Throughout the journey undertaken to date I have been of all men most fortunate. There's never been a why me attitude, nor undue anxiety and whenever I've needed a different view it has been provided.
I shall mention two events that I hope will never leave me.
The first took place on the Sunday morning of my CT scan. I'd been collected early and wheeled to the place where the scanner was. I was parked in the deserted cool corridor and left for while. To my right a porter was pushing a lady in a sturdy wheelchair toward me. I couldn't avoid looking at her as she looked quite remarkable. Colourless very thin hair, high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, very elegant in her youth, I surmised. I put her at late 60's early 70's if I was being generous. She was placed very near me and I was reminded of Cream, Disraeli Gears, Mother's Lament, she was nought but a skeleton covered in skin. I felt such a wave of sympathy for her and wondered where her journey had taken her and where she was headed.
When you are collected your name is called but as there were only the two of us the nurse went to my near neighbour and asked her date of birth.
I don't recall the day or the month but when she got to the year she said 1986.
She was two years younger than my daughter.
The second occurred during my final stay (so far) and on my last Wednesday.
A man was wheeled into E1 during the afternoon and was very seriously jaundiced. Like you were my visitor remarked. Was I that colour? At least, she said. It didn't look nice. He lay quietly all afternoon his wife in close attendance.
Before I woke on Thursday he'd been taken away. Late afternoon his wife arrived and he came along shortly after. Very soon a familiar doctor and team were in attendance. It was very quiet and even though the curtains were drawn they are no barrier to words. He had all the tests that I'd had in a week on that one day. The doctor quietly but clearly said that all the test results had been examined and passed to a radiographer. Silence. Dispersal.
Just after the doctor saw me on Friday morning he reappeared at E1 sans team but with another man, the radiographer who pulled the curtains around and clearly said that there was nothing they could do and that a palliative care team would be along shortly. I guess his wife asked the question to which the answer was weeks rather than months.
They went and his wife, Margaret tried to phone her son but she was in pieces, as you would be but across the ward, Pat visiting her husband went over, put her arm around her, used her phone to contact her son and passed the phone back to her. It was a beautifully tender response to an awful situation.
The palliative care team did all that had to be done and that evening the family was beside the bedside.
They asked if there was a side room, there wasn't but by first thing Saturday he'd been moved to somewhere more appropriate and eventually to a hospice, I trust.
He was called Roger and he was one of the 4 in 5.
Saturday, June 03, 2017
Final move
That last Monday began with the usual doctor and team visit but this time he asked if I had my "Creon" to which I replied that I hadn't. He would arrange for it and I could take solids because my numbers were looking good, almost normal, he said and then added that we could think of going home soon. The shock of his last statement took a while to sink in but even then I was thinking days, not hours.
The delightful doctor returned and she explained that I'd be on Creon for life and that a pharmacist would be along shortly. She explained that all my numbers were good but I asked about Billy anyway.
Billy Rubin is a marker of liver function / jaundice and it should be less than 1. I had been over 600 for a time. Such values are not good, indeed fatal if maintained for too long. I'd treated it all with a flippancy unworthy of the people earnestly engaged in its reduction. She explained that since my infection had been beaten by serious doses of IV antibiotic my numbers had seen a speedy return to a normality that hadn't been evident for months. The rate at which they had eventually reverted was a good sign so such was their confidence that she was about to write my discharge sheets.
A while later a nurse came along and told us that I was likely to go home tomorrow which she thought a bit soon, as did I if I'm being honest.
The pharmacist brought the Creon and explained it's use and how to calculate the dose which you don't want to know about. Then I had a small portion of beef and mushroom pie, followed by ice cream but then the cook lady who'd always promised to feed me up arrived with steam pudd'n and custard as I'd told her it was high amongst my favourites. Unfortunately, I ate it. It was lovely but being so full on so little was a new experience and I spent an afternoon suffering. I was more cautious in the evening.
More blood tests ensued with a comment that these should be he last. Seems that my leaving was well known but we had no details.
About 1030 that evening Don, the nurse and Janice came to tell me that I was being moved from E Bay to another ward but they didn't know where. There was a bed shortage of epidemic proportions and Tuesday was the big surgery day of the week.
Thus just after 1100 at night porters arrived, put all my stuff in bags and wheeled me away. A brief sojourn in a corridor hemmed in by a load of operating trolleys saw me eventually settled in a basement ward with no windows, recycled cool air, sealed doors and no radio signal whatsoever. I had to revert to the iPod.
I later found out that this 40 bed ward had been used to store trolleys until mid afternoon when the decision to reinstate it had been taken. There was a great deal of technology around and sensors all over the place, this was the ward for use in the event of radiation accidents, or not accidents!
It was certainly full of fresh air and doors in abundance just to get to the toilet or shower. Tuesday morning the doctor and team arrived nodded, smiled and shook hands and told me that I'd be discharged early in the afternoon once the picc(?) line had been removed. That was a bit of an undertaking, too. As he went he said to a nurse that if I kept my lunch down for an hour or so I could go.
Lunch was fish pie but I had declined the extra potato. I should have declined the peas as well. Of course I kept it down although it was a struggle and the trip home was accompanied by a bucket on my lap. I kept it down for 12 hours but once I gave up the fight I felt so much better.
So, home, sore, tired, thrilled and ever so thankful. It wouldn't be all plain sailing but it felt good.
It was a little over a week later that we had to return. Drove an hour there, waited two more, saw the doctor for two minutes during which time he told me I'd have to keep the drain in for another three weeks and off he went. Fortunately, the nurse realised that we needed a few more minutes of his time and got him to return, eventually. My wife asked about the operation, specifically the tumour.
He seemed taken aback that no one had told us but he confirmed that it had been malignant and that once discharged from his care we'd revert to the care of our local hospital who would arrange chemotherapy treatment.
It was at this meeting that it was confirmed that after a thorough search I definitely did not have a spleen.
Then we drove back home but went back in less than 3 weeks to have the drain removed. That made a terrific difference.
So, now we wait for whatever comes next .
The delightful doctor returned and she explained that I'd be on Creon for life and that a pharmacist would be along shortly. She explained that all my numbers were good but I asked about Billy anyway.
Billy Rubin is a marker of liver function / jaundice and it should be less than 1. I had been over 600 for a time. Such values are not good, indeed fatal if maintained for too long. I'd treated it all with a flippancy unworthy of the people earnestly engaged in its reduction. She explained that since my infection had been beaten by serious doses of IV antibiotic my numbers had seen a speedy return to a normality that hadn't been evident for months. The rate at which they had eventually reverted was a good sign so such was their confidence that she was about to write my discharge sheets.
A while later a nurse came along and told us that I was likely to go home tomorrow which she thought a bit soon, as did I if I'm being honest.
The pharmacist brought the Creon and explained it's use and how to calculate the dose which you don't want to know about. Then I had a small portion of beef and mushroom pie, followed by ice cream but then the cook lady who'd always promised to feed me up arrived with steam pudd'n and custard as I'd told her it was high amongst my favourites. Unfortunately, I ate it. It was lovely but being so full on so little was a new experience and I spent an afternoon suffering. I was more cautious in the evening.
More blood tests ensued with a comment that these should be he last. Seems that my leaving was well known but we had no details.
About 1030 that evening Don, the nurse and Janice came to tell me that I was being moved from E Bay to another ward but they didn't know where. There was a bed shortage of epidemic proportions and Tuesday was the big surgery day of the week.
Thus just after 1100 at night porters arrived, put all my stuff in bags and wheeled me away. A brief sojourn in a corridor hemmed in by a load of operating trolleys saw me eventually settled in a basement ward with no windows, recycled cool air, sealed doors and no radio signal whatsoever. I had to revert to the iPod.
I later found out that this 40 bed ward had been used to store trolleys until mid afternoon when the decision to reinstate it had been taken. There was a great deal of technology around and sensors all over the place, this was the ward for use in the event of radiation accidents, or not accidents!
It was certainly full of fresh air and doors in abundance just to get to the toilet or shower. Tuesday morning the doctor and team arrived nodded, smiled and shook hands and told me that I'd be discharged early in the afternoon once the picc(?) line had been removed. That was a bit of an undertaking, too. As he went he said to a nurse that if I kept my lunch down for an hour or so I could go.
Lunch was fish pie but I had declined the extra potato. I should have declined the peas as well. Of course I kept it down although it was a struggle and the trip home was accompanied by a bucket on my lap. I kept it down for 12 hours but once I gave up the fight I felt so much better.
So, home, sore, tired, thrilled and ever so thankful. It wouldn't be all plain sailing but it felt good.
It was a little over a week later that we had to return. Drove an hour there, waited two more, saw the doctor for two minutes during which time he told me I'd have to keep the drain in for another three weeks and off he went. Fortunately, the nurse realised that we needed a few more minutes of his time and got him to return, eventually. My wife asked about the operation, specifically the tumour.
He seemed taken aback that no one had told us but he confirmed that it had been malignant and that once discharged from his care we'd revert to the care of our local hospital who would arrange chemotherapy treatment.
It was at this meeting that it was confirmed that after a thorough search I definitely did not have a spleen.
Then we drove back home but went back in less than 3 weeks to have the drain removed. That made a terrific difference.
So, now we wait for whatever comes next .
Unmerited patience
If you've endured thus far you will know that I could not hold the BBC in any more than the lowest of contemptible corporations. It simply should not be allowed to exist in its current form. At every opportunity it seeks to denigrate, humiliate, and cynically undermine every aspect of what it was established to uphold.
For a few days we had a BMW salesman occupying a bed in E bay. How do I know? Because he spent nearly all day loudly talking to his colleagues on his phone. He also paid for TV access. Thus I awoke to breakfast time TV and proceeded to endure daytime tv as he refused headphones. By mid afternoon, and being unable to hear my brother speak I asked him to turn it down, which he did. A little. The main item running on local news was our health correspondent telling us that 3 out of 5 full time health professionals wanted out and that the NHS was choked with old people bed blocking.
Less than 2 minutes with Google elicited that her quoted survey had been a telephone poll of a few hundred people undertaken by a bunch of students from a university that hadn't existed a decade ago. I'm sure that you could substitute full time health professionals for tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies or any profession you care to name and the results would be the same.
But old people bed blocking? Not that I've seen in my very small sample of wards over a very few weeks. One elderly gent was desperate to get home but social services were unable to source the personnel needed for him.
However, every ward of six beds had at least one drug addict and usually two cluttering up the system. The first I met refused to go to the hostel offered as he'd been there and didn't like it. He had to have a temporary address to get a temporary doctor to write a prescription for his methadone. After nearly a week a large social worker arrived and told him that they were leaving the ward, he was going to the hostel to be registered there after which he could do whatever he liked. They left.
One Friday night a young (38) addict was wheeled into a bed opposite me by paramedics carrying the detritus of his life in carrier bags. He was canulated, drip fed and an orangey yellow drip was attached as well. He remained docile all day Saturday but at 0615 on Sunday i was awoken by a bright light shining at me and this fellow rabbiting away on his phone. He was talking postcodes, house numbers and figures which sounded like quantities of goods and cash. He then arranged for a friend to collect and deliver. A nurse closed the curtains but they may dull the glare but not the volume.
There was much rummaging around and then he went off to get a jug of fresh water. I believe he had arranged various drug deals and was taking his own drugs. Mid morning his mother came and demonstrated with him for self discharging himself from this hospital recently and one other. She left very upset and his sister arrived and comiserated with him but left no room for any doubt over what she thought.
By late morning the doctor arrived and explained that he ws so full of opiates that he ws unable to digest any food and that they had to clear out his intestines. He promptly asked for particular drugs to be given which the doctor refused. He got quite wound up and then declared that he'd discharge himself. This, he was assured he was free to do. So he did. As he collected his things you became aware of serious personal hygiene issues but eventually he was ready to go. At this point he began shouting for a nurse who promptly arrived only to be asked to send for some porters to carry his bags down to the bus stop. This too, was declined. He went anyway.
Then his area was deep cleaned and it was only once the curtains were removed that the filth and damage he had caused became apparent. It took teams of cleaners and handymen till 9 in the evening to make his bay useable.
The final example of an addict reminded me of Neil in the young ones. Always whining, whingeing and demanding attention. Every few minutes for days he demanded methadone, oromorph and various other pain killers. At this time I was a frequent morphia user myself but he kept saying his leg pain was 8/10. Yeah, right.
It amused all of us that as soon as every nurse had told him "no" he briskly swung his painful leg and his good one out of bed and marched off for a fag. Outside was a significant walk away. This went on and on for days. Finally a doctor and nurse told him he was being discharged to his hostel. Cue Oscar quality whining, whingeing, complaining, painful to listen to but finally he said he couldn't afford the taxi. Fags, newspapers in abundance but no money to get home. The nurse informed him that the taxi was paid for by the NHS, cue sharp intake of breath all round, but that at one o'clock the meter would start and if he wasn't there he'd be charged for keeping it waiting. Moaning and cussing he went. Cue deep cleaning but no damage although two phone chargers were left in the wall sockets.
Drug addicts are costing the NHS dear but do you ever hear that on the BBC?
I conclude this post with by far the very worst example of patient misbehaviour, any misbehaviour I've ever seen. Unfortunately this specimen occupied the bed opposite me. Foul in every aspect doesn't begin to do him, his mother or his cousin justice.
He arrived clad in two gowns laced at the sides carrying his catheter bag with his utterly obnoxious mum in tow. Their language was obscene. All the time. They treated the staff like dirt. In the mornings he'd be asked to get up to allow a bed change. He told them where to go. The cooks would ask for menu preferences and he'd swear at them, too. He'd stomp about the ward at 0200 shouting into his phone eating pasties, pastries and chocolate.
He was, I was reliably informed, a frequent flyer. He had a wuss of a GP who stood for little. When he wanted his bedding changed he'd disconnect his catheter bag and drip some of it's contents between his legs and get a nurse to sort out his "leaking" catheter. I saw him do this more than once.
His mother would visit, sit in his chair, plug in her mobile and shout at her phone. All afternoon. She was foul, too.
On Friday afternoon his older cousin arrived. She had left a course because it was like school. I thought they cut your benefits if you walked, he said. They never do, she replied. She then explained that she'd been to the benefits office to claim for this that and the other as her telly was two years old and she wanted a bigger one. The benefits she'd just claimed were for specific use but no one checked so she could spend them on a new telly.
Earlier, Pat, visiting her husband next to this creature asked what he did. Nothing, he said. He was on benefits. He'd not only never worked a day in his life he, nor anyone else in his family ever intended to. She asked him where he thought the money came from, he replied, "the government, they got plenty" she was aghast, as were the rest of us.
On Saturday afternoon they all arrived to visit laden with bottles of coke, Pepsi, tango, dr.pepper and every other fizzy drink imaginable, bags of Haribo by the dozen and towers of chocolate bars. He began phoning his mates inviting them into hospital to watch some tv show that evening. We were in shock. Pat was noting everything said and went to see someone. She returned as they all trooped out for their fags.
Fortunately, around 5 to 5:30 they all started shouting and swearing at each other and by 5:35 He was left alone cursing and swearing loudly to any who cared to pay attention. No one did and eventually fags dragged him away and the evening passed quietly.
On Monday the eagerly and constantly demanded urologist arrived to see him. He was on an extended fag break but a nurse offered to find him. No need, I've seen him before. There's nothing wrong with him. Remove the catheter and send him home. When he returned he lay down and some hours later demanded that the urologist appear. When informed that he had done so this foul specimen threatened to sue, instigate proceedings and other dire consequences.
This carried on for ages but before the conclusion was reached I'd been removed.
If a person cannot work I'll gladly pay my taxes to support them. If a person will not work then let them starve. This family were utterly foul, rude, selfish and having never worked had no conception of what it means to get on with people. We have paid our taxes to permit this utterly intolerable state to not only continue but to flourish.
Shame on us but you will never find our BBC reporting this shameful state of affairs but no doubt some politico programme commissioner would make it into a sitcom or reality TV programme and think they were doing a good job.
Such is the depravity of our national broadcaster.
For a few days we had a BMW salesman occupying a bed in E bay. How do I know? Because he spent nearly all day loudly talking to his colleagues on his phone. He also paid for TV access. Thus I awoke to breakfast time TV and proceeded to endure daytime tv as he refused headphones. By mid afternoon, and being unable to hear my brother speak I asked him to turn it down, which he did. A little. The main item running on local news was our health correspondent telling us that 3 out of 5 full time health professionals wanted out and that the NHS was choked with old people bed blocking.
Less than 2 minutes with Google elicited that her quoted survey had been a telephone poll of a few hundred people undertaken by a bunch of students from a university that hadn't existed a decade ago. I'm sure that you could substitute full time health professionals for tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies or any profession you care to name and the results would be the same.
But old people bed blocking? Not that I've seen in my very small sample of wards over a very few weeks. One elderly gent was desperate to get home but social services were unable to source the personnel needed for him.
However, every ward of six beds had at least one drug addict and usually two cluttering up the system. The first I met refused to go to the hostel offered as he'd been there and didn't like it. He had to have a temporary address to get a temporary doctor to write a prescription for his methadone. After nearly a week a large social worker arrived and told him that they were leaving the ward, he was going to the hostel to be registered there after which he could do whatever he liked. They left.
One Friday night a young (38) addict was wheeled into a bed opposite me by paramedics carrying the detritus of his life in carrier bags. He was canulated, drip fed and an orangey yellow drip was attached as well. He remained docile all day Saturday but at 0615 on Sunday i was awoken by a bright light shining at me and this fellow rabbiting away on his phone. He was talking postcodes, house numbers and figures which sounded like quantities of goods and cash. He then arranged for a friend to collect and deliver. A nurse closed the curtains but they may dull the glare but not the volume.
There was much rummaging around and then he went off to get a jug of fresh water. I believe he had arranged various drug deals and was taking his own drugs. Mid morning his mother came and demonstrated with him for self discharging himself from this hospital recently and one other. She left very upset and his sister arrived and comiserated with him but left no room for any doubt over what she thought.
By late morning the doctor arrived and explained that he ws so full of opiates that he ws unable to digest any food and that they had to clear out his intestines. He promptly asked for particular drugs to be given which the doctor refused. He got quite wound up and then declared that he'd discharge himself. This, he was assured he was free to do. So he did. As he collected his things you became aware of serious personal hygiene issues but eventually he was ready to go. At this point he began shouting for a nurse who promptly arrived only to be asked to send for some porters to carry his bags down to the bus stop. This too, was declined. He went anyway.
Then his area was deep cleaned and it was only once the curtains were removed that the filth and damage he had caused became apparent. It took teams of cleaners and handymen till 9 in the evening to make his bay useable.
The final example of an addict reminded me of Neil in the young ones. Always whining, whingeing and demanding attention. Every few minutes for days he demanded methadone, oromorph and various other pain killers. At this time I was a frequent morphia user myself but he kept saying his leg pain was 8/10. Yeah, right.
It amused all of us that as soon as every nurse had told him "no" he briskly swung his painful leg and his good one out of bed and marched off for a fag. Outside was a significant walk away. This went on and on for days. Finally a doctor and nurse told him he was being discharged to his hostel. Cue Oscar quality whining, whingeing, complaining, painful to listen to but finally he said he couldn't afford the taxi. Fags, newspapers in abundance but no money to get home. The nurse informed him that the taxi was paid for by the NHS, cue sharp intake of breath all round, but that at one o'clock the meter would start and if he wasn't there he'd be charged for keeping it waiting. Moaning and cussing he went. Cue deep cleaning but no damage although two phone chargers were left in the wall sockets.
Drug addicts are costing the NHS dear but do you ever hear that on the BBC?
I conclude this post with by far the very worst example of patient misbehaviour, any misbehaviour I've ever seen. Unfortunately this specimen occupied the bed opposite me. Foul in every aspect doesn't begin to do him, his mother or his cousin justice.
He arrived clad in two gowns laced at the sides carrying his catheter bag with his utterly obnoxious mum in tow. Their language was obscene. All the time. They treated the staff like dirt. In the mornings he'd be asked to get up to allow a bed change. He told them where to go. The cooks would ask for menu preferences and he'd swear at them, too. He'd stomp about the ward at 0200 shouting into his phone eating pasties, pastries and chocolate.
He was, I was reliably informed, a frequent flyer. He had a wuss of a GP who stood for little. When he wanted his bedding changed he'd disconnect his catheter bag and drip some of it's contents between his legs and get a nurse to sort out his "leaking" catheter. I saw him do this more than once.
His mother would visit, sit in his chair, plug in her mobile and shout at her phone. All afternoon. She was foul, too.
On Friday afternoon his older cousin arrived. She had left a course because it was like school. I thought they cut your benefits if you walked, he said. They never do, she replied. She then explained that she'd been to the benefits office to claim for this that and the other as her telly was two years old and she wanted a bigger one. The benefits she'd just claimed were for specific use but no one checked so she could spend them on a new telly.
Earlier, Pat, visiting her husband next to this creature asked what he did. Nothing, he said. He was on benefits. He'd not only never worked a day in his life he, nor anyone else in his family ever intended to. She asked him where he thought the money came from, he replied, "the government, they got plenty" she was aghast, as were the rest of us.
On Saturday afternoon they all arrived to visit laden with bottles of coke, Pepsi, tango, dr.pepper and every other fizzy drink imaginable, bags of Haribo by the dozen and towers of chocolate bars. He began phoning his mates inviting them into hospital to watch some tv show that evening. We were in shock. Pat was noting everything said and went to see someone. She returned as they all trooped out for their fags.
Fortunately, around 5 to 5:30 they all started shouting and swearing at each other and by 5:35 He was left alone cursing and swearing loudly to any who cared to pay attention. No one did and eventually fags dragged him away and the evening passed quietly.
On Monday the eagerly and constantly demanded urologist arrived to see him. He was on an extended fag break but a nurse offered to find him. No need, I've seen him before. There's nothing wrong with him. Remove the catheter and send him home. When he returned he lay down and some hours later demanded that the urologist appear. When informed that he had done so this foul specimen threatened to sue, instigate proceedings and other dire consequences.
This carried on for ages but before the conclusion was reached I'd been removed.
If a person cannot work I'll gladly pay my taxes to support them. If a person will not work then let them starve. This family were utterly foul, rude, selfish and having never worked had no conception of what it means to get on with people. We have paid our taxes to permit this utterly intolerable state to not only continue but to flourish.
Shame on us but you will never find our BBC reporting this shameful state of affairs but no doubt some politico programme commissioner would make it into a sitcom or reality TV programme and think they were doing a good job.
Such is the depravity of our national broadcaster.
Friday, June 02, 2017
Unmerited kindness
It goes without saying that those caring for you as you lie pretty much helpless in a hospital bed do a good job. The cleaners are just so helpful, tidying up, rearranging the cards and not complaining when the presence of so many makes wiping a window sill more of a trial than it needs to be but they are glad when you take away all but a few.
The ladies who come around with their pads asking you for your menu choices who then see "Sips" beside your name and roll their eyes in sympathy and who, after a fortnight, offer whatever you want as soon as you're allowed something more and are true to their word. Alas, all I could manage was not much but endless ice cream could have been mine!
But the nurses, the nursing care was amazing. Thoughtful, understanding, everything you have no right to expect it to be it is all that and more.
It is the more that makes such a difference. Early in the morning of my first Sunday in E1 I woke and felt conscious. It was refreshing in its way, more clearly aware of your circumstances and environment than hitherto. It provided time for reflection because it was so quiet. By Saturday evening I was one of two on the ward, one had been allowed home to see if he could manage his condition but he was due back on Sunday, opposite me a gentleman was waiting to go home first thing on Sunday if his medication allowed for it. Late on Saturday an elderly gent was placed in E2 but I wasn't really with it. After a good night's sleep, a rare pleasure in hospital, I felt pretty good for an immobile inert lump.
The 0800 changeover came but was far more relaxed than the usual rush. The nurse for the day was Humphrey. A delightful man. My wife later endeared herself to him by finding out that he was once #7 in The World at Chess and that in Kenya he was a national legend and all because he explained how 'checkmate' was a very unpleasant word in his vocabulary. Our first conversation was brief but of huge significance.
He asked if there was anything he could do for me, this as he was emptying bags along my left hand side. I asked if he could pull the curtains back so I could see the window. You like to look out of the window, he asked? We'll go over there if you like, he said. I can't walk, I said. No, I'll wheel your bed there he said.
So I was moved to the vacant E3 berth. It was not until much later that another nurse explained that the process of moving 30 feet involved much paperwork, computer record amending and numerous other duties, which was why it wasn't done, she said.
All I can say is that the fact of lying next to a window made a huge difference to my reawakening consciousness as well as making it far more comfortable for visitors and quieter at night. It really made a tremendous difference. Gratitude was abundant, although I think it passed largely unnoticed so busy are all the staff all the time.
Humphrey did not have to move me. I had done nothing to deserve it, it was an act of unmerited kindness, the first of many. On the Tuesday morning I was taken off antibiotics. About four I had an attack of the shakes the same as afflicted me immediately prior to the op. Andy, who was opposite me pressed the alarm and Humphrey arrived thinking l was fitting he called the duty doctor. I explained that it wasn't a fit but at home with a wooden bed it wasn't terribly dramatic here in a steel bed the racket was something else. The doctor sent to the path lab to find out the results from the stent now removed and put me on IV paracetamol.
Jen, the other nurse started piling on the blankets. Eventually, calm was restored and Jen stood by removing blankets as my temperature fell. By the time a semblance of normality was restored I noted the time and wondered why she was still here. It was after her shift change, not much but enough. I'd not even noticed the changeover. She shouldn't have been there but she was. I'm glad of that, too but almost an hour and a quarter after the shift change Humphrey returned.
He apologised for having neglected (his words, not mine) to show me how to use a medication for my severely unpleasant mouth and tongue which the doctor had decided showed signs of fungal infection. He'd put the bottle on my table earlier but I'd been in no state to know about it. He'd left and come back.
I thanked him profusely but all he said was that I'd be here tomorrow but he was off to play in a chess tournament some hundred miles away and he needed a clear head to win! Which he decisively did.
After a week or more I was put on the feed bags which were changed at 7:00pm. Toby, a nurse with a penchant for decent motorbikes, was charged with changing the bag. Knowing that I was pretty desperate for a shower, which after a fortnight was long overdue, happened to disconnect my drip, then the feed bag and said, "ooops, I haven't taken the new one out of the fridge" and with a smile produced a fresh towel and told me that it would take him almost exactly the time it would take me to have a shower.
He even brought a bare trolley pole thing which normally holds drips and pumps for me to steady my feeble self. Once clean and spangly l was once again piped up but feeling oh, so much better especially as the bedding had been changed as well. He didn't have to, but he did.
The next day the dietician lady with the flag of St.Piran informed me that I was going onto 18hr bags so I could exercise a bit. Great. This meant that I would be free from 1300-1900 so my chaperone and I could wander a bit. Sadly, for various reasons that evening the bag didn't go on till after 10 which trolopsed our plans. Next day, Amanda, nurse of exceedingly great talent offered to speak to the nutrition people and get the bags back on track.
It actually took a couple of days to restore the afternoon wandering schedule but she did it. It's a shame I couldn't wander much but I tried.
Even on my last full day when we were a bit concerned how we'd get me to the entrance a very experienced, perceptive and wise nurse called Nikki took my wife, showed her a lift we didn't know about, a back entrance, a car park and a place to park for a short time that made our exit easy and allayed our fears with one thoughtful wander around a relatively unknown part of this massive place.
I could go on but I hope you get the gist. The effect of these unmerited kindnesses was very great but probably umeasurable empirically.
There were so many others, Andy, who called for aid when I couldn't acquired sachets of pineapple juice once he knew it was my favourite and placed them in plain sight ready for the day. I'm glad to say that his day came before mine. It was a privilege to be there when after nearly 130 days he went home, albeit due to return in June or July for a final op.
Perhaps my sister provided the most amusing scenario. On one of her earliest visits she brought this small jar. I could barely raise myself up above the regulation 30degrees but I opened it and had a sniff. Freshly ground coffee. A snort was a more accurate description but I could wake up and smell the coffee, she said. I have to say that I did henceforth as did numerous staff and fellow patients. It provided amusement for many.
However, nothing can match a visit from your grandson and nothing did. He'll never remember it but I'll never forget it.
So many did so much but none had to and I had in no way earned their kindness but I will always be grateful for having received such an over abundance of it.
The ladies who come around with their pads asking you for your menu choices who then see "Sips" beside your name and roll their eyes in sympathy and who, after a fortnight, offer whatever you want as soon as you're allowed something more and are true to their word. Alas, all I could manage was not much but endless ice cream could have been mine!
But the nurses, the nursing care was amazing. Thoughtful, understanding, everything you have no right to expect it to be it is all that and more.
It is the more that makes such a difference. Early in the morning of my first Sunday in E1 I woke and felt conscious. It was refreshing in its way, more clearly aware of your circumstances and environment than hitherto. It provided time for reflection because it was so quiet. By Saturday evening I was one of two on the ward, one had been allowed home to see if he could manage his condition but he was due back on Sunday, opposite me a gentleman was waiting to go home first thing on Sunday if his medication allowed for it. Late on Saturday an elderly gent was placed in E2 but I wasn't really with it. After a good night's sleep, a rare pleasure in hospital, I felt pretty good for an immobile inert lump.
The 0800 changeover came but was far more relaxed than the usual rush. The nurse for the day was Humphrey. A delightful man. My wife later endeared herself to him by finding out that he was once #7 in The World at Chess and that in Kenya he was a national legend and all because he explained how 'checkmate' was a very unpleasant word in his vocabulary. Our first conversation was brief but of huge significance.
He asked if there was anything he could do for me, this as he was emptying bags along my left hand side. I asked if he could pull the curtains back so I could see the window. You like to look out of the window, he asked? We'll go over there if you like, he said. I can't walk, I said. No, I'll wheel your bed there he said.
So I was moved to the vacant E3 berth. It was not until much later that another nurse explained that the process of moving 30 feet involved much paperwork, computer record amending and numerous other duties, which was why it wasn't done, she said.
All I can say is that the fact of lying next to a window made a huge difference to my reawakening consciousness as well as making it far more comfortable for visitors and quieter at night. It really made a tremendous difference. Gratitude was abundant, although I think it passed largely unnoticed so busy are all the staff all the time.
Humphrey did not have to move me. I had done nothing to deserve it, it was an act of unmerited kindness, the first of many. On the Tuesday morning I was taken off antibiotics. About four I had an attack of the shakes the same as afflicted me immediately prior to the op. Andy, who was opposite me pressed the alarm and Humphrey arrived thinking l was fitting he called the duty doctor. I explained that it wasn't a fit but at home with a wooden bed it wasn't terribly dramatic here in a steel bed the racket was something else. The doctor sent to the path lab to find out the results from the stent now removed and put me on IV paracetamol.
Jen, the other nurse started piling on the blankets. Eventually, calm was restored and Jen stood by removing blankets as my temperature fell. By the time a semblance of normality was restored I noted the time and wondered why she was still here. It was after her shift change, not much but enough. I'd not even noticed the changeover. She shouldn't have been there but she was. I'm glad of that, too but almost an hour and a quarter after the shift change Humphrey returned.
He apologised for having neglected (his words, not mine) to show me how to use a medication for my severely unpleasant mouth and tongue which the doctor had decided showed signs of fungal infection. He'd put the bottle on my table earlier but I'd been in no state to know about it. He'd left and come back.
I thanked him profusely but all he said was that I'd be here tomorrow but he was off to play in a chess tournament some hundred miles away and he needed a clear head to win! Which he decisively did.
After a week or more I was put on the feed bags which were changed at 7:00pm. Toby, a nurse with a penchant for decent motorbikes, was charged with changing the bag. Knowing that I was pretty desperate for a shower, which after a fortnight was long overdue, happened to disconnect my drip, then the feed bag and said, "ooops, I haven't taken the new one out of the fridge" and with a smile produced a fresh towel and told me that it would take him almost exactly the time it would take me to have a shower.
He even brought a bare trolley pole thing which normally holds drips and pumps for me to steady my feeble self. Once clean and spangly l was once again piped up but feeling oh, so much better especially as the bedding had been changed as well. He didn't have to, but he did.
The next day the dietician lady with the flag of St.Piran informed me that I was going onto 18hr bags so I could exercise a bit. Great. This meant that I would be free from 1300-1900 so my chaperone and I could wander a bit. Sadly, for various reasons that evening the bag didn't go on till after 10 which trolopsed our plans. Next day, Amanda, nurse of exceedingly great talent offered to speak to the nutrition people and get the bags back on track.
It actually took a couple of days to restore the afternoon wandering schedule but she did it. It's a shame I couldn't wander much but I tried.
Even on my last full day when we were a bit concerned how we'd get me to the entrance a very experienced, perceptive and wise nurse called Nikki took my wife, showed her a lift we didn't know about, a back entrance, a car park and a place to park for a short time that made our exit easy and allayed our fears with one thoughtful wander around a relatively unknown part of this massive place.
I could go on but I hope you get the gist. The effect of these unmerited kindnesses was very great but probably umeasurable empirically.
There were so many others, Andy, who called for aid when I couldn't acquired sachets of pineapple juice once he knew it was my favourite and placed them in plain sight ready for the day. I'm glad to say that his day came before mine. It was a privilege to be there when after nearly 130 days he went home, albeit due to return in June or July for a final op.
However, nothing can match a visit from your grandson and nothing did. He'll never remember it but I'll never forget it.
So many did so much but none had to and I had in no way earned their kindness but I will always be grateful for having received such an over abundance of it.
Monday, May 29, 2017
The reawakening
The first morning sans nose throat stomach pipe the doctor and his entourage looked on with less of a confident gaze than usual. Numbers were mentioned and questions requested.
In my yoof I was pretty good at the smart Alec one liners and caustic put downs. In fact I was very good but this did not make me popular with management or colleagues as my interjections invariably extended the meetings. It wasn't smart and it wasn't clever but the day came when the smart retort was there but the moment had passed. Some thought it long overdue sign of maturity but really it was just decay.
So it was most days with the doctor and the opportunity for questions. I thought of them about 90 seconds after they'd gone. Fortunately one of his youthful entourage was a pretty petite doctor with a ready smile and understanding eyes. She would usually casually return later ostensibly to browse the ring folder of notes at the foot of thd bed but i think she was just saving me the embarrasment and providing opportunity for queries to be explained.
She it was who explained about the new me. I told her that my mum said I could eat a horse and chase the driver. Rider, she offered. Driver I assured her. Growing up the only horse we ever seen was strapped into Ben Phillips' cart with Ben Phillips holding the reins as he lurched off the sand, up the slip and proceeded to fill in the gaps between the cobbles with ray slime. It made the wharf a very slippery place. I used to think it was why the rays were called skate. I was wrong about that, too.
Anyway, I explained that the only time I felt proper full was Christmas or Chinese take away nights. She informed me that I'd get used to feeling full because the lower part of my stomach, the stretchy springy bit capable of mighty expansion was by now, ashes. The top part would stretch, a bit, given enough time but seeing as it was all I had left I'd better get used to it.
She also expounded the doctors comment about wind. He said it was important that if breaking wind I should do so with maximum gusto. Gosh, after a lifetime of exercising a degree of genteel decorum I was now expected to let rip. How ever would I manage? It was to shake the digestive tract into wakefulness. Alas, a lifetime habit was hard to break but I managed, albeit with what had to be considered pathetic results.
Today she explained that with no ng tube we had to ensure that the tract from mouth to t'other end was complete and functional otherwise it would be back to tubes and china clay in a bag. To this end a x-ray had been scheduled for this afternoon and I was nil by mouth from now.
She was lovely but a warning would not have been inappropriate. When wheeled into x-ray room 16 some six hours later it was somewhat different to the x-ray rooms previously encountered. It was dominated by a table that i was invited to lie on and relax. The former was a chilling experience the latter impossible.
Once on it a lady hiding behind a serious screen offered a glass tumbler with 20mm or so of clear liquid for me to take. I was asked to drink it, hold it in my mouth and swallow when asked. This I did. The man in charge told me it wasn't that bad and people were known to exaggerate its unpleasantness but It wasn't as bad is they make out he assured me. It was viscous and would take a determined swallow he said. It was the most vile stuff imaginable.
No sooner had I done as asked my head was tilted with the rest of me dramatically downwards. More foul liquid.
Next I was tilted head up, feet down for the next dose of nastiness. This was more of a struggle than I'd expected as I was tilted back again as I swallowed. Unfortunately, as I was tilted back I caught a glimpse of a glass beaker full of fullness. I quaked and urged at the thought of what was coming next.
Sure enough, once back to level he explained that for the encore I would have to swallow as smoothly as I could as I was rotated longitudinally ending up sideways. I valiantly did as I was told.
Once flat on my back and feeling a tad unsettled he allowed me to sit up and watch the movie. He showed me my digestive track being polluted with silvery shiny stuff but it flowed smoothly from mouth to you can guess where. This led to the obvious question. He suggested any time soon. I also told him what I thought of his views of the foul concoction. I know, he said, its utterly awful, isn't it?
The important thing was that x-ray the movie had established that the plumbing was neither leaky or blocked.
Back on the ward the young lady doctor "happened" along and sips was wiped off my ID plate. I had a plastic disposable beaker of tomato cuppa soup placed in front of me.
Less than half of it's content left me feeling strangely full up and once the disappointment of having to leave most of it had been overcome I was overwhelmed by a feeling I hadn't felt in a long time.
The vile viscous liquid was on the move and so was I.
In my yoof I was pretty good at the smart Alec one liners and caustic put downs. In fact I was very good but this did not make me popular with management or colleagues as my interjections invariably extended the meetings. It wasn't smart and it wasn't clever but the day came when the smart retort was there but the moment had passed. Some thought it long overdue sign of maturity but really it was just decay.
So it was most days with the doctor and the opportunity for questions. I thought of them about 90 seconds after they'd gone. Fortunately one of his youthful entourage was a pretty petite doctor with a ready smile and understanding eyes. She would usually casually return later ostensibly to browse the ring folder of notes at the foot of thd bed but i think she was just saving me the embarrasment and providing opportunity for queries to be explained.
She it was who explained about the new me. I told her that my mum said I could eat a horse and chase the driver. Rider, she offered. Driver I assured her. Growing up the only horse we ever seen was strapped into Ben Phillips' cart with Ben Phillips holding the reins as he lurched off the sand, up the slip and proceeded to fill in the gaps between the cobbles with ray slime. It made the wharf a very slippery place. I used to think it was why the rays were called skate. I was wrong about that, too.
Anyway, I explained that the only time I felt proper full was Christmas or Chinese take away nights. She informed me that I'd get used to feeling full because the lower part of my stomach, the stretchy springy bit capable of mighty expansion was by now, ashes. The top part would stretch, a bit, given enough time but seeing as it was all I had left I'd better get used to it.
She also expounded the doctors comment about wind. He said it was important that if breaking wind I should do so with maximum gusto. Gosh, after a lifetime of exercising a degree of genteel decorum I was now expected to let rip. How ever would I manage? It was to shake the digestive tract into wakefulness. Alas, a lifetime habit was hard to break but I managed, albeit with what had to be considered pathetic results.
Today she explained that with no ng tube we had to ensure that the tract from mouth to t'other end was complete and functional otherwise it would be back to tubes and china clay in a bag. To this end a x-ray had been scheduled for this afternoon and I was nil by mouth from now.
She was lovely but a warning would not have been inappropriate. When wheeled into x-ray room 16 some six hours later it was somewhat different to the x-ray rooms previously encountered. It was dominated by a table that i was invited to lie on and relax. The former was a chilling experience the latter impossible.
Once on it a lady hiding behind a serious screen offered a glass tumbler with 20mm or so of clear liquid for me to take. I was asked to drink it, hold it in my mouth and swallow when asked. This I did. The man in charge told me it wasn't that bad and people were known to exaggerate its unpleasantness but It wasn't as bad is they make out he assured me. It was viscous and would take a determined swallow he said. It was the most vile stuff imaginable.
No sooner had I done as asked my head was tilted with the rest of me dramatically downwards. More foul liquid.
Next I was tilted head up, feet down for the next dose of nastiness. This was more of a struggle than I'd expected as I was tilted back again as I swallowed. Unfortunately, as I was tilted back I caught a glimpse of a glass beaker full of fullness. I quaked and urged at the thought of what was coming next.
Sure enough, once back to level he explained that for the encore I would have to swallow as smoothly as I could as I was rotated longitudinally ending up sideways. I valiantly did as I was told.
Once flat on my back and feeling a tad unsettled he allowed me to sit up and watch the movie. He showed me my digestive track being polluted with silvery shiny stuff but it flowed smoothly from mouth to you can guess where. This led to the obvious question. He suggested any time soon. I also told him what I thought of his views of the foul concoction. I know, he said, its utterly awful, isn't it?
The important thing was that x-ray the movie had established that the plumbing was neither leaky or blocked.
Back on the ward the young lady doctor "happened" along and sips was wiped off my ID plate. I had a plastic disposable beaker of tomato cuppa soup placed in front of me.
Less than half of it's content left me feeling strangely full up and once the disappointment of having to leave most of it had been overcome I was overwhelmed by a feeling I hadn't felt in a long time.
The vile viscous liquid was on the move and so was I.
Friday, May 26, 2017
Conscious uncoupling
It seems to me that being a patient in our NHS is a tremendous privilege. If we listen to the despicable BBC we are given the impression hat it is on its last legs chock full of elderly bed blockers. As usual the wicked BBC agenda doesn't concern itself with observations beyond the witterings of the permanently dissatisfied on Facebook or the grammatically challenged twitterati.
However, a rant is best left till later, for now I have to report that progress was smooth and mostly painless. Uncomfortable at times, but never disheartening except when fellow patients were horrible to their nurses (and everyone else) but the nurses never failed to do anything but that which was for the best.
In my case they kept telling me how well I was doing, to which, once my tongue was loose and enough sips had been sipped, I had to confess that progress had little to do with me. As the Psalmist says, "we are fearfully and wonderfully made" and all I did was offered my arms to the phlebotomists every time they wanted blood which was at least once a day and every 3 or 4 days the cannulas needed replacing.
I offered a place to put needles, they hung bags on the drip rails, I lay there and improved. Not exactly a lot of effort on my part, is it?
On Monday a couple of nurses came to remove the driver and tubes which had supplied local anaesthetic so valiantly. This was about the first time I had to lean forward but they gave me a heads up to let me press the morphine button but, alas, every time I managed to press it 3 or 4 times I forgot to carry on pressing.
They removed the redundant hardware and laid out before me were a pair of small bore tubes easily 200mm long as I guess they had to be to circumscribe the not inconsiderable arc. What amazing technology but far more amazing are the people who know how to use it. Whilst they were at it they peeled off a few more electrical contacts as well. They missed a couple but that's not a complaint!
The next day a nurse came looking like she was going to undertake a serious bit of
surgery. Which, indeed, she was. Stitched in the side of my neck was a plastic lump with electrical contacts and a few flying leads. Much swabbing, dabbing and the application of sterile blue sheets about the shoulder and neck ensued. A scissors delicately handled and expertly wielded removed the stitches as another nurse arrived on cue to hold a large absorbent pad over my neck. I was advised that I wasn't to move for at least 1/2 an hour so I offered to apply pressure myself. In a swift move a black worm about 3mm or so in diameter and 200-250mm long with a shiny silver cap on the end was extracted from my neck.
This had been in contact with my heart and had been giving a continuous readout of blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen saturation and a myriad other things. It wasn't till it went that I was aware of how uncomfortable it had been.
I was allowed to apply my own pressure. It was so nice to be allowed to do something.
Next, the right hand abdominal drain was removed, it hadn't been doing a lot compared to the other but it was still nice to get rid of it. I assumed that it would hurt a bit but not at all. The nurse asked me questions and every time I breathed out he gently extracted a bit more. In no time he held it aloft. I was waiting for him to start.
The catheter was next to go and at the same time I had a cannula removed and not replaced. Unfortunately, we had got to the point where my veins ran away at the sound of the phlebotomists footfall. I had a picc(?) line inserted. This was 550mm of thin blue plastic tube which was inserted in the inside of the upper arm and using ultrasound is guided to a point in the centre of the chest. It was terminated with a pair of flying cannula terminals. This came out on the day before my leaving.
After a week or more I was hydrated so the thirst had abated but sips were still all I was allowed. Eventuality a dietician appeared by my bed. She proudly wore a badge of a white cross on a black background. I was at ease. She was going to feed me.
Hooray! In truth I wasn't hungry but I asked her for a pasty, Hampson' s hogs pudd'n sandwich and so on. OK, she said. It'll be mixed up but mostly there.
It was all in a grey bag the label of which is opposite. She assured me that lots of the contents were constituents of a pasty. The next bag would have a load of s cones in it and the jam would be under the cream, proper like. I think she may have been winding me up but there are a lot of chemicals on that list so I didn't argue although I said I thought it more like kaolin, China clay.
This stuff kept me going for over a week. When I say going I wasn't going in all areas.
Bit by bit I was becoming mobile. Not very and not independently but sitting in a chair was a big deal and walking two metres was a major achievement.
My almost constant companion was a great source of encouragement most mornings
But come the afternoons I had to vacate the chair whilst she slept. I lay down and did likewise but usually for much longer.
All this time the ng tube was filling a beast of a bag. It was the single most inconvenient attachment. After nearly a fortnight the tube fell out as I got up from the chair. It was replaced. Unsuccessfully as shown by an x-ray so another was put in.
A most unpleasant experience but at least the beast of a bag gave way to a more modestly sized bag. Shame it wasn't a little more discreet.
Alas, a day later the new one slid out so slowly I didn't even notice.
The doctor was consulted. We need to get his stomach working and his bowels, too. Leave it out and we'll see what happens.
I cannot begin to describe the feeling of not having a tube up your nose but I'm sure you can imagine it, I just hope that if you've never experienced it you never have to.
It felt like getting better ought to feel.
However, a rant is best left till later, for now I have to report that progress was smooth and mostly painless. Uncomfortable at times, but never disheartening except when fellow patients were horrible to their nurses (and everyone else) but the nurses never failed to do anything but that which was for the best.
In my case they kept telling me how well I was doing, to which, once my tongue was loose and enough sips had been sipped, I had to confess that progress had little to do with me. As the Psalmist says, "we are fearfully and wonderfully made" and all I did was offered my arms to the phlebotomists every time they wanted blood which was at least once a day and every 3 or 4 days the cannulas needed replacing.
I offered a place to put needles, they hung bags on the drip rails, I lay there and improved. Not exactly a lot of effort on my part, is it?
On Monday a couple of nurses came to remove the driver and tubes which had supplied local anaesthetic so valiantly. This was about the first time I had to lean forward but they gave me a heads up to let me press the morphine button but, alas, every time I managed to press it 3 or 4 times I forgot to carry on pressing.
They removed the redundant hardware and laid out before me were a pair of small bore tubes easily 200mm long as I guess they had to be to circumscribe the not inconsiderable arc. What amazing technology but far more amazing are the people who know how to use it. Whilst they were at it they peeled off a few more electrical contacts as well. They missed a couple but that's not a complaint!
The next day a nurse came looking like she was going to undertake a serious bit of
This had been in contact with my heart and had been giving a continuous readout of blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen saturation and a myriad other things. It wasn't till it went that I was aware of how uncomfortable it had been.
I was allowed to apply my own pressure. It was so nice to be allowed to do something.
Next, the right hand abdominal drain was removed, it hadn't been doing a lot compared to the other but it was still nice to get rid of it. I assumed that it would hurt a bit but not at all. The nurse asked me questions and every time I breathed out he gently extracted a bit more. In no time he held it aloft. I was waiting for him to start.
The catheter was next to go and at the same time I had a cannula removed and not replaced. Unfortunately, we had got to the point where my veins ran away at the sound of the phlebotomists footfall. I had a picc(?) line inserted. This was 550mm of thin blue plastic tube which was inserted in the inside of the upper arm and using ultrasound is guided to a point in the centre of the chest. It was terminated with a pair of flying cannula terminals. This came out on the day before my leaving.
After a week or more I was hydrated so the thirst had abated but sips were still all I was allowed. Eventuality a dietician appeared by my bed. She proudly wore a badge of a white cross on a black background. I was at ease. She was going to feed me.
It was all in a grey bag the label of which is opposite. She assured me that lots of the contents were constituents of a pasty. The next bag would have a load of s cones in it and the jam would be under the cream, proper like. I think she may have been winding me up but there are a lot of chemicals on that list so I didn't argue although I said I thought it more like kaolin, China clay.
This stuff kept me going for over a week. When I say going I wasn't going in all areas.
Bit by bit I was becoming mobile. Not very and not independently but sitting in a chair was a big deal and walking two metres was a major achievement.
My almost constant companion was a great source of encouragement most mornings
A most unpleasant experience but at least the beast of a bag gave way to a more modestly sized bag. Shame it wasn't a little more discreet.
Alas, a day later the new one slid out so slowly I didn't even notice.
The doctor was consulted. We need to get his stomach working and his bowels, too. Leave it out and we'll see what happens.
I cannot begin to describe the feeling of not having a tube up your nose but I'm sure you can imagine it, I just hope that if you've never experienced it you never have to.
It felt like getting better ought to feel.
Daylight on e-Bay
My recollection of the side room sojourn is (probably) forever lost in the rarefied synapses of a somewhat comfortably numb brain. All I can remember is that if I opened my eyes they met a ceiling tile on which was painted an iconic ex-lighthouse but, of course even that is a suspect observation.
However, my almost constant companion is, as always, an indispensable fount of all knowledge. It seems that a surgeon offered the wise appraisal that I was ready to be put on E-bay, the operation had been a success, the tumour was deeper than expected, I was more awkward than anticipated and that my recovery would traverse a somewhat rocky road.
Unaware of any of this I was duly wheeled into E1.
Awareness doesn't come with a bang but a whimper. First thoughts relate to the impossibility of normal movement, the reasons for your predicament and what to do about it. Bits of me could move but such bits were of no motor significance. I was aware of being thirsty. "Sips" was written by my name on the wall I was told. Sips it was then. For 2 1/2 weeks!
The reasons for my immobility were now illuminated by daylight. The cannulas in each wrist were fully piped up, a few wires still wandered about but the most obvious reasons were hanging from the security rail along my left side.
From foot to armpit they were a large bag connected to a catheter, a slightly smaller bag connected to an abdominal drain traceable to my right hand side almost a hands length from my navel, whilst from almost the navel itself was another drain which was in the space recently vacated by items once a valued part of my digestive tract. This tube would stay for another 6 weeks and necessitate 2 trips to A&E in an ambulance. Finally, the beast in so many ways, a huge bag catching the outpouring of my nasal gastric (ng) tube. For a stomach that was but a portion of it's former self and a non working one at that this bag when not full was filling rapidly.
Having digested the reasons for my immobility the issue of what to do about it was easily answered.
Life in E-bay wandered along in a rhythm of semi lucid moments interspersed between lapses into semiconsciousness and sleep. Frequent interruptions came in the shape of persons who wanted to put needles into me, those who wanted to see how my heart/lungs/temperature were responding to recent events and those enquiring after my wefare.
Not having a working stomach all medication bar one was intravenous, the one that wasn't was a vile tasting orangey yellow paste in a syringe that had to be swallowed each evening. It, sadly, wasn't the most vile stuff I had to swallow but that was a fortnight away.
I do remember on Saturday a nurse came along with a spring in her step and cheerfully announced that I wasn't going to like her. With that announcement she turned off the local anaesthetic driver putting pain killer into the tubes in my back from where it was piped round to the front where it was doing it's job. Just how well it was doing it's job became apparent in a fairly short while.
Just as well I had the strength to press the morphine button, even better that someone put it in my hand but as I would see everyone did all they could for me and if there was an extra mile to go on my behalf they went without complaint.
However, my almost constant companion is, as always, an indispensable fount of all knowledge. It seems that a surgeon offered the wise appraisal that I was ready to be put on E-bay, the operation had been a success, the tumour was deeper than expected, I was more awkward than anticipated and that my recovery would traverse a somewhat rocky road.
Unaware of any of this I was duly wheeled into E1.
Awareness doesn't come with a bang but a whimper. First thoughts relate to the impossibility of normal movement, the reasons for your predicament and what to do about it. Bits of me could move but such bits were of no motor significance. I was aware of being thirsty. "Sips" was written by my name on the wall I was told. Sips it was then. For 2 1/2 weeks!
The reasons for my immobility were now illuminated by daylight. The cannulas in each wrist were fully piped up, a few wires still wandered about but the most obvious reasons were hanging from the security rail along my left side.
From foot to armpit they were a large bag connected to a catheter, a slightly smaller bag connected to an abdominal drain traceable to my right hand side almost a hands length from my navel, whilst from almost the navel itself was another drain which was in the space recently vacated by items once a valued part of my digestive tract. This tube would stay for another 6 weeks and necessitate 2 trips to A&E in an ambulance. Finally, the beast in so many ways, a huge bag catching the outpouring of my nasal gastric (ng) tube. For a stomach that was but a portion of it's former self and a non working one at that this bag when not full was filling rapidly.
Having digested the reasons for my immobility the issue of what to do about it was easily answered.
Life in E-bay wandered along in a rhythm of semi lucid moments interspersed between lapses into semiconsciousness and sleep. Frequent interruptions came in the shape of persons who wanted to put needles into me, those who wanted to see how my heart/lungs/temperature were responding to recent events and those enquiring after my wefare.
Not having a working stomach all medication bar one was intravenous, the one that wasn't was a vile tasting orangey yellow paste in a syringe that had to be swallowed each evening. It, sadly, wasn't the most vile stuff I had to swallow but that was a fortnight away.
I do remember on Saturday a nurse came along with a spring in her step and cheerfully announced that I wasn't going to like her. With that announcement she turned off the local anaesthetic driver putting pain killer into the tubes in my back from where it was piped round to the front where it was doing it's job. Just how well it was doing it's job became apparent in a fairly short while.
Just as well I had the strength to press the morphine button, even better that someone put it in my hand but as I would see everyone did all they could for me and if there was an extra mile to go on my behalf they went without complaint.
Thursday, May 18, 2017
A Hard Days Twilight
When casualty handling you must always be aware that hearing is the last of the senses to fade. It's also the first to return. The comforting voice of the surgeon declared that I was breathing on my own. It would seem that although I have no recollection of it I asked him to phone my wife with news. Next day she told me that he had done as requested at about 2100, one of the other surgeons had phoned a bit earlier.
The ICU is in a twilight zone and you are constantly monitored. My first memory is of machines and a maze of wires which would do a Spanish property developer proud. They were coming from everywhere and I was lying between a canyon of digital and graphical displays. There were also tubes. Loads of tubes. And an oxygen mask. I couldn't move which was just as well.
A young lady asked if I was OK and how would I score my pain on a scale of 1-10? Not much, hardly any, in fact. I was told to let her know if that changed. She was busy doing something but it was dimpsy and I slept.
The next recollection is of wires being disconnected and a machine being wheeled away. She was joined by a young Scotsman, an RAF sergeant studying physics so this was the day shift changeover. I wasn't in pain of any serious note but the discomfort level was in the ascendant.
Gently, wires were moved from under me although it was over a week before their pad connectors were removed, the now unused pads on my chest were peeled off to leave a set of stamp sized smoothly shaved patches randomly adorning the upper belly and chest. The ones around the heart remained for a few more hours.
Trying to speak when your tongue is stuck fast to the roof of your mouth, your throat feels like it's concrete, you have a tube up your nose and your face is the resting place to store an oxygen mask is difficult. My wrists were recipients of drips and drivers. To my right was a local anaesthetic driver with tubes to my back and a too familiar morphine driver to my wrist. Last time I saw one of those it was covered by a cloth and placed beside mum in the hospice.
Further memories were ignited once my industrious attendee lifted the oxygen mask and offered me a moistened pink sponge on a stick. It may be nine years ago but it doesn't take much to reignite precious memories. I got to relish those pink sponges.
A settled moment was delightfully interrupted when he pulled a chair up beside me and my wife filled it two hours before she should have. It was suggested that a few minutes wouldn't matter but come back at 11.
No sooner had she left than my attentive sergeant was over at the next bay where things were not going smoothly. As more personnel arrived, then more technology, machines and yet more personnel it was difficult to not hear the import of the instructions being given. My ever attentive sergeant returned to monitoring my functions and noting assiduously.
A life hung in the balance. No effort was spared. No grain of expertise that could be brought to bear was withheld. Being only a few feet away was soberly inspiring. Prayer doesn't guarantee the outcome you want but it does guarantee comfort.
After two hours the fight was lost. A lady in her late forties had died. The atmosphere changed and all the technology, machinery and personnel melted away. A middle aged man in shorts was led to a corner and given something to drink.
The doctor in charge was almost the last to leave. As he passed by the end of my bed he paused, turned and came over. Crouching down by my ear he asked if I was aware. I nodded. He asked if I was OK. I nodded. Was I sure, nods, did I want .... No. I'm not unfamiliar with death and I couldn't speak at that time but before I left the unit I was able to thank him for his courtesy and consideration toward me at such a time as that.
As soon as possible the chair was replaced by my side and filled.
The day drifted sombrely along, pink sponges wrung out between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, but never enough, not even remotely enough. Wires continued to be removed, gadgets wheeled away until eventually it was just drips and two drivers. I was assured that progress was as good as it was likely to be and by late afternoon I was ready for the ward.
Eventually a couple of porters arrived wheeling a bed. I had to be transferred to it. My wife was ushered away. I was belatedly given the morphia button to press. Too little, too late. The transfer to a board by rolling me was excruciating and by far the worse pain I experienced throughout.
Once transferred I was wheeled along cold corridors with windows letting in the darkness until eventually I was in a side room, familiar visitor by my side with luxurious dressing gown and cable tied slippers in tow.
On the door was written "Sips".
The ICU is in a twilight zone and you are constantly monitored. My first memory is of machines and a maze of wires which would do a Spanish property developer proud. They were coming from everywhere and I was lying between a canyon of digital and graphical displays. There were also tubes. Loads of tubes. And an oxygen mask. I couldn't move which was just as well.
A young lady asked if I was OK and how would I score my pain on a scale of 1-10? Not much, hardly any, in fact. I was told to let her know if that changed. She was busy doing something but it was dimpsy and I slept.
The next recollection is of wires being disconnected and a machine being wheeled away. She was joined by a young Scotsman, an RAF sergeant studying physics so this was the day shift changeover. I wasn't in pain of any serious note but the discomfort level was in the ascendant.
Gently, wires were moved from under me although it was over a week before their pad connectors were removed, the now unused pads on my chest were peeled off to leave a set of stamp sized smoothly shaved patches randomly adorning the upper belly and chest. The ones around the heart remained for a few more hours.
Trying to speak when your tongue is stuck fast to the roof of your mouth, your throat feels like it's concrete, you have a tube up your nose and your face is the resting place to store an oxygen mask is difficult. My wrists were recipients of drips and drivers. To my right was a local anaesthetic driver with tubes to my back and a too familiar morphine driver to my wrist. Last time I saw one of those it was covered by a cloth and placed beside mum in the hospice.
Further memories were ignited once my industrious attendee lifted the oxygen mask and offered me a moistened pink sponge on a stick. It may be nine years ago but it doesn't take much to reignite precious memories. I got to relish those pink sponges.
A settled moment was delightfully interrupted when he pulled a chair up beside me and my wife filled it two hours before she should have. It was suggested that a few minutes wouldn't matter but come back at 11.
No sooner had she left than my attentive sergeant was over at the next bay where things were not going smoothly. As more personnel arrived, then more technology, machines and yet more personnel it was difficult to not hear the import of the instructions being given. My ever attentive sergeant returned to monitoring my functions and noting assiduously.
A life hung in the balance. No effort was spared. No grain of expertise that could be brought to bear was withheld. Being only a few feet away was soberly inspiring. Prayer doesn't guarantee the outcome you want but it does guarantee comfort.
After two hours the fight was lost. A lady in her late forties had died. The atmosphere changed and all the technology, machinery and personnel melted away. A middle aged man in shorts was led to a corner and given something to drink.
The doctor in charge was almost the last to leave. As he passed by the end of my bed he paused, turned and came over. Crouching down by my ear he asked if I was aware. I nodded. He asked if I was OK. I nodded. Was I sure, nods, did I want .... No. I'm not unfamiliar with death and I couldn't speak at that time but before I left the unit I was able to thank him for his courtesy and consideration toward me at such a time as that.
As soon as possible the chair was replaced by my side and filled.
The day drifted sombrely along, pink sponges wrung out between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, but never enough, not even remotely enough. Wires continued to be removed, gadgets wheeled away until eventually it was just drips and two drivers. I was assured that progress was as good as it was likely to be and by late afternoon I was ready for the ward.
Eventually a couple of porters arrived wheeling a bed. I had to be transferred to it. My wife was ushered away. I was belatedly given the morphia button to press. Too little, too late. The transfer to a board by rolling me was excruciating and by far the worse pain I experienced throughout.
Once transferred I was wheeled along cold corridors with windows letting in the darkness until eventually I was in a side room, familiar visitor by my side with luxurious dressing gown and cable tied slippers in tow.
On the door was written "Sips".
A Day at the Theatre
I don't remember leaving for the final trek but I do remember gratefully leaning on a chest high windowsill at the end of a queue in a cool corridor at 0650. There were about a dozen in front of us and by 0700 there were many more behind.
An office opened and each in turn handed in their letters which were scanned and further instruction issued. Yellow room, directly ahead was ours. Gratefully I sat and was so far gone that I didn't even notice the ubiquitous and iniquitous subtitled BBC decrying everything even vaguely deemed ill fitting to their directors worldview.
We didn't wait long. A surgeon informed us that we would process my case as if the operation was going ahead although there was only a 20% chance of it as there were no beds. This was the lowest point I think I reached. Tears were not far away. I couldn't imagine the alternative.
Across the corridor a nurse asked questions, took details, swabs and blood. Others were gowned up but not me. Back to the yellow room. I think I dozed.
Next, another surgeon in a room at the end of the corridor sat us down and talked. I can't remember much but he looked intently at me before summoning another surgeon, the third who would be involved in the op, if it happened. A brief conflab and more blood was taken whereupon the most recent surgeon offered to rush the samples to the lab and wait for the results. Stay here awhile and when you feel able wait in the yellow room.
Two hours or more had passed and just after 10 we were escorted into the room of surgeon number four. Except this wasn't surgeon number four. This was The Man. Tall and thin he carried the weight of authority and the calm of deciciveness like a mace and sceptre.
He was logged on to me on his computer the blood test results were not good and for the first and only time I was shown the tumour. It wasn't very impressive but it woke me from my stupor as did his next question, when did the jaundice return? Saturday, I thought or that's when my brain was out of gear more than in. My wife was invited to look in my eyes. Saffron yellow.
The stent had moved and I had an infection from it. This complicated matters and I was assured that complications would follow. My brain screamed, just do it.
We either have to accept the risk and operate or replace the stent. Just do it.
Numbers were mentioned, risks calculated and explained. Just do it.
What do you think, I was asked? Just do it, I screamed but only a whisper came out.
Now in total command he explained that the infection meant that an epidural was too risky but he'd talked to a colleague who had pioneered another process which involved a pair of needles being inserted in my back into the muscle sac of the muscle to be cut. These would be worked around to the front, terminate at each end of the incision and supply local anaesthetic for immediate post op pain relief. However, this process has never been used before in a Whipples procedure. Was I OK with that? I nodded as vigorously as I could which wasn't much.
Right he said over to Tugs. I'll see you in theatre he said. Overjoyed doesn't begin to do the feeling justice.
Outside the corridor was dominated by a young chap in green, about 5'8" tall, 3' across, 3' deep and extensively tattooed. When he spoke it was firm, gentle and so comforting. Opening a cubicle curtain a gown was folded neatly. I donned it and my wife took my clothes. Won't need them for a while he said, dressing gown and slippers will do and I'll make sure they stay with him.
My new dressing gown was a delight being a very recent gift from a daughter who was ashamed of the dressing gown that I'd worn all her life and longer. So, resplendent in M&S softness and slippers kept together with cable ties I was asked if I could walk. Oh, yes, said I with all the confidence I could muster. We walked along the corridor to a pair of combination locked doors where my wife and I said our goodbyes.
The other side of the doors opened into a locker space and a toilet in which I was encouraged to do my best. My best was pathetic but far worse was the fact that I was too feeble to get up. A large soft paw which took both my hands lifted me up and a strong arm guided me to the bright lights of the Theatre.
I was placed just so, stood by the middle of the table when two arms lifted me like I was a kid and placed me exactly where the surgeon asked. I hadn't even noticed him. A cannula was in my right wrist and I hadn't noticed that either. You'll feel sleepy but you won't go to sleep just yet said a comfortingly familiar voice behind me. Another voice explained what was going on with the ultrasound, this was the surgeons pioneering colleague.
I was asked my name, dob and if I knew what was going on. I saw the familiar diagram of my replumbing and began a description upon which I was complimented and asked to continue.
My hands were on Tugs shoulders and I was exhorted to push. Hard. My hardest was pretty poor so placing his hands on mine he leaned back as things on my back happened. Twisting me left, right, forward and back muscles were stretched and opened to allow whatever was happening to happen.
I think it was just after 1045 that Tugs said I'll lie you back and you'll be asleep.
I don't remember lying back.
An office opened and each in turn handed in their letters which were scanned and further instruction issued. Yellow room, directly ahead was ours. Gratefully I sat and was so far gone that I didn't even notice the ubiquitous and iniquitous subtitled BBC decrying everything even vaguely deemed ill fitting to their directors worldview.
We didn't wait long. A surgeon informed us that we would process my case as if the operation was going ahead although there was only a 20% chance of it as there were no beds. This was the lowest point I think I reached. Tears were not far away. I couldn't imagine the alternative.
Across the corridor a nurse asked questions, took details, swabs and blood. Others were gowned up but not me. Back to the yellow room. I think I dozed.
Next, another surgeon in a room at the end of the corridor sat us down and talked. I can't remember much but he looked intently at me before summoning another surgeon, the third who would be involved in the op, if it happened. A brief conflab and more blood was taken whereupon the most recent surgeon offered to rush the samples to the lab and wait for the results. Stay here awhile and when you feel able wait in the yellow room.
Two hours or more had passed and just after 10 we were escorted into the room of surgeon number four. Except this wasn't surgeon number four. This was The Man. Tall and thin he carried the weight of authority and the calm of deciciveness like a mace and sceptre.
He was logged on to me on his computer the blood test results were not good and for the first and only time I was shown the tumour. It wasn't very impressive but it woke me from my stupor as did his next question, when did the jaundice return? Saturday, I thought or that's when my brain was out of gear more than in. My wife was invited to look in my eyes. Saffron yellow.
The stent had moved and I had an infection from it. This complicated matters and I was assured that complications would follow. My brain screamed, just do it.
We either have to accept the risk and operate or replace the stent. Just do it.
Numbers were mentioned, risks calculated and explained. Just do it.
What do you think, I was asked? Just do it, I screamed but only a whisper came out.
Now in total command he explained that the infection meant that an epidural was too risky but he'd talked to a colleague who had pioneered another process which involved a pair of needles being inserted in my back into the muscle sac of the muscle to be cut. These would be worked around to the front, terminate at each end of the incision and supply local anaesthetic for immediate post op pain relief. However, this process has never been used before in a Whipples procedure. Was I OK with that? I nodded as vigorously as I could which wasn't much.
Right he said over to Tugs. I'll see you in theatre he said. Overjoyed doesn't begin to do the feeling justice.
Outside the corridor was dominated by a young chap in green, about 5'8" tall, 3' across, 3' deep and extensively tattooed. When he spoke it was firm, gentle and so comforting. Opening a cubicle curtain a gown was folded neatly. I donned it and my wife took my clothes. Won't need them for a while he said, dressing gown and slippers will do and I'll make sure they stay with him.
My new dressing gown was a delight being a very recent gift from a daughter who was ashamed of the dressing gown that I'd worn all her life and longer. So, resplendent in M&S softness and slippers kept together with cable ties I was asked if I could walk. Oh, yes, said I with all the confidence I could muster. We walked along the corridor to a pair of combination locked doors where my wife and I said our goodbyes.
The other side of the doors opened into a locker space and a toilet in which I was encouraged to do my best. My best was pathetic but far worse was the fact that I was too feeble to get up. A large soft paw which took both my hands lifted me up and a strong arm guided me to the bright lights of the Theatre.
I was placed just so, stood by the middle of the table when two arms lifted me like I was a kid and placed me exactly where the surgeon asked. I hadn't even noticed him. A cannula was in my right wrist and I hadn't noticed that either. You'll feel sleepy but you won't go to sleep just yet said a comfortingly familiar voice behind me. Another voice explained what was going on with the ultrasound, this was the surgeons pioneering colleague.
I was asked my name, dob and if I knew what was going on. I saw the familiar diagram of my replumbing and began a description upon which I was complimented and asked to continue.
My hands were on Tugs shoulders and I was exhorted to push. Hard. My hardest was pretty poor so placing his hands on mine he leaned back as things on my back happened. Twisting me left, right, forward and back muscles were stretched and opened to allow whatever was happening to happen.
I think it was just after 1045 that Tugs said I'll lie you back and you'll be asleep.
I don't remember lying back.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Nadir
Tiredness increased. Waves of nausea swept about but I was never sick. Concentration was non existent. Visitors kept the days from weighing heavily.
The operation meant another pre dawn departure on the Tuesday but the previous Friday, late afternoon I got up from the sofa and it was like every degree of heat in me fell through the floor. Crawling up he stairs I managed to get into bed as the shivering started. I've never experienced anything like it. The violence and inability to control the shivering was a bit alarming but more so for my ever attentive carer who once again did all the right things. The out of hours doctor suggested seeing my GP on Monday. Fortunately we have a very close friend who is a community nurse. By now I was under significant weight of blankets and a fetching woolly hat but the shivers hadn't abated. My blood pressure was alright but my temperature was not. Hospital or not? The risk of being kept in one when my op was due in another was too great a risk. Paracetamol and three hours saw the worst pass into history.
Our nurse advised that it felt like an infection so no more visitors till after the op.
Saturday passed sleepily and Sunday drifted away with little notice. Even eating was too much effort. Monday was a bit brighter even though it was nil by mouth right up until about 4 when the shivering returned.
My carer phoned the cancer nurse whose number we had been given. Just get him here tomorrow morning she said. The shivering was every bit as bad as earlier, I think worse because this time it was accompanied by a violent bout of sickness which coincided with the doorbell announcing the presence of our highly esteemed nurse who was on her way home and though she'd see if all was well. It wasn't but she took charge and it became so.
Another 3 hours and the shivers had become a shake, the temperature reduced and the sweat mere perspiration.
Now I had to face the Carbohydrate Lemon. Four of them in only a few hours. How 300ml in the first bottle doubles in the second, again in the subsequent ones whilst all appearing the same size is beyond me.
Sleep was elusive, the trip down a blank but the final Carbohydrate Lemon was duly poured down at 0630 in the coffee shop in the foyer whilst the car was parked.
We had arrived. I didn't care in the slightest what happened next. It was enough that we had arrived at the time and place specified but I'd had nothing to do with it.
My carer had excelled, again.
Now it was over to the surgeons.
The operation meant another pre dawn departure on the Tuesday but the previous Friday, late afternoon I got up from the sofa and it was like every degree of heat in me fell through the floor. Crawling up he stairs I managed to get into bed as the shivering started. I've never experienced anything like it. The violence and inability to control the shivering was a bit alarming but more so for my ever attentive carer who once again did all the right things. The out of hours doctor suggested seeing my GP on Monday. Fortunately we have a very close friend who is a community nurse. By now I was under significant weight of blankets and a fetching woolly hat but the shivers hadn't abated. My blood pressure was alright but my temperature was not. Hospital or not? The risk of being kept in one when my op was due in another was too great a risk. Paracetamol and three hours saw the worst pass into history.
Our nurse advised that it felt like an infection so no more visitors till after the op.
Saturday passed sleepily and Sunday drifted away with little notice. Even eating was too much effort. Monday was a bit brighter even though it was nil by mouth right up until about 4 when the shivering returned.
My carer phoned the cancer nurse whose number we had been given. Just get him here tomorrow morning she said. The shivering was every bit as bad as earlier, I think worse because this time it was accompanied by a violent bout of sickness which coincided with the doorbell announcing the presence of our highly esteemed nurse who was on her way home and though she'd see if all was well. It wasn't but she took charge and it became so.
Another 3 hours and the shivers had become a shake, the temperature reduced and the sweat mere perspiration.
Now I had to face the Carbohydrate Lemon. Four of them in only a few hours. How 300ml in the first bottle doubles in the second, again in the subsequent ones whilst all appearing the same size is beyond me.
Sleep was elusive, the trip down a blank but the final Carbohydrate Lemon was duly poured down at 0630 in the coffee shop in the foyer whilst the car was parked.
We had arrived. I didn't care in the slightest what happened next. It was enough that we had arrived at the time and place specified but I'd had nothing to do with it.
My carer had excelled, again.
Now it was over to the surgeons.
Fit enough for purpose
Thus a week or so later the car was fired up before dawn for the "final" trip pre op 50 miles down the road. Arriving in the gloom I was decanted at the entrance shortly before 0700 and left in the coffee shop whilst the car was parked. Didn't fancy coffee but I think I had one just to use the seat with a clear conscience.
Before 0730 we had made our way to the ward where the appointment awaited. In the waiting room a large TV on the wall flashed up colourful BBC subtitles. It took only a few moments to remember how awful the BBC has become. I stopped watching the news last autumn and more recently gave up on R4 flagship news programmes. It seems that reporting has gone by the board, now it's all about the agenda of the reporter and their worldview. Frankly, I think that the BBC should be a subscription service and if they don't know what to do with the license fee they can donate it to the NHS but I despise the Corporation and it's fat cat mentality. If you can't do anything meaningful in your life join the BBC get £150k salary and more if you fail in your duties and get sacked. Lord Reiths charter needs tattooing in every senior managers forehead so that when sat in meetings those listening can see what it's meant to be about.
Fortunately, before a photo of Tony Blair wound me up further a name familiar was called. We were led into a room with a tall green clad thin man getting up from a desk and looking me over. When skinny people look at you it's not too difficult to read their minds and so it was. He explained that I was there to assess my suitability for the Whipples Procedure, then a week away. A few questions later he asked if I could manage to get on the exercise bike but added that I shouldn't worry if I couldn't as there were other ways of making an assesment. I offered the opinion that I could only ride his bike if the saddle was higher, the handle bars further forward and lower. He looked very politely taken aback as I continued letting him know that when my wife bought my Specialized hydraulic disk braked wonder I was measured to fit.
The bike was duly configured to make it comfortable and I was wired, front and rear, masked, nose clipped and told not to talk, just to follow instructions. Pedal at 60-70 cadence, if you can. I could and did. Now you will feel like you're going uphill keep the pedalling constant, please. I'm still waiting for the hill but the maintenance of the cadence was only what I always do.
Of course, going uphill on an exercise bike does not involve the vertical lifting of any bulk bar the legs so it's nothing like going uphill at all. He kept making pleasantly surprised noises until after about 10 minutes he asked how long I could keep this up. Two hours, more if it's sunny I said. OK, slow down but don't stop till this number gets to 0 he said pointing to the corner of one of the flatscreens.
I didn't break sweat and I think he was impressed because for the next 10 minutes he pointed out graphs, numbers, charts and tables. VO/VO2 is important, as is the crossover whenever you go anaerobic/aerobic ........
Eventually, realising I was lost he said that I had the heart of an ox and no furring of arteries. The lungs were good, too, not perfect but for a 61 year old fat bloke they were more than the expected average. Espressos every morning and cycling on sunny days I explained. He reduced my risk of complications from 30-40% to 12-15% and mortality risk from a very low number to a lower one. This means that you probably won't need ICU post op but can go onto a surgical ward. Much better from our point of view he said.
I did feel chuffed and he then spoke to a nurse who fast tracked us through the inevitable blood tests, swabs, and myriad other details and we left with 6 300ml bottles labelled Carbohydrate Lemon for ingestion immediately before the op, 4 during the evening prior, one as we left on the morning and the last one when we got to hospital at 0700.
By 1100 we were home.
The last of the really good days for a month or more had passed but we didn't know it.
Before 0730 we had made our way to the ward where the appointment awaited. In the waiting room a large TV on the wall flashed up colourful BBC subtitles. It took only a few moments to remember how awful the BBC has become. I stopped watching the news last autumn and more recently gave up on R4 flagship news programmes. It seems that reporting has gone by the board, now it's all about the agenda of the reporter and their worldview. Frankly, I think that the BBC should be a subscription service and if they don't know what to do with the license fee they can donate it to the NHS but I despise the Corporation and it's fat cat mentality. If you can't do anything meaningful in your life join the BBC get £150k salary and more if you fail in your duties and get sacked. Lord Reiths charter needs tattooing in every senior managers forehead so that when sat in meetings those listening can see what it's meant to be about.
Fortunately, before a photo of Tony Blair wound me up further a name familiar was called. We were led into a room with a tall green clad thin man getting up from a desk and looking me over. When skinny people look at you it's not too difficult to read their minds and so it was. He explained that I was there to assess my suitability for the Whipples Procedure, then a week away. A few questions later he asked if I could manage to get on the exercise bike but added that I shouldn't worry if I couldn't as there were other ways of making an assesment. I offered the opinion that I could only ride his bike if the saddle was higher, the handle bars further forward and lower. He looked very politely taken aback as I continued letting him know that when my wife bought my Specialized hydraulic disk braked wonder I was measured to fit.
The bike was duly configured to make it comfortable and I was wired, front and rear, masked, nose clipped and told not to talk, just to follow instructions. Pedal at 60-70 cadence, if you can. I could and did. Now you will feel like you're going uphill keep the pedalling constant, please. I'm still waiting for the hill but the maintenance of the cadence was only what I always do.
Of course, going uphill on an exercise bike does not involve the vertical lifting of any bulk bar the legs so it's nothing like going uphill at all. He kept making pleasantly surprised noises until after about 10 minutes he asked how long I could keep this up. Two hours, more if it's sunny I said. OK, slow down but don't stop till this number gets to 0 he said pointing to the corner of one of the flatscreens.
I didn't break sweat and I think he was impressed because for the next 10 minutes he pointed out graphs, numbers, charts and tables. VO/VO2 is important, as is the crossover whenever you go anaerobic/aerobic ........
Eventually, realising I was lost he said that I had the heart of an ox and no furring of arteries. The lungs were good, too, not perfect but for a 61 year old fat bloke they were more than the expected average. Espressos every morning and cycling on sunny days I explained. He reduced my risk of complications from 30-40% to 12-15% and mortality risk from a very low number to a lower one. This means that you probably won't need ICU post op but can go onto a surgical ward. Much better from our point of view he said.
I did feel chuffed and he then spoke to a nurse who fast tracked us through the inevitable blood tests, swabs, and myriad other details and we left with 6 300ml bottles labelled Carbohydrate Lemon for ingestion immediately before the op, 4 during the evening prior, one as we left on the morning and the last one when we got to hospital at 0700.
By 1100 we were home.
The last of the really good days for a month or more had passed but we didn't know it.
Monday, April 03, 2017
Tentatively towards a better me
The first week saw a paler me gradually emerge from the Homer shade of lemon. Appetite returned to one who has never had a problem in that direction before and the results of a renewed appetite was shown in the fact that I could almost go a whole afternoon awake. Other functions thankfully returned to normal, too. Tiredness remained, prewarned by a lack of cognitive focus I got quite good at being ready when instructed to go and lie down, which of course I did.
Midweek brought the phone call, then followed the letter and shortly thereafter the appointment at the specialist hospital. The letter was accompanied by an information sheet to the effect that parking was hideous, particularly in the afternoon and access was awful as road improvements rendered the approach roads all but impassable at busy times. Fortunately my sister and her husband live a few miles away on a bus route but we had a lift there and back. Wonderful.
The appointment was delayed about 45 minutes but it wasn't a problem and anyway, we didn't have anything else of import lined up. We met the first surgeon at 1600, by the time we left ninety full on minutes later we had met the main surgeon and the cancer nurse for this establishment who was just as lovely as her opposite number 50 miles up the road.
The first surgeon began by asking lots of questions about what I/we knew. All I really knew was that I had a lump in an awkward place and it had to go. This surgeon drew exactly the same diagram as the earlier one had on that Monday tete a tete. Yup, the tumour was in an awkward position, no one knew whether it was malignant or benign but most were malignant and chemotherapy would be offered after if needed. That would take place back from whence we came. And yes, it had to be removed.
Now he carried on drawing but this time he drew a schematic of how I would be replumbed. It was brilliant, I so got it. I was reminded of a Haynes manual and how you set about solving problems when the bits you have just don't go back together and you have neither spare parts or a big enough hammer. I never did delicate which is why I was so glad that he was the doctor.
The procedure is called a Whipple and the lump is by or on the head of the pancreas which is why it's so awkward. Again, no surprise there as it has been mentioned frequently that I have been known to be a tad awkward at times.
At which point Mr.Seriously Supremely Competent surgeon came in. Some carry weight and some authority. This man oozed excellence. Numbers, he talked numbers. Whoa, said I, hang on. Pictures, I'm good, words I can sometimes do, numbers, no chance. It appears that these were numbers I needed to know.
Probably my greatest achievement was to marry wisely. Numbers are loved by my wife who was obviously excited and writing with the air of one who knew the importance of numbers. Look, said I, you tell her and she can tell me later.
He was great, he understood my discalculic quandary. Eventually he got to a number that I knew was coming. Weight. I have it in abundance. I hoped he wasn't going to tell me to lose a few stone, fatso or you've had it because I wouldn't and would have. He did suggest white meat, fruit and veg but I asked about pasties.
Eventually you may be able to eat a pasty but never a proper one in one go. Well, if it takes a few sittings to have a pasty, so be it. At this point, the first surgeon opined that in this case the extra fortifications would not be so bad a hindrance as skinny people can sometimes struggle to get through the initial post op months without dietician intervention. Good news amid much good news. I ignore all the mortality rate stuff as it's out of my hands, I merely offer myself to needles and everything else just happens.
Prolific thanks to the pair of them who along with two other surgeons will spend 6 -8 hours replumbing the inner workings of my digestive system. In all, they were well practiced in the art of painlessly explaining the future of an awkward patient.
They left and a lady moved silently from the corner and sat between us. Quietly and deliberately she explained the ramifications of future treatment exactly as we'd heard from her opposite number a fortnight ago. More books, more pamphlets but she added the fact that she wasn't going to refer me to a dietician as I had ample calories to spare.
Shocked, I was shocked. How was she to know I wasn't a Guardian reader or a BBC acolyte looking to be a victim of vicious fattism. I could have been looking to be impugned. I could have been seeking any opportunity to be a maligned minority. I shouldn't have made light of anything but I'm not good at reading runes or people.
You are one in five, she said, for every one presenting with your symptoms there are four who will be told that their condition is inoperable. Your jaundice saved your life.
If I needed anything that Thursday afternoon I needed that. I was poorly, it was serious, they were going to sort it. I was of all men, most fortunate. I needed to realise it. Suitably chastened as deserved, I was consumed with gratitude and humbled at the realisation of the sheer magnitude of resources lined up to get me restored. But my overwhelming feeling was one of unworthiness at the sheer quality of personnel engaged in promoting my well being.
The waiting room was empty.
We went home.
Midweek brought the phone call, then followed the letter and shortly thereafter the appointment at the specialist hospital. The letter was accompanied by an information sheet to the effect that parking was hideous, particularly in the afternoon and access was awful as road improvements rendered the approach roads all but impassable at busy times. Fortunately my sister and her husband live a few miles away on a bus route but we had a lift there and back. Wonderful.
The appointment was delayed about 45 minutes but it wasn't a problem and anyway, we didn't have anything else of import lined up. We met the first surgeon at 1600, by the time we left ninety full on minutes later we had met the main surgeon and the cancer nurse for this establishment who was just as lovely as her opposite number 50 miles up the road.
The first surgeon began by asking lots of questions about what I/we knew. All I really knew was that I had a lump in an awkward place and it had to go. This surgeon drew exactly the same diagram as the earlier one had on that Monday tete a tete. Yup, the tumour was in an awkward position, no one knew whether it was malignant or benign but most were malignant and chemotherapy would be offered after if needed. That would take place back from whence we came. And yes, it had to be removed.
Now he carried on drawing but this time he drew a schematic of how I would be replumbed. It was brilliant, I so got it. I was reminded of a Haynes manual and how you set about solving problems when the bits you have just don't go back together and you have neither spare parts or a big enough hammer. I never did delicate which is why I was so glad that he was the doctor.
The procedure is called a Whipple and the lump is by or on the head of the pancreas which is why it's so awkward. Again, no surprise there as it has been mentioned frequently that I have been known to be a tad awkward at times.
At which point Mr.Seriously Supremely Competent surgeon came in. Some carry weight and some authority. This man oozed excellence. Numbers, he talked numbers. Whoa, said I, hang on. Pictures, I'm good, words I can sometimes do, numbers, no chance. It appears that these were numbers I needed to know.
Probably my greatest achievement was to marry wisely. Numbers are loved by my wife who was obviously excited and writing with the air of one who knew the importance of numbers. Look, said I, you tell her and she can tell me later.
He was great, he understood my discalculic quandary. Eventually he got to a number that I knew was coming. Weight. I have it in abundance. I hoped he wasn't going to tell me to lose a few stone, fatso or you've had it because I wouldn't and would have. He did suggest white meat, fruit and veg but I asked about pasties.
Eventually you may be able to eat a pasty but never a proper one in one go. Well, if it takes a few sittings to have a pasty, so be it. At this point, the first surgeon opined that in this case the extra fortifications would not be so bad a hindrance as skinny people can sometimes struggle to get through the initial post op months without dietician intervention. Good news amid much good news. I ignore all the mortality rate stuff as it's out of my hands, I merely offer myself to needles and everything else just happens.
Prolific thanks to the pair of them who along with two other surgeons will spend 6 -8 hours replumbing the inner workings of my digestive system. In all, they were well practiced in the art of painlessly explaining the future of an awkward patient.
They left and a lady moved silently from the corner and sat between us. Quietly and deliberately she explained the ramifications of future treatment exactly as we'd heard from her opposite number a fortnight ago. More books, more pamphlets but she added the fact that she wasn't going to refer me to a dietician as I had ample calories to spare.
Shocked, I was shocked. How was she to know I wasn't a Guardian reader or a BBC acolyte looking to be a victim of vicious fattism. I could have been looking to be impugned. I could have been seeking any opportunity to be a maligned minority. I shouldn't have made light of anything but I'm not good at reading runes or people.
You are one in five, she said, for every one presenting with your symptoms there are four who will be told that their condition is inoperable. Your jaundice saved your life.
If I needed anything that Thursday afternoon I needed that. I was poorly, it was serious, they were going to sort it. I was of all men, most fortunate. I needed to realise it. Suitably chastened as deserved, I was consumed with gratitude and humbled at the realisation of the sheer magnitude of resources lined up to get me restored. But my overwhelming feeling was one of unworthiness at the sheer quality of personnel engaged in promoting my well being.
The waiting room was empty.
We went home.
Sunday, April 02, 2017
A short trip back
I didn't quite get to full strength coffee, partly because my coffee intake was below par, as indeed was I. It is surprising that I never felt bad, no pain, feeling nauseous but never sick, wobbly but never falling, brain scrambled but never unable to realise that it was so. A remarkable aspect is the fact that when my brain was (is) getting deranged I can start sentences but then I see words in my head, words that I want to use but it's like I can't grasp them and force them into the right order. Like Eric Morecombe, all the right words but in the wrong order.
Tuesday after a good sleep was lovely. No blood pressure being taken every few hours but bloods taken locally. Fresh air. It was good. But not for long. By early afternoon I wasn't feeling great but when friends come and tea is poured the spirit is raised significantly. When that particular friend trained as a nurse it's a bonus.
My wife was sat opposite me and like Dirty Harry, I knew what she was thinking. I, too, was wondering if Tuesday night would not be better spent in hospital.
The phone rang and I was requested, as has to happen I suppose, although lots of practice sees me deftly, politely but firmly asking the caller to speak to my wife. The answer was yes and yes I could come in tomorrow for the biopsy stent doings and yes I would be nil by mouth from about now.
That's all it takes to sustain you for another 18 hours when you're feeling lousy.
Wednesday just before midday, a bit early, sees us sat in a nurse's office as she pores over a rather deep sheaf of paper. There are a lot of bits of paper through which she rifles with some satisfaction it seems. Eventually she asks is "this" is your signature? Could be, I said remembering the doctor on Monday morning. You have had so many cc's of this and of that. Again, I remember the ward sister on Monday morning not allowing the nurse to remove the cannula before she has administered whatever the syringes contained. You are ready to go, I was told, that has saved us a great deal of time.
Back in the waiting room I noticed the ward sister pass by just too late to speak. As she returned she paused as I asked who I had to thank for this? Her? Not only me she said listing others, the young doctor, the main man and the cancer nurse. Is there no goodness that the NHS doesn't do? I offered a totally inadequate thank you. What else can you do?
Next I'm in a robe in what appears a ladies wing of this area. The nurse in charge is muttering about so many extra people this afternoon as one senses a little impatience in a couple of patients. She then leans over, puts her hand on my shoulder and whispers sweet nothings to the effect, don't smile or look smug as the waiting time numbers increase but you are next.
In no time I had things done in a ladies room about which nothing will be said but I was judged fit enough. Then onto a trolley left side down and into a twilight room. The nurse we met earlier was preparing stuff and a nurse whose name took two full rows of a large name badge told me to call her Sue and she would hold my hand and I would do what she, but only she instructed.
Sharp scratch said a voice, in went a needle and the next thing I knew was that a man in front was twiddling wheels in such a way as to invite admiration as his attention was on a screen above me. A voice asked me to squeeze her hand if I could hear. Gently. Swallow four times and then squeeze again, please. Swallowing when a plastic broomhandle fills your throat is an interesting experience but not entirely pleasant. A few more instructions and squeezes and the twiddling man told me it was all done, smiled and the next thing I know was that I was back where I started. Sue told me to stay put so I did.
I think all that happened as I wrote but I wasn't totally with it. I do remember being wheeled past a waiting area where my wife was waiting so I asked if I could take that one. Not sure it went down well but she wasn't allowed in the recovery room.
I wasn't there long and to my right was a whiteboard with names on it. There were mutterings about there being 60 beds short and the man opposite had been there so long he was having sandwiches. I was thirsty. A man came in and wrote "Oak" by my name. Another man came over and asked me if I knew anyone in that ward. I only left it on Monday, I said. Well, they must like you because they want you back, he told me. Within minutes I was not only back I the same ward but in the same bed. Familiar fellow patients waved and familiar staff came to say hello. I could have wept, I was so grateful for all they had done. They were utterly magnificent.
Thursday, the doctor explained that he had referred me to the major centre 50 miles down the road, emailed them all my notes and scans and had a video conference with them that morning. They would discuss me at a weekly meeting the next day. But you'll be home later today and the stent will make its presence felt by outcome he said. The ward sister has arranged blood tests at your surgery.
That was pretty much it. Insufficient thanks expressed to the staff there, goodbyes and best wishes passed to fellow patients and home again. Still a bit wobbly, still a bit scrambled, still as yellow as Homer but every day it got better and eventually after about a week the plateau arrived. Still not proper in every aspect but able to eat a pasty and more like a pasty in colour as well as shape.
Properly caffeinated as well but even that took a day or two.
Tuesday after a good sleep was lovely. No blood pressure being taken every few hours but bloods taken locally. Fresh air. It was good. But not for long. By early afternoon I wasn't feeling great but when friends come and tea is poured the spirit is raised significantly. When that particular friend trained as a nurse it's a bonus.
My wife was sat opposite me and like Dirty Harry, I knew what she was thinking. I, too, was wondering if Tuesday night would not be better spent in hospital.
The phone rang and I was requested, as has to happen I suppose, although lots of practice sees me deftly, politely but firmly asking the caller to speak to my wife. The answer was yes and yes I could come in tomorrow for the biopsy stent doings and yes I would be nil by mouth from about now.
That's all it takes to sustain you for another 18 hours when you're feeling lousy.
Wednesday just before midday, a bit early, sees us sat in a nurse's office as she pores over a rather deep sheaf of paper. There are a lot of bits of paper through which she rifles with some satisfaction it seems. Eventually she asks is "this" is your signature? Could be, I said remembering the doctor on Monday morning. You have had so many cc's of this and of that. Again, I remember the ward sister on Monday morning not allowing the nurse to remove the cannula before she has administered whatever the syringes contained. You are ready to go, I was told, that has saved us a great deal of time.
Back in the waiting room I noticed the ward sister pass by just too late to speak. As she returned she paused as I asked who I had to thank for this? Her? Not only me she said listing others, the young doctor, the main man and the cancer nurse. Is there no goodness that the NHS doesn't do? I offered a totally inadequate thank you. What else can you do?
Next I'm in a robe in what appears a ladies wing of this area. The nurse in charge is muttering about so many extra people this afternoon as one senses a little impatience in a couple of patients. She then leans over, puts her hand on my shoulder and whispers sweet nothings to the effect, don't smile or look smug as the waiting time numbers increase but you are next.
In no time I had things done in a ladies room about which nothing will be said but I was judged fit enough. Then onto a trolley left side down and into a twilight room. The nurse we met earlier was preparing stuff and a nurse whose name took two full rows of a large name badge told me to call her Sue and she would hold my hand and I would do what she, but only she instructed.
Sharp scratch said a voice, in went a needle and the next thing I knew was that a man in front was twiddling wheels in such a way as to invite admiration as his attention was on a screen above me. A voice asked me to squeeze her hand if I could hear. Gently. Swallow four times and then squeeze again, please. Swallowing when a plastic broomhandle fills your throat is an interesting experience but not entirely pleasant. A few more instructions and squeezes and the twiddling man told me it was all done, smiled and the next thing I know was that I was back where I started. Sue told me to stay put so I did.
I think all that happened as I wrote but I wasn't totally with it. I do remember being wheeled past a waiting area where my wife was waiting so I asked if I could take that one. Not sure it went down well but she wasn't allowed in the recovery room.
I wasn't there long and to my right was a whiteboard with names on it. There were mutterings about there being 60 beds short and the man opposite had been there so long he was having sandwiches. I was thirsty. A man came in and wrote "Oak" by my name. Another man came over and asked me if I knew anyone in that ward. I only left it on Monday, I said. Well, they must like you because they want you back, he told me. Within minutes I was not only back I the same ward but in the same bed. Familiar fellow patients waved and familiar staff came to say hello. I could have wept, I was so grateful for all they had done. They were utterly magnificent.
Thursday, the doctor explained that he had referred me to the major centre 50 miles down the road, emailed them all my notes and scans and had a video conference with them that morning. They would discuss me at a weekly meeting the next day. But you'll be home later today and the stent will make its presence felt by outcome he said. The ward sister has arranged blood tests at your surgery.
That was pretty much it. Insufficient thanks expressed to the staff there, goodbyes and best wishes passed to fellow patients and home again. Still a bit wobbly, still a bit scrambled, still as yellow as Homer but every day it got better and eventually after about a week the plateau arrived. Still not proper in every aspect but able to eat a pasty and more like a pasty in colour as well as shape.
Properly caffeinated as well but even that took a day or two.
A short trip home
Sunday night brought the paramedics into the bay opposite with an obviously distressed patient. You can't not look and you certainly can't not hear, even with an iPod plugged in. He looked awful and a deeply lemon colour. The young doctor arranged emergency treatment for the patient with liver failure.
He was swiftly tended, prepared and moved on. To where? I didn't ask but later I did comment on his colour to the nurse taking my blood pressure, temperature and pulse. Have you seen yourself lately, he asked? If he was fresh lemon you are a lemon beginning to dry out. Pretty yellow, then.
Monday arrived and so did a young doctor, another familiar face, to tell me that I was likely to be discharged that very day. Surprisingly I think I was not feeling well enough to experience excitement but the prospect of a good night's sleep did appeal.
This young man visited frequently, explaining that I would need no medication and if this then do that, which I can't remember which is why I needed my wife to be there. As she was to meet the main man. I do remember signing some papers and I remember the ward sister squeezing a number of syringes of clear liquids in the cannula just prior to its removal.
Sat on the end of my bed I saw the main man enter the ward whereupon he began wandering about, looking in offices before finally talking with the ward sister, entering a side room with her whereupon the occupant of said room was evicted and extra seats taken in.
This, too, had a degree of familiarity. The last time I witnessed such behaviour was as the doctor tried in vain to find a space to tell us the worst about my mum's cancer. At that time we met in a room from which the occupants did not leave but stayed at their desks carrying on as the doctor told us there was no more they could do. We kept quiet as my sister had arranged transfer to a hospice. St.Julia's Hospice were as excellent as RCH Treliske was shameful.
This meeting was in a quiet, calm, comfortable room with a delightful ward sister, an utterly confidence inducing doctor, a gentle supremely professional cancer nurse, my wife and I.
Eventually the word "cancer" was delicately dropped into the conversation but amid all the positives it was hardly a surprise when it came. The next phase would take place at a much bigger hospital 50 miles down the road.
Before that, however, they would restore my colour to something approaching normality. They would also do a biopsy of the unwelcome lump. This would require a procedure down the throat, through the stomach around the bend and down a bit from which a biopsy would be taken and a stent put in. This would make the juices flow and thus the derangement of the blood would become significantly reduced. It could not be done at the moment, though, so I could go home.
The ward sister had departed earlier now came back to tell us that blood tests would be taken daily at our surgery. Sorted. The cancer nurse explained a number of options but to be honest my wife's note taking is all I can really remember. I do remember her emphasising the fact that the blockage my not necessarily be malignant as she then told us of the down the gullet process that would take place and how we could not be fitted in for either Wednesday or Friday this week so expect early next week.
I also remember the pamphlets and booklets being offered, accepted and put in the handbag. I see them frequently being read although I have to confess to not having read them myself, yet.
The meeting over and no medication to collect we were free to go. Amid heartfelt thanks and words that could never do justice to what was deserved we went.
Home was quiet, calm and so, so lovely.
The phone began ringing and the management adopted her secretarial role.
Visitors visited next day.
I had a coffee.
A proper full on Gaggia espresso coffee.
It nearly did for me and for the first time in my life I added water to an espresso.
He was swiftly tended, prepared and moved on. To where? I didn't ask but later I did comment on his colour to the nurse taking my blood pressure, temperature and pulse. Have you seen yourself lately, he asked? If he was fresh lemon you are a lemon beginning to dry out. Pretty yellow, then.
Monday arrived and so did a young doctor, another familiar face, to tell me that I was likely to be discharged that very day. Surprisingly I think I was not feeling well enough to experience excitement but the prospect of a good night's sleep did appeal.
This young man visited frequently, explaining that I would need no medication and if this then do that, which I can't remember which is why I needed my wife to be there. As she was to meet the main man. I do remember signing some papers and I remember the ward sister squeezing a number of syringes of clear liquids in the cannula just prior to its removal.
Sat on the end of my bed I saw the main man enter the ward whereupon he began wandering about, looking in offices before finally talking with the ward sister, entering a side room with her whereupon the occupant of said room was evicted and extra seats taken in.
This, too, had a degree of familiarity. The last time I witnessed such behaviour was as the doctor tried in vain to find a space to tell us the worst about my mum's cancer. At that time we met in a room from which the occupants did not leave but stayed at their desks carrying on as the doctor told us there was no more they could do. We kept quiet as my sister had arranged transfer to a hospice. St.Julia's Hospice were as excellent as RCH Treliske was shameful.
This meeting was in a quiet, calm, comfortable room with a delightful ward sister, an utterly confidence inducing doctor, a gentle supremely professional cancer nurse, my wife and I.
Eventually the word "cancer" was delicately dropped into the conversation but amid all the positives it was hardly a surprise when it came. The next phase would take place at a much bigger hospital 50 miles down the road.
Before that, however, they would restore my colour to something approaching normality. They would also do a biopsy of the unwelcome lump. This would require a procedure down the throat, through the stomach around the bend and down a bit from which a biopsy would be taken and a stent put in. This would make the juices flow and thus the derangement of the blood would become significantly reduced. It could not be done at the moment, though, so I could go home.
The ward sister had departed earlier now came back to tell us that blood tests would be taken daily at our surgery. Sorted. The cancer nurse explained a number of options but to be honest my wife's note taking is all I can really remember. I do remember her emphasising the fact that the blockage my not necessarily be malignant as she then told us of the down the gullet process that would take place and how we could not be fitted in for either Wednesday or Friday this week so expect early next week.
I also remember the pamphlets and booklets being offered, accepted and put in the handbag. I see them frequently being read although I have to confess to not having read them myself, yet.
The meeting over and no medication to collect we were free to go. Amid heartfelt thanks and words that could never do justice to what was deserved we went.
Home was quiet, calm and so, so lovely.
The phone began ringing and the management adopted her secretarial role.
Visitors visited next day.
I had a coffee.
A proper full on Gaggia espresso coffee.
It nearly did for me and for the first time in my life I added water to an espresso.
Scan doulos ly well looked after
At the ripe old age of about 12 I was in a tree with others when I descended in the shortest distance and the fastest way possible. Some hours after dark I was in Taunton hospital being operated on. The following day I was told that I had ruptured my spleen and it had been removed. A smart elderly gent in a suit and tie showed me a manky lump of what looked like dirty cotton wool in a small jar and told me that it was the offender. I survived.
Thus when the ultrasound lady was showing me my innermost workings and remarked that my spleen looked good you will understand my surprise. I pointed out my not inconspicuous scar and she momentarily looked as surprise as I felt but confirmed her opinion that my spleen looked like a perfectly well formed and functioning spleen.
At the following morning's bedside gathering I did ask but no one seemed too concerned, which when I think about it is quite right, I was asking about a spleen that was as good as spleens get.
The MRI scan was the next experience. First there was the issue of internal diameter and girth. To say it was a close shave would be an understatement. The pad and straps were exchanged for thinner varieties as I could not be. The operator explained that they were to stop you moving once inside. We concluded that once inside I couldn't move if I wanted to, indeed, I couldn't even be slid in holding the alarm bulb thingy but I managed to slide it forward upon entry not realising that I couldn't hope to get it back. I heard a lady in the headphones remark that I was OK as my feet were tapping in time with the motors. 33 minutes later I was glad to exit.
Later that afternoon I was told that the doctor would visit on Saturday at 10. In all this the staff, everyone of them, toiled like slaves, never stopping, never being any other than delightful, helpful, considerate and constantly prioritising seamlessly. Watching them observe, a word here, an action there, a stop this attend to that, always, always, always.
Saturday morning I determined to ask about the case of the restored spleen. The doctor came as promised. This time he wore a serious face. It could be more serious and we're arranging a CT scan. I would have asked about the spleen but now was not the time.
Within an hour or two a nurse came by to let me know that a CT scan had been arranged for tomorrow, Sunday, he said with the air of one who was quite surprised. I hope my sense of humble gratitude was palpable and that he was aware of how thankful I felt.
Sunday dawned and even before the blood lady had arrived I was taken for a CT scan which, to my great relief, is a scanner with a greater internal diameter than the MRI. What's more, you don't go right into it you just slide about as it whirrs and grinds and eventually 900cc's of clear liquid makes you feel like you are relieving yourself and you get the sensation of a strongly metallic taste. It soon passes.
Back on the ward and life carries on. The ward sister tells me that the tests are all done and the doctor will see me tomorrow, later than usual. She "casually" asks if my wife will be visiting at the usual time. I expect so, I said and asked if the doctor could schedule his visit so as to coincide. Saved her asking, I hope.
Sunday had been an odd day for many reasons. Mostly because I had no option but to observe once again how wonderful hospital staff are to everyone, even those who barely show civility and those who don't even try to be civil in any way, but especially how they deal with the downright obnoxious, foul mouthed, ungrateful ingrates who seem to take pleasure in displaying the very worst of human nature to the very best.
Thus when the ultrasound lady was showing me my innermost workings and remarked that my spleen looked good you will understand my surprise. I pointed out my not inconspicuous scar and she momentarily looked as surprise as I felt but confirmed her opinion that my spleen looked like a perfectly well formed and functioning spleen.
At the following morning's bedside gathering I did ask but no one seemed too concerned, which when I think about it is quite right, I was asking about a spleen that was as good as spleens get.
The MRI scan was the next experience. First there was the issue of internal diameter and girth. To say it was a close shave would be an understatement. The pad and straps were exchanged for thinner varieties as I could not be. The operator explained that they were to stop you moving once inside. We concluded that once inside I couldn't move if I wanted to, indeed, I couldn't even be slid in holding the alarm bulb thingy but I managed to slide it forward upon entry not realising that I couldn't hope to get it back. I heard a lady in the headphones remark that I was OK as my feet were tapping in time with the motors. 33 minutes later I was glad to exit.
Later that afternoon I was told that the doctor would visit on Saturday at 10. In all this the staff, everyone of them, toiled like slaves, never stopping, never being any other than delightful, helpful, considerate and constantly prioritising seamlessly. Watching them observe, a word here, an action there, a stop this attend to that, always, always, always.
Saturday morning I determined to ask about the case of the restored spleen. The doctor came as promised. This time he wore a serious face. It could be more serious and we're arranging a CT scan. I would have asked about the spleen but now was not the time.
Within an hour or two a nurse came by to let me know that a CT scan had been arranged for tomorrow, Sunday, he said with the air of one who was quite surprised. I hope my sense of humble gratitude was palpable and that he was aware of how thankful I felt.
Sunday dawned and even before the blood lady had arrived I was taken for a CT scan which, to my great relief, is a scanner with a greater internal diameter than the MRI. What's more, you don't go right into it you just slide about as it whirrs and grinds and eventually 900cc's of clear liquid makes you feel like you are relieving yourself and you get the sensation of a strongly metallic taste. It soon passes.
Back on the ward and life carries on. The ward sister tells me that the tests are all done and the doctor will see me tomorrow, later than usual. She "casually" asks if my wife will be visiting at the usual time. I expect so, I said and asked if the doctor could schedule his visit so as to coincide. Saved her asking, I hope.
Sunday had been an odd day for many reasons. Mostly because I had no option but to observe once again how wonderful hospital staff are to everyone, even those who barely show civility and those who don't even try to be civil in any way, but especially how they deal with the downright obnoxious, foul mouthed, ungrateful ingrates who seem to take pleasure in displaying the very worst of human nature to the very best.
Two wards a diagnosis
An x-ray at 0530 is not my usual start to a Wednesday but this was not a usual Wednesday for me but for everyone else it all seemed as normal as normal can be. At this time I was under the impression that I had a viral infection for which doing nothing but waiting for it to pass is recommended.
I'm not really conscious of many details about the x-Ray but I do know that my next recollection is of a bloods lady asking me for my dob prior to relieving my elbow of a few more vials of blood. It was daylight and there were windows. I was on another ward, Lime.
I was next awoken by quite a crowd gathered about me. It seems that I was uncommonly yellow and my bloods were extremely deranged but there was no evidence of anything viral, so the tall, smart gentleman said. Your liver is functioning, though, he said so it'll be a blockage, probably a small stone. Are you in any pain? No. Have you had any pain in recent days? No. You'll be having an ultrasound scan shortly so we can see where the blockage is. OK? Thank you.
A nurse came over and offered me coffee and told me my scan would be imminent as afternoons are mostly for pregnant ladies. The coffee was welcome. It would be churlish to mention that it probably hadn't been anywhere near a bean since it was sprayed against a rotating drum with a surface temperature in excess of 200°C, that being the temperature that turns coffee sprayed at high pressure into grains of solid soluble coffee. Instantly formed, instantly dissolved, instantly forgettable but by far the best cup of coffee I'd had in what felt like ages.
The expected porters failed to materialise at the time expected but I had nothing else to do and they probably did. At this time I didn't associate their non appearance to the sounds of activity and the distant ringing of alarms. Once the part of the hospital which had been evacuated had determined that the threat was either accidental or otherwise unnecessary I was told to expect my scan early in the afternoon.
Thus, visiting time had hardly had time for pleasantries, more importantly for the handover of radio, iPod and earphones before the porters arrived to wheel me away.
The porter was hugely amused as he weaved his way around the ranks of pregnant ladies and into the room for me to be scanned. The process was fine albeit with even more acreage over which to spread the jelly than even a heavily pregnant lady would require. The scan provided a huge surprise for me and once completed I was wheeled outside and left amid rows of ladies looking at me until a porter arrived which wasn't very long. I think I'd have walked back to the ward but I didn't have a clue how to get there.
Visiting time was resumed, my yellowness noted, a drip replenished and music of my choice enjoyed.
The following morning the team gathered again. No obvious blockage so it must be something else, I was told. The blood lady was waiting for their departure which was odd as she'd only taken a fair drop shortly before the bedside team meeting. This time I clearly saw the laptop which shows my details and a spreadsheet of bloods required, usually three or four. This time there were pages and vials in abundance.
Before she had left a lovely lady doctor who had been a member of the team arrived. Held my hand and explained that whatever it was, however small they would find it. It was when she told me not to worry that I had a wispy stain of an idea turn into something more smoky.
She also told me that tomorrow, Friday, I would have an MRI scan and I'd be moved to another ward. The MRI was an experience and I was moved to Oak ward.
I'm not really conscious of many details about the x-Ray but I do know that my next recollection is of a bloods lady asking me for my dob prior to relieving my elbow of a few more vials of blood. It was daylight and there were windows. I was on another ward, Lime.
I was next awoken by quite a crowd gathered about me. It seems that I was uncommonly yellow and my bloods were extremely deranged but there was no evidence of anything viral, so the tall, smart gentleman said. Your liver is functioning, though, he said so it'll be a blockage, probably a small stone. Are you in any pain? No. Have you had any pain in recent days? No. You'll be having an ultrasound scan shortly so we can see where the blockage is. OK? Thank you.
A nurse came over and offered me coffee and told me my scan would be imminent as afternoons are mostly for pregnant ladies. The coffee was welcome. It would be churlish to mention that it probably hadn't been anywhere near a bean since it was sprayed against a rotating drum with a surface temperature in excess of 200°C, that being the temperature that turns coffee sprayed at high pressure into grains of solid soluble coffee. Instantly formed, instantly dissolved, instantly forgettable but by far the best cup of coffee I'd had in what felt like ages.
The expected porters failed to materialise at the time expected but I had nothing else to do and they probably did. At this time I didn't associate their non appearance to the sounds of activity and the distant ringing of alarms. Once the part of the hospital which had been evacuated had determined that the threat was either accidental or otherwise unnecessary I was told to expect my scan early in the afternoon.
Thus, visiting time had hardly had time for pleasantries, more importantly for the handover of radio, iPod and earphones before the porters arrived to wheel me away.
The porter was hugely amused as he weaved his way around the ranks of pregnant ladies and into the room for me to be scanned. The process was fine albeit with even more acreage over which to spread the jelly than even a heavily pregnant lady would require. The scan provided a huge surprise for me and once completed I was wheeled outside and left amid rows of ladies looking at me until a porter arrived which wasn't very long. I think I'd have walked back to the ward but I didn't have a clue how to get there.
Visiting time was resumed, my yellowness noted, a drip replenished and music of my choice enjoyed.
The following morning the team gathered again. No obvious blockage so it must be something else, I was told. The blood lady was waiting for their departure which was odd as she'd only taken a fair drop shortly before the bedside team meeting. This time I clearly saw the laptop which shows my details and a spreadsheet of bloods required, usually three or four. This time there were pages and vials in abundance.
Before she had left a lovely lady doctor who had been a member of the team arrived. Held my hand and explained that whatever it was, however small they would find it. It was when she told me not to worry that I had a wispy stain of an idea turn into something more smoky.
She also told me that tomorrow, Friday, I would have an MRI scan and I'd be moved to another ward. The MRI was an experience and I was moved to Oak ward.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
First night performance.
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.
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.
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.
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