Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 2

The next day dawned.......... I know – they woke me especially to see it! What is this thing about getting people up so early? As I lay there, listening to a chorus of moans, groans, yawns and farts, a sweet lady of foreign extraction asked me what I would like for breakfast and I glumly pointed at the large FF sign above my bed. She wandered off to ascertain the meaning and then came back to offer me the choice of tea or coffee. To be honest, I’m still not quite sure which it was but at least it was hot and wet.....well, wet.

Now, let me just say a word of warning at this juncture: the drinks squad take great pride in their work. Whatever you ask for, they take great pride in remembering your choice and will always bring the identical drink at all subsequent visits. In other words, if you ask for coffee, then every other drink they bring you, irrespective of however long you are there, will be coffee. I had the temerity to ask if I might have tea and this was met with raised eyebrows and a shocked expression.

The rest of the morning flew by in a flurry of bed-making, blanket bathing, bowel enquiries etc. I, being the only one in the ward who was mobile, took great delight in padding round in tee shirt and best M&S knickers until a nurse pointedly looked at my legs and asked if I wanted some trousers? I accepted and he went off to get them muttering about people wearing outfits better suited for the beach – charming! he did come back with some rather lovely disposable slippers as well - I can well see why they were called 'disposable' - I took one look and dropped them in the bin.

Lunchtime came and I was told that my FF diet entitled me, not only to a cup of soup, but also jelly and ice cream! By this time, my will had been broken so I wept tears of gratitude at this wondrous treat. Ideally, of course, they would have served the soup in a separate container but beggars can't be choosers. I then had a visit from yet another medic who explained that, whilst they hadn’t got a conclusive opinion, it did look like gall –bladder and I was therefore formally permitted to partake, once more, of food, albeit low-fat. As the food orderly didn't seem to be aware of the low-fat stipulation, that evening, I ordered low-fat steak & mushroom pie, low-fat sauté potatoes and low-fat jam sponge & custard!

By this time, my arm above the canula was starting to hurt and I told the nurse. She flushed it through and told me it was fine. I mentioned it to another nurse a few hours later who looked at it and said it looked fine to her. Oh, the caring face of the NHS! That evening, as they went to insert another armful of antibiotic, the canula was blocked so they took it out and put it into the other arm. Problem solved (although the story carries on later).

Mrs B came up for a visit and we sat there, like all hospital visitors and visitees, making desultory conversation. It's strange the effect hospitals have. Even the most dynamic of relationships seem to fall under this strange cloud of small talk. Of course, it's not easy chatting as everyone else listens in and the best bits of the conversation tend to be about the other occupants. I was beginning to wish I had stuck to the low-fat as the stomach was starting to regret my previous lack of willpower.

The evening ended with more medication, more tea and a deep discussion with Alex the nurse about the NHS preoccupation with bowels. He was obviously a man after my own heart as his initial reply was "Who gives a shit!"