Mastication in the Bathroom

Well, it's out! Gertie the gall-bladder is no more and (if the rest of the NHS menu is anything to go by) now starring in a casserole near you.

I won't bore you with more blow by blow accounts - merely a few sundry thoughts which occurred to me whilst incarcerated.

Mastication in the Bathroom

Of the 5 visits I've made to hospital this year, I have been forced to spend a lot of it 'nil by mouth' or 'low-fat diet'. NHS food being what it is, most of my so-called meals were taken up utilising the ex British Rail stock of sandwiches bought up several years previously.

The night before my operation I was told that I was allowed to eat until midnight so accordingly made a surreptitious phone call to Mrs B and placed an order for cheese, Marmite and cucumber sandwiches. Yes, I know it's not low-fat but I figured I was in the right place should another attack take place and I was desperate! The contraband comestible was smuggled in and I hid the box in my locker, salivating down my hospital gown at the thought of the savoury, dairy scrumptiousness to come.

11pm and all was quiet - time for munchies! Now, wards tend to be quiet at that time (unless Mr Snorey is around) and I had planned things with military precision......then paranoia set in! What if I was discovered? Would I be wheeled before Matron and ceremonially de-dripped? In the end, I decided that discretion was required so wrapped my sarnie box in a towel and nonchalantly headed for the bathroom.

Words cannot describe the sheer joy as I sat there, surrounded by various bowel collection impedimenta, paper towels and used surgical appliances, masticating furiously. OK, the 10 minutes scrabbling around the floor picking up all the crumbs of grated cheese were a pain but it was soooooo worth it. I emerged with a smile on my face and went to sleep, a happy pre-operative.

Shaved Bits

I've never considered myself particularly hirsute but my body has now taken on the appearance of a volunteer at the Parkinson's Waxing Academy. They shaved my chest for ECGs, they shaved my stomach for the 4 holes, they shaved my arm for God knows what during the operation. I wouldn't mind but aesthetic it was NOT! Picture the animal with the shaved leg. Mrs B did actually enquire, after looking at the long white, stubbly area of my arm, whether I had been speyed? In fact, the old body beautiful is looking a bit below par all round; bloated from the gas they pumped into me, stomach like a colander, several dozen canula holes and upper-body alopecia. Ter-bleeding-riffic!

Nasal Ointment

I know MRSA is a big thing in hospitals at the moment and I was asked to help pioneer a new safety precaution: namely, nasal ointment. I was presented with a tube of ointment and asked to place some of this on my finger and basically, shove it up my nose in a bid to solve MRSA. Me being me, I asked the obvious question; what about breathing through my mouth? Was this prohibited? The nurse raised her eyes and delivered a lecture about how MRSA is essentially transmitted through nose and bottom. Ah, right. I lay there and awaited a considerably larger tube and some latex gloves but they never appeared.

I then suggested that shoving an actual tube up each nostril would be even more efficacious but the nurse merely grimaced as she prepared yet another armful of antibiotic.

It's certainly quite a sight, watching a ward-full of people shoving their fingers up their noses but if it helps.............

Inhibitions

Hospitals are quite clever. They program you to lose your inhibitions from the word go by handing you that delightful back-to front gown. It's hilarious watching people shuffling around trying to hold the back in place until you realise it's your turn. Unless you're an orang-utan, you first of all have to find someone to actually tie the ribbons in place but it's all to no avail. I was in the women's part of the ward to start off with and had a happy morning studying all the different knickers peeping through but then, of course, you have to do the bathroom shuffle and realise it's not quite so funny.

Over the 6 days I was there, I went from the shy, shrinking violet loved by all to a brazen exhibitionist who was happy to bare my bits to whomsoever wished to look. Come to think of it, there was money to be made: Bertie's Drain & Catheter Tour - only £2.50 with free nasal ointment included.

Incidentally, talking of hospital gowns, why do they stamp Hospital Property all over them? Who the f*ck in their right minds is going to nick them???

Early Mornings

This one is a bit difficult to blog. Blokes know that, first thing in the morning, one sometimes wakes in a certain "state". Apparently, it's nature's way of stopping you peeing, if you get my drift.

Anyway, one morning I awoke to the sound of the consultant's round and suddenly had this awful vision of him pulling back the covers to prod my stomach whilst the assembled acolytes gasped! I lay there desperately trying to relax but, of course, failed miserably. I tried long mathematical formulae, I tried picturing Carole from Big Brother, I even tried thinking of John Prescott in lime-green Speedos but all to no avail.

As I heard him move ever nearer, I was getting desperate. Die, you bastard, I hissed but the panic forced up my blood pressure even further. I leaped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom (or should I say, shuffled awkwardly). Obviously, I couldn't pee so turned on the cold tap and splashed my face in an attempt to divert my thoughts. It was working! Praying I wouldn't meet a pretty nurse wearing traditional uniform on my way back, I just had time to reach the safety of my bed once more and lay there, limp (so to speak) with exhaustion.

Other Thoughts

Don't ask the bloke in the bed next to you for a number 23 and fried rice - jaundice isn't funny.

NEVER ask for pain relief when you are nil by mouth - it hurts!

Kudos to the unsung heroes (usually of European extraction) that clean the wards. If only Brits were as dedicated.

Why can't they give surgeons needlepoint lessons - my few stitches are so ugly. Can't the NHS supply an overlocker?

Just because you lose your gall-bladder at 7pm, eating a whole packet of chocolate eclairs at 5.30 the next morning is still not a good idea.

Without wishing to start rumours about my recreational pastimes, I managed to secrete quite a few hypodermic syringes to bring home. Not for me, you understand, but they are really useful for mrs B when she's mixing her inks!

Once more, thanks, appreciation and love to my family, friends and assorted others for helping me to get through this.

My Welcome Home Picture from Mrs B