I will start. In 2002, I crashed in the ER. My vital signs were bottoming out. I had CHF with septicemia and pneumonia. I was rushed into the trauma room, intubated, and a central line was placed in my jugular vein. Since I'm unable to be treated with Solu-Medrol, I was given Decadron. Little did I know the embarassing stories that I was to hear when I began to recover.
My daughter: Whatever they are treating you with here, it sure is giving you some strange messages to tell. You left a message telling me to keep my tootsies on the couch because there is a green monster here and is ready to grab them. Then you asked how you knew, and then you answered; "Because my legs are sticking out!"
SIL the next morning: Laurel, I think they are giving her legalized marijhuana at that hospital. She just sang Polly Wolly Doodle to me and then hung up.
My friend whom I phoned said I called her and kept repeating, "Deep, deep, deep!"
Then I would call people on the phone and not talk on it, but didn't hang it up either.
I also told my old doc off which I didn't mind doing at all on the day I was discharged. He asked me what I wanted to go home on.