Firsthand knowledge of the hospital’s importance

Earlier this month, I was scheduled to report on the importance of

the decision by South Coast Medical Center officials to keep the

hospital in Laguna.

Instead of writing about it, I lived it.

On the Saturday afternoon after hospital CEO Gary Irish announced

the board’s decision, I was working in my garden, as I do most

weekends.

I don’t -- didn’t -- wear much to protect myself in the garden,

except sunblock. Usually, it’s a tank top and shorts, which have a

beige backside because I sit down to weed and scoot along on my

derriere, too lazy to bend. I rarely wear gloves, and I sure wasn’t

wearing them that day.

Something bit, stung or pricked me on the thumb.

By that night, when I attended the “Lagunatics” gala and

performance, my hand was swollen and red.

The next morning, it was more swollen, so I called my doctor,

Gabor Kovacs, who advised me to get to the medical center’s emergency

department. It took me about three minutes to get to the hospital

from Woods Cove, instead of the half hour or 45 minutes -- longer in

heavy traffic -- it would take to get to the other nearest hospitals

and underscored the reason local residents had ponied up the money to

build the hospital here.

If the medical center staff is the heart of the hospital, the

award-winning emergency department is what keeps it beating.

The department recently was named first in patient satisfaction

out of all the departments in the state affiliated with California

Emergency Physicians.

Let me tell you, it makes a difference -- when you are scared --

to be in the comforting hands of emergency personnel who are part of

our community.

When I arrived that Sunday morning, Charlie Quilter was there,

being taped up after a fall from the stage during the “Lagunatics”

performance the previous evening.

The admitting process was quick and easy and so was Dr. Susan

Murden’s diagnosis -- cellulitis.

What? My hips aren’t bad enough?

It turned out that cellulitis is an infection of the skin. It

usually starts with a scrape, cut, insect bite, blister or other

opening in the skin, which becomes infected. It is serious and, I

later learned, can lead to flesh-eating disease.

However, the treatment was simple. First, an outline of the

infected area was drawn on my hand, which was then splinted from

fingertip to elbow to keep the infected area immobile, and an

antibiotic drip was inserted in my other hand by the deft hands of

Jill Postman, a registered nurse. I was in emergency about 1 1/2

hours, mostly for the drip.

I left with instructions to return the next day -- with the

expectation that the infection would be arrested, if not all better.

It wasn’t.

By Monday morning, my hand looked like a pink boxing glove, puffy

and smooth. This was not good.

According to the information sheet provided at the hospital, the

red area is supposed to gradually shrink after antibiotics are

administered and should never increase in size once the treatment has

begun.

The Monday emergency room doctor, Mary Kaye Ashkenaze, ordered a

second antibiotic drip and called in hand specialist Dr. Karim

Abdollahi, a soft-spoken man with a warm smile. .

But I have to tell you, when he asked whether I was right- or

left-handed, he looked like an ax murderer to me.

Abdollahi ordered an X-ray to verify that no foreign bodies -- a

stinger or thorn, perhaps -- were still in my hand, so off I went,

dragging along the drip, and feeling like one. This time, I wasn’t

sent home. Abdollahi wanted me in the hospital.

So there I was -- in shorts, with little money and no toothbrush

-- worse yet, no book.

Fortunately, about this time, hospital public relations director

Maggie Bauman showed up in the emergency room, looking for volunteers

to have their picture taken to go with the story I had expected to

write.

Nobody volunteered -- so guess who was elected.

Bauman cozened me into it, bribing me with a promise to get me

some books and move my Mustang from emergency department parking to

the garage.

Coastline Pilot photographer Don Leach arrived to find me, with

one hand hooked up to a drip and the other one being resplinted by

licensed vocational nurse Mike Marquez.

At least I was covered from chin to toe by a blanket brought to me

by staff member Tom Cruz.

When that ordeal was over, I was wheeled up to a room and tucked

into the bed nearest a picture window with an ocean view. I was later

offered another room further from the elevator and quieter, but I

didn’t expect to get much sleep anyway -- what with frequent checks

on my vital signs and more antibiotic drips -- so I declined.

Registered nurse Elaine Kotkoff, who filled out the lengthy

hospital admittance questionnaire, found me some food -- I had not

eaten before heading to emergency, and it was well after noon by that

time.

Licensed vocational nurse Marisol Cabie took the night shift.

I was released the next day. However, I was instructed to keep my

hand elevated and immobile for the next week and religiously take the

antibiotic the doctor prescribed. Fortuitously, my son Ken,

daughter-in-law Chris and grandchildren Kelsey, Lindsey and Nicky

were previously scheduled to arrive that same day.

Due to the restriction on my activities, I missed the City Council

meeting the following Tuesday. Council members Cheryl Kinsman and

Toni Iseman, used to seeing me at meetings, called to find out what

happened. Former City Clerk Verna Rollinger said she wasn’t worried

until she couldn’t find my byline in the paper that following Friday.

To everyone who expressed concern -- from Steve Kawaratani to Gene

Gratz to Carol Reynolds, Martha Lydick and Coastline office manager

Katherine Delp Dew, who brought me a lovely African violet, my

thanks.

I am sorry that I missed writing the story about the vital role

the hospital plays in our town, which I now know from personal

experience.

OUR LAGUNA is a regular feature of the Laguna Beach Coastline

Pilot. Contributions are welcomed. Write to Barbara Diamond, P.O. Box

248, Laguna Beach, 92652; hand-deliver to Suite 22 in the Lumberyard,

384 Forest Ave.; call (949) 494-4321 or fax (949) 494-8979.