time; 3. They address nurses and other visiting doctors, the patient only if they have questions; 4. As far as they are concerned, my booklet is still uncertified and that is quite a problem, and mine will also have to get a referral for hospital treatment. When they left, I was left lying confused, thoroughly uninformed and extremely burdened by the issue of the booklet.
Soon, two nurses came to do an EKG and take my blood. While they work, they talk quietly.
- Who did he catch?
- Jelena.
- Did he hit?
- I don't know. I didn't see it. Jelena just says: "Everything is fine, we will continue working", but I can see that she is really shaken.
- I'm afraid to approach him now.
- He was on call, he talked to him, I guess he calmed down a bit.
- You could give him something to calm down.
– Well, he gave it to him.
- Give him more.
- Do you want me to go and take his blood?
- Let it. I will.
- I'm going with you.
The girl looked at her friend with gratitude, adjusted her uniform a little, as if it would somehow protect her, took a deep breath and went on the task, with her friend on her right wing.
After the visit and instructions, a flock of white uniforms (well, some are pink or blue, but mostly white) scattered around the rooms and got to work with the patients. Everyone is asked how he is. They have something to say to everyone. They will bring "geese" and "shovels" and take them away. He will change the bed under me. He will give me what I need, answer my questions. They will give me a little wash, they will write down the pressure, pulse and other things in the card. It will adjust the diodes and the monitor. They will give injections, be there until we swallow the pills and tablets. They will ask us questions and fill out questionnaires. They will take our temperature. They will do all that and a lot more that we don't see, because it's happening in other rooms. I started to develop a great sense of guilt towards them while still in the coronary care unit. None of us, when we are healthy, is interested in what happens behind the walls of hospitals. And they fight, work, die.
Everything they do matters. There is literally no job that is without responsibility, every time they come to work, they have to be fully focused because mistakes can be very expensive. That must be hard. But their "How are you?" is the most important thing they gave me. I'm alone, I don't care, I don't know what will happen to me and mine. Empathy, even for the guy who hits them is incredible, inexhaustible. They will not be smiling or in a good mood every time. Most of the time, no one will help them with difficult patients, they usually have to solve it themselves and hesitate to call the doctor on duty. Their lives are not easy, but the lives of us who are lying there are currently more difficult than theirs, for that one existential concern: will I get out. They know it and it is their job to participate in it. They sympathize, however, quite privately and individually. The guys, the few medical brothers, are reliable and capable, they will give you a certain peace of mind, confidence in what they are doing. However, it is the nurses who carried me mentally whole (as much as possible) to all the meetings with the doctors, the surgery and the time I am writing about them. Perhaps the main reason I am writing this is gratitude. Gratitude, admiration and compassion.
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Even if we call what happened in Zaječar and Kosjerić on Sunday the victory of the regime and the defeat of the opposition, that is, the student-citizen movement, it would be necessary to add attributes to those terms, for the sake of truth and authenticity. First of all, it is a question of the catastrophic victory of the SNS, which means that the "people from Vučić" are slowly but surely going into the dustbin of history and that they are running a lap of honor in which there is no honor, nor will there be any. What are the other messages of these elections? And what can we learn from them
On Sunday, June 8, the student and progressive lists clashed in Kosjerić. I reported from there during the entire election day. A few minutes after midnight, unknown people, most likely close to the Serbian Progressive Party, punctured the tires of my car and damaged my mirrors. That is why this will not be a classic reportage
Interview: Prof. Tanasije Marinković, Faculty of Law in Belgrade
"I think it is wrong to ignore Vučić, to pretend that he has already fallen and lost all sense. With him, the rational and the irrational intertwine. Both are strong, and that is why all responsible parts of society must unite and organize in order for him to be replaced in a legal and democratic way. That approach does not contradict the slogan 'You are not competent'. I am proud of the Serbian students who had enough knowledge or, rather, the feeling to understand how much he, malignant narcissist, that attitude hits"
A new directive from the Leader has arrived - to declare rebellious students and citizens fascists and Nazis. And the Essenes do it with a lot of enthusiasm. However, there are two serious problems. The first is that the rebelling Serbian students and citizens are a phenomenon that is as far from fascism as it can be. The second is that it is the SNS that nurtures many features of fascism to a good extent
"If architecture is a reflection of the time and society in which it is created, when we look around us, by all accounts, we have a huge road to recovery ahead of us. If it is even possible in our case, given that we have skipped entire epochs in civilizational development"
Aleksandar Vučić now has only the old, proven methods of classic dictatorships left, because these modern methods of insanity and poisoning the public are failing. And that, however, goes against his head
Vučić is not defending the state, but himself from the state. With a drum on his back and a guitar in his hands, this man-orchestra performs two or three of the same songs without hearing, with falsifications and falling out of rhythm. His government and politics are like that. In short - dangerous for the environment
Arrests of professors, punishment of people, firing of journalists... The regime of Aleksandar Vučić is shining and is yet to shine. It is the decadent phase of the regime, the one towards the end
The archive of the weekly Vreme includes all our digital editions, since the very beginning of our work. All issues can be downloaded in PDF format, by purchasing the digital edition, or you can read all available texts from the selected issue.
After the case of the mother Marica Mihajlović in Sremska Mitrovica disturbed the entire public, again, for the first time in the last twenty years, women are coming out in public and sharing their experiences from childbirth or after it. The majority of the public fully understands the problem and has sympathy for what women are going through. A smaller part, however, has strong, mostly superfluous questions: why did they remain silent, why did they not go private, why did they not sue... The editors of "Vremena" were contacted by a woman whose case illustrates that even when both mother and baby survive, and when an error occurs in to a private clinic, even when she decides to file a criminal complaint - it's not worth it
"Time" file: Personal experience from a British hospital
I spent many hours by my mother's side in the hospital, caregivers took turns, discreet and subtle; they talked if I wanted to talk, I chose the topics, they answered my questions, they kept quiet when I kept quiet. I asked one of them how she copes with a job where someone dies every day. "Death is a part of life, our job is to make that process easier. We get strength from that help," she said gently
Conditions in maternity hospitals in the countries of the region sound like science fiction for Serbian pregnant women - from pilates and relaxing in a bathtub with the scent of essential oils, the "golden hour" with the baby, to kebabs for lunch after giving birth. In our country, the issue of accompanying during childbirth has not yet been resolved in all maternity hospitals, and in addition, the fact that it is viewed mostly as a measure to prevent or mitigate obstetric violence speaks volumes.
In considering the relationship between doctors and politicians, Cunningham wrote in the fifties of the 20th century that the "doctor's dilemma" stems from the fact that politics is a "business of dirty hands", while medicine has always been a profession of "clean hands" - perhaps it can be interpret today's obsessive need of politicians to surround themselves with the support and authority of doctors, surgeons and heads of hospitals
A year had to pass since the installation of three bypasses, so I can try to describe the experience of a few weeks in the arms of Serbian healthcare. There I watched in amazement how ordinary people every day, few in number and in terrible conditions, poorly paid and insufficiently respected, do real feats to bring back their loved ones and society in usable condition. At a time when we are witnessing the unimaginably evil actions of some health workers, I think it is in the vital public interest that we do not identify the "white coats" with such atrocities and that we be ready to see those among them who, despite the inhuman environment, still shine with humanity.
In between
What is happening in the country and the world, what is in the newspapers and how to pass the time?
Every Wednesday at noon In between arrives by email. It's a pretty solid newsletter, so sign up!