My experience of hospital is badly tarnished by my experience of the final time that I took my mum to hospital on the evening of Sunday 4th May 2008. That was an experience that is, frankly, shameful and has left a deep seated antipathy toward a certain hospital on the outskirts of the county town of our westernmost county. I would still struggle to say anything good about the Royal Cornwall Hospital, Treliske.
However, this was not Treliske. When hovering twixt sleep and wonder in a twilight world where everything is looked at but nothing seen from the vantage point of a hospital bed you are conscious of the twilight world in which my cannulating friend and his young lady colleague undertake their roles with masterful competence.
Once my attendant was shown the way out past the security doors I was alone on a shared stage. The two in charge never stopped and my fellow patients never ceased to demand their attention. I watched but mostly I listened.
In the bed next to me a young man, 30ish maybe, was constantly getting up and making rapid movements in the general direction of the exit corridor. Each time either one or the other of the duty nurses would head him off only to be told that he needed the toilet. Patiently they would let him go and usher him back to his bed. When this is taking place every 10 minutes or so, but always when the nurses were in attendance at another bedside, patience becomes hard to come by. It did with me but not with them.
At about 0200 he was escorted back by a couple who were obviously not nurses. One placed him on his bed whilst the other stood at the end of it and explained the process of being sectioned under this act in compliance of this law and by the power invested and so on. The ramifications of such action being taken was emphatically expounded. He didn't sound at all medical. He had some words with my cannulator and returned for more words with my neighbour before leaving. It didn't stop my neighbour from continuing with his escape plans but he was far less determined failing to get out of the ward and only needed oral instruction in order to bring about a somewhat lethargic return to his bed.
As this was going on at about 2230 a lady arrived with her 89(?)year old father in a wheelchair. Both obviously distressed, her with a hint of annoyance if not anger. A diabetic, he had gone out shortly after lunch and taken to drinking. When found he had fallen and was unable to stop the bleeding from his leg. With little fuss he was cleaned, comforted, settled and sorted.
Within a pretty short time his daughter was able to let him know what she thought of him, how sorry she was for those who had to sort him out and so on. During a pause she was delicately removed to one side, sat down, given a mug of something I could have made good use of and calmed. Not long later she went to her Dad's bedside and then took her leave solemnly with head bowed. I hope in relief rather than embarrassment. All told less than an hour with only a few diversions to head off the serial escapee.
During the whole time the bed diagonally furthest from me was occupied .... unoccupied by an elderly man so obviously distressed. Frequently he would kick off his sheets and dramatically divest himself of his gown all in relative silence but once both feet hit the ground he became terribly overexcited but knew not where to go nor what to do next. The young lady of the ward dealt with this man with a wit and firm tenderness that was truly uplifting to witness.
The second amazing person I witnessed that first night.
The other three beds were occupied, one by a seemingly unconscious man, next to him was a man in some discomfort requiring frequent medication and one by me.
At 0230ish a patient was removed from the side ward room opposite me. Much ado, many apologies and the porters wheeled her away with an element of urgency.
Once they had gone a very quiet voice asked me how much I would like to be in that side ward. Turning to my left I saw our firmly tender ward lady writing numbers on grids. I explained that I thought they'd done enough for one night and I think I suggested that if I were her I'd get a coffee and leave me be. Oh, I'm going to she replied and then she called the cannulator and he wheeled me in, made sure the wires were wired and explained that it was going to get noisy as a "shouty" patient was on his way. Is it always like this, I asked. No, sometimes it gets really hectic, he said.
Before he went I must have been asleep.
Their stage is seen by few but their performances are matched by far fewer. But this is no act, these are not actors.
What amazing people such as these are.
I was awoken at 0515 by porters and at 0525 I was in the x-Ray room.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
A piercing for my sister's birthday
The blood taken on Monday was followed by the instruction to revert to doing nothing which took about as much effort as I could manage. The doctor promised to "phone tomorrow about 5.00", which he did.
When the phone rang I answered. With little preamble he asked if I was able to get myself to hospital. When? I enquired, now, he said, they're waiting for you in the triage unit.
Within an hour I was registered, undressed, labelled, tucked in and wheeled away into an acute medical ward. Here a couple of nurses tried in vain to find a vein suitable for a cannula. They were ever so lovely and gentle but six holes and six taped bits of gauze were all there was to show for their efforts.
In next to no time a lady with a laptop on a trolley was scanning my barcoded wrist band, asking me my date of birth and relieving the inside of my elbow of numerous vials of blood. This was a process with which I was about to become exceedingly familiar both in hospital and at the local surgery until the day before yesterday.
Swiftly a blood pressure monitor, temperature monitor and something else was attached and then the bloods lady was back for another few vials full. I was duly informed that my bloods were "deranged" which I thought highly probable as many had been known to consider me generally so.
About 2100 a young man in a nurse uniform passed by and mentioned that he'd come to cannulate me next. My attentive attendant told him that it had already been tried.
Next time he passed he informed us that he didn't say he was going to try to cannulate me, he was going to do it.
Next time he didn't pass by. He stopped, examined my arms, removed the evidence of previous attempts, looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and without me realising it I was cannulated.
He was the first of the truly amazing people I met.
When the phone rang I answered. With little preamble he asked if I was able to get myself to hospital. When? I enquired, now, he said, they're waiting for you in the triage unit.
Within an hour I was registered, undressed, labelled, tucked in and wheeled away into an acute medical ward. Here a couple of nurses tried in vain to find a vein suitable for a cannula. They were ever so lovely and gentle but six holes and six taped bits of gauze were all there was to show for their efforts.
In next to no time a lady with a laptop on a trolley was scanning my barcoded wrist band, asking me my date of birth and relieving the inside of my elbow of numerous vials of blood. This was a process with which I was about to become exceedingly familiar both in hospital and at the local surgery until the day before yesterday.
Swiftly a blood pressure monitor, temperature monitor and something else was attached and then the bloods lady was back for another few vials full. I was duly informed that my bloods were "deranged" which I thought highly probable as many had been known to consider me generally so.
About 2100 a young man in a nurse uniform passed by and mentioned that he'd come to cannulate me next. My attentive attendant told him that it had already been tried.Next time he passed he informed us that he didn't say he was going to try to cannulate me, he was going to do it.
Next time he didn't pass by. He stopped, examined my arms, removed the evidence of previous attempts, looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and without me realising it I was cannulated.
He was the first of the truly amazing people I met.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
̶S̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ my wife is rìght
No sooner had I pressed 《publish》 than the phone rang. Fortunately the last thing that she did before planting stuff in earth outside was to put the phone, a sheet of paper and a pencil on the coffee table easily within arms reach.
Tuesday 4th April, said a very pleasant sounding lady, be here for 0700. That is what I wrote immediately before interrupting the gardener.
How did we get here, I thought? Certainly no effort on my part!
A couple of posts below involved a Saturday walk around Manoel Island in the heat of the Mediterranean sun. That night I went to bed much earlier than was normal but when I woke up I was tired. This felt most odd but unremarkable as I thought that midday heat and too much sun made me a bit exhausted.
The journey home on Wednesday was remarkable for its smoothness. Like clockwork. But I was still abnormally tired. I was told to go to the doctors. I didn't. The week passed and the tiredness continued but I could cope with it.
The second Thursday back was a most lovely day. As close to Mediterranean as you can get in this country in February. Some friends came round for coffee, the real stuff and after they left I thought it a good idea to ride my push bike along the seafront. This I did, stopping for a yarn here and there and covering the cycle paths at a sedate pace. It felt good.
Got home and couldn't lift a pint of Ribena. Lay down on the settee and didn't wake until my wife came home. Much later. Go to the doctors she told me. Don't be silly, I said I just rode 10 miles, I'm bound to be tired. I've done that same route a zillion times and never felt that tired, though.
Friday we went to see a car on a local garage forecourt. At some point the world went wobbly, I turned yellow, struggled to stand, focus, or think. I was put into our car and driven home at which time a phone call to the doctor was made but not by me. Within an hour I was sat in front of a very nice doctor who I'd never met. I only come to the doctors when I'm poorly, I said.
Well, you're poorly, he said. I think it's a virus, hepatitis or similar so go home, stay there, don't do anything and don't take any alcohol. Be here at 0900 on Monday for blood tests.
That was it. I did apologise for taking up his time but with a broad grin and smiling eyes he told me, in a conspiratorial voice that I'd been far more interesting than all the coughs, colds and sore throats that he'd seen all day.
We went home. I didn't go out. I wasn't allowed to do anything. All traces of bottles alcoholic disappeared. No one told me that I should have seen the doctor a fortnight ago.
Maybe there was one who did, but whenever she mentions it she does so with grace and understanding.......
And she had me first in the queue for a blood test long before 0900 on Monday.
Tuesday 4th April, said a very pleasant sounding lady, be here for 0700. That is what I wrote immediately before interrupting the gardener.
How did we get here, I thought? Certainly no effort on my part!
A couple of posts below involved a Saturday walk around Manoel Island in the heat of the Mediterranean sun. That night I went to bed much earlier than was normal but when I woke up I was tired. This felt most odd but unremarkable as I thought that midday heat and too much sun made me a bit exhausted.
The journey home on Wednesday was remarkable for its smoothness. Like clockwork. But I was still abnormally tired. I was told to go to the doctors. I didn't. The week passed and the tiredness continued but I could cope with it.
The second Thursday back was a most lovely day. As close to Mediterranean as you can get in this country in February. Some friends came round for coffee, the real stuff and after they left I thought it a good idea to ride my push bike along the seafront. This I did, stopping for a yarn here and there and covering the cycle paths at a sedate pace. It felt good.
Got home and couldn't lift a pint of Ribena. Lay down on the settee and didn't wake until my wife came home. Much later. Go to the doctors she told me. Don't be silly, I said I just rode 10 miles, I'm bound to be tired. I've done that same route a zillion times and never felt that tired, though.
Friday we went to see a car on a local garage forecourt. At some point the world went wobbly, I turned yellow, struggled to stand, focus, or think. I was put into our car and driven home at which time a phone call to the doctor was made but not by me. Within an hour I was sat in front of a very nice doctor who I'd never met. I only come to the doctors when I'm poorly, I said.
Well, you're poorly, he said. I think it's a virus, hepatitis or similar so go home, stay there, don't do anything and don't take any alcohol. Be here at 0900 on Monday for blood tests.
That was it. I did apologise for taking up his time but with a broad grin and smiling eyes he told me, in a conspiratorial voice that I'd been far more interesting than all the coughs, colds and sore throats that he'd seen all day.
We went home. I didn't go out. I wasn't allowed to do anything. All traces of bottles alcoholic disappeared. No one told me that I should have seen the doctor a fortnight ago.
Maybe there was one who did, but whenever she mentions it she does so with grace and understanding.......
And she had me first in the queue for a blood test long before 0900 on Monday.
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
The day a jar of instant coffee appeared ...... here.
The confession, when it came, was hesitatingly given. Almost sheepishly but in no way
apologetically.
Instant coffee in our house, albeit hidden in plain sight.
We have, in coffee corner, the only part of our kitchen over which I have even the slightest jurisdiction, a full on Gaggia espresso machine, old but rebuilt and fully functional, a marvellous Aerobie Aeropress, a present from some who recognised that our previous one was way beyond sensible repair and a recently purchased, for a magnificently benevolent sum from our highly esteemed coffee supplier, Chemex Filter.
Sharing coffee corner are both a La Pavoni electric burr grinder doser and a rather fine hand grinder for when less heat is required for a more delicate bean.
Hence my surprise at the news that instant coffee had been purveyed. However, I am no longer able to exercise any significant input in respect of one's daily activities.
Like the Gaggia, which over recent months stopped functioning as it was originally designed to operate and which eventualy needed a new switch, then a new boiler, a new pump and extensive internal replumbing I, too, have attained a similar failure to function properly.
Fortunately my pump is excellent according to the anaesthetist , my boiler is fine and my switches function he said. Alas, the surgeon says that my failure to function as originally designed is down to the presence of an alien blocking a tube that must not be blocked.
Thus a fairly significant number of my digestive organs need partial removal and my digestive tract is in need of extensive replumbing.
All the scans have been pored over, the pre-op tests passed, to the surprise of some, and the prognosis given. The pre-op medication sits in a bag a few feet away, a veritable library of books, pamphlets and myriad cards with names and phone numbers are never far from my managerial purveyor of instant coffee.
Now we await a phone call and whilst I am being replumbed, pressure tested and stitched back together visitors may be offered coffee here but it may not be the real thing.
Instant coffee in our house, albeit hidden in plain sight.
We have, in coffee corner, the only part of our kitchen over which I have even the slightest jurisdiction, a full on Gaggia espresso machine, old but rebuilt and fully functional, a marvellous Aerobie Aeropress, a present from some who recognised that our previous one was way beyond sensible repair and a recently purchased, for a magnificently benevolent sum from our highly esteemed coffee supplier, Chemex Filter.
Sharing coffee corner are both a La Pavoni electric burr grinder doser and a rather fine hand grinder for when less heat is required for a more delicate bean.
Hence my surprise at the news that instant coffee had been purveyed. However, I am no longer able to exercise any significant input in respect of one's daily activities.
Like the Gaggia, which over recent months stopped functioning as it was originally designed to operate and which eventualy needed a new switch, then a new boiler, a new pump and extensive internal replumbing I, too, have attained a similar failure to function properly.
Fortunately my pump is excellent according to the anaesthetist , my boiler is fine and my switches function he said. Alas, the surgeon says that my failure to function as originally designed is down to the presence of an alien blocking a tube that must not be blocked.
Thus a fairly significant number of my digestive organs need partial removal and my digestive tract is in need of extensive replumbing.
All the scans have been pored over, the pre-op tests passed, to the surprise of some, and the prognosis given. The pre-op medication sits in a bag a few feet away, a veritable library of books, pamphlets and myriad cards with names and phone numbers are never far from my managerial purveyor of instant coffee.
Now we await a phone call and whilst I am being replumbed, pressure tested and stitched back together visitors may be offered coffee here but it may not be the real thing.
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