Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 1

The hospital sojourn is over for the time being and I am now home! Apart from a nice parting present of phlebitis from where one of the canulae was fitted, I at least now have a firm commitment to surgery in 4 to 6 weeks. Naturally, I blogged it all and I will release over the next few days. Here it is then - Bertie's Hospital Blog!

Well, where do I start? The routine of hospital life? The preoccupation with my bowels? The amazing indifference of some nursing and medical staff and the dedication of others? The joys of NHS jam sponge pudding?

I suppose the best place is to start at the beginning when the pain.....almost unbearable pain..... necessitated a 4.30am cab ride to A & E. Having done it all before, I was longing for that wonderful morphine moment but the chappie there wanted to check that it wasn’t indigestion first.

I was willing to try anything and chewed away on the 4 Gaviscon tablets he placed in my hand. At this point, I was unable to lie, sit or stand still and was making crab-like circuits of the room whilst sounding rather like the audio dub on a 70’s porn movie. I could feel the contents of my mouth expanding as I chewed until I took on an attractive rabid look to compliment the groaning. Obviously it made not a scrap of difference so I was ushered along to a cubicle and handed that symbol of acceptance into the “system”: an NHS gown!

It was the usual procedure of ECG, BP, etc., etc. until we reached the stage of morphine. Now, last time, it was a wondrous moment as my pains dissipated into a dreamy haze so I lay there awaiting that delicious moment. The nurse pumped in a third of the syringe...

”Any better?” Nope

Another third...

“That better?” Nope

Final third....

“That MUST be better?” Nope

Finally, 5 minutes later, the pain went down to 7 out of 10 on the Bertie Scale and I was on my way to MASU.

MASU is not some strange cabalistic acronym but stands for the (rather all-encompassing) Medical & Surgical Unit – in other words, the “not sures”. I was pushed into bay 25 (I hasten to add, I was attached to a bed) and lay there, tired, disoriented and not a little whimsical - MASU was Dad’s last hospital stop. Bay 25 is rather nice: a corner plot with commanding views over the toilets and ample space for development potential. As I was whisked away for a few X-rays, I looked forward to returning to, what to me, was already ‘home’.

Of course, I never saw Bay 25 again. I was now the proud new resident of Bay 12 and I celebrated with a nice glass of water as I was on fluids only. The outlook was interesting: 3 ladies, one antiquarian who had lost more marbles than Greece after Elgin’s visit, another of late middle-age in fetching white knee socks and hospital gown who sat there and imitated a tumble dryer! Imagine if you will, an open mouth endlessly moving round and round and you have the idea. The third lady seemed quite normal but had a partner/husband who seemed bored with the whole idea of her admission and just sat there with his hoodie pulled over his head. I had all the obs. once more and spent an entertaining few minutes watching the nursing auxiliary puzzling why the cuff around my arm wasn’t inflating. She took it off, checked all the tubes, peered at all the dials and scratched her head whilst a ward full of bored patients looked on. I have to say, the way she realised the problem, took the end of the cable and then plugged it into the machine with nonchalant aplomb was beautifully done!

I was now due a CT scan to check out the gall bladder once more and was told I needed to drink a whole jug of water in the next 25 minutes which I duly did. Into the “doughnut” I went and then back to the ward with the thought of a wee heavily on my mind. I, at least, had the ability to fend for myself in this department rather than rely on recycled egg boxes pressed into various comical but practical shapes.

I was visited by yet another medic. Let me say at this point I had been interrogated throughout the day by various youths purporting to have some medical knowledge. They all asked the same questions, they all seemed fascinated by my bowels and they all went away, never to be seen by me again. Was I part of some strange medical Scavenger Hunt? Was I in the I-Spy Book of Bowel Movements and they all wanted the points? Was it some strange induction originated by Hippocrates whilst under the influence of Ouzo? This particular medic actually imparted some news i.e. there might be some fluid around the gall bladder but he wasn’t quite sure. He told me that he would consult with the senior radiographer and would eventually report back. Woohoo, progress at last! He also said I was able to eat at last and I triumphantly tucked into a ham and tomato sandwich. Let me say, at this point, it’s probably the unused sandwiches rather than egg boxes that make up the bottles and bed pans – there seemed a direct correlation between the textures and, I would imagine, the taste.

Following a spirited bidding war for my body between departments, I was then transferred to a surgical ward. Most hospitals have ward names like Nightingale or Albion or something of significance. What do I get? Level 8! Having said that, it was a nice room of 4 beds, all of which were electrically adjustable and, most important, I had the facility of TV, phone and internet. There was the usual 30 minute wait for the moron at PatientLine to grant me the privilege of paying extortionate amounts of money for a service which made even Tiscali look impressive and then I could relax in my nice clean bed: relatively pain-free and looking forward to a good night’s sleep. Why, even the sunset over the sea was breathtaking as I gazed through my picture window. Perhaps now was the time when fortune swung in my favour?

Pah! Not only did some nurse inform me that I was on a “free fluids only” diet but I encountered the World, Universe & InterGalactic Snoring Champion. I tried arguing about the former but was informed that ‘the notes said so’ – Bang goes my double soss, eggs, bacon and fried slice for brekkie. As to the snoring, the guy in the bed diagonally opposite was the culprit. He obviously wasn’t well and I’m sure the medication didn’t help but he lay there, a gaping maw from which issued a sound normally heard only in the labour wards of warthogs. As he breathed in, we clung desperately to our beds as various unattached objects whistled through the air. As he exhaled, they returned at an even greater velocity. I finally drifted off to sleep with a surgical glove stuffed in each ear and a black rage in my heart.