Mostly I was smitten by the hospital's location, nestled between two lagoons on the island of Alameda, set back from the main street, with windows that opened, barely the sound of a siren, or even a car alarm. Twice a day, someone on a PA system asked for those with cars blocking the portable MRI van to move them. But that was made up for by the occasional sound of a passing ice cream truck.
As technology editor, of course I wanted to know everything about my condition as soon as possible. But the healing process isn't helped by checking one's online medical record every five minutes.
Those things that truly helped me heal often boiled down to things like the kind advice of a nurse to take ten deep breaths an hour, or my willingness to get up out of bed and walk, as determined to use my feet to improve my condition as if I were trying to induce labor.
Someone, I don't remember who, also cracked wise that under Obamacare, if I liked my appendix, I could keep my appendix. I smiled wanly and suggested that I was not as fond of my appendix as I used to be.
Just the Fax
That following Monday, as I tried to retrieve my lost jacket, I also was able to obtain a paper copy of my medical record, and to send a copy of it along to my primary care physician, via that old reliable, the fax machine.