Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas

Every time I turn on television I see some reporter standing in front of Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas and yapping endlessly about the ebola crisis. Eric Duncan was being treated there for ebola.  Duncan died.  Then two nurses who cared for him developed ebola.  The nurses were taken away to Georgia and Maryland.  The reporter is still standing in front of Presbyterian making comments. The hospital is criticized for not following proper procedures.  The hospital’s rebutts that it followed CDC guidelines. 

And so on and so on. 

One thing the hospital can not excuse is that when Duncan first came to the Presbyterian emergency room, he was sent home with a prescription for antibiotics. 

Since moving to Dallas in March, I have gone to doctors in satellite building at Presbyterian.  It is the closest medical center to the retirement home where I now live.  So far I’ve driven there for appointments with a dermatologist and an eye doctor.  My new glasses made me see double, and I had to go back several times before they got it right.  Now when I drive out the gate of my home, I scarcely have to think as the car turns automatically towards Presbyterian.

The hospital is in a lovely area of North Dallas, surrounded by tree-lined streets with lovely big homes.  White Texans are paranoid about black people.  Rich Texans who live near Presbyterian are still angry that the government built “welfare” apartments – like the one where Eric Duncan lived – in their beautiful neighborhood.

The first time I went to Presbyterian it was in an ambulance.  During the week before I moved, I did not feel good.  Stressed out and losing sleep over packing, I became over-tired.  On my first night in the new apartment I woke up at 2 a.m. violently ill, throwing up and gasping for breath.  After a few days of being unable to eat I called our “care concierge”.   John Maden called 911.  EMT’s came and took me to Presbyterian. 

At the hospital I had to wait.  Unless you are having a heart attack or stroke, you always have to wait in American ER’s.  A young resident ordered a bunch of tests.  The staff changed shifts.  After another long wait, a different doctor came in and said, “We are sending you home.”

“I’m sick,” I cried.  “I am really sick.”

“As long as your vital signs are normal,” the doctor said.  “We can’t keep you.” 

The ambulance brought me back to The Churchill.  This is “independent living.” I was alone. I felt sorry for myself.  I climbed back into the recliner and did not get out of it to eat or sleep for two weeks.  It took another two months to recover from the virus, or whatever it was that made me feel so wretched.  I lost 25 pounds.  My trousers are falling off, and I still have not bought new ones.   

I find it curious that rich (like me) or poor (like Eric Duncan), Presbyterian did not look for the cause of our distress because we were not “critical” when we first went to the emergency room.  Fortunately for me, I recovered.  Unfortunately, the treatment Duncan and I both received at Presbyterian is typical of America’s health care system.  The best in the World?