Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 5

After yet another bad night sleep-wise, brought on by a combination of worrying about what decision day would bring as well as a tender tummy and a poorly arm, Tuesday morning saw a lady in business suit by my bed at 8am who was apparently the administrator. She wanted to know exactly what had happened with the phlebitis as, apparently, one incidence is unusual yet there were 3 among 32 beds. She apologised profusely and I told her I wouldn’t sue but would settle for an out-of-court negotiation of either red jelly for lunch or a 24 hour period where my bowels were not mentioned. I’ve a feeling that she wasn’t quite sure how to take that!

The other early morning news was that the breakfast lady and I vaguely knew each other so I was OK for extra toast, tea etc. I was very good and ordered Flora rather than butter. That’s another thing – no jam, just orange marmalade is available. What power does the colour orange hold over the NHS? Very strange. Maybe the NHS is sponsored by EasyJet? I suppose it explains why I was only allowed a certain amount of baggage in my locker.

By 9.15, my doctor arrived. He explained that he had tried to get me on tomorrow's list but there just wasn't room so I was free to go! Within 5 minutes I was dressed and packed and by 10am I was sitting in the Discharge Lounge waiting for my meds whereupon I was free to go. The Discharge Lounge is rather nice with lovely big comfy chairs and people offering tea, coffee and posh biscuits at regular intervals. I settled down to wait and it started to fill up as more detainees were released.

What is it about older women in hospital? As soon as there was a quorum they all took great delight in discussing their symptoms, treatments and all the minutiae of the stay. I sat huddled in a corner, all sense of enjoyment long gone as I listened to the saga of Mrs Kneetrembler's infarction and Hilda's raptures about the quality of the surgical stockings supplied to her. By midday I was still there and I was offered lunch.

Now, hospital food permeating a large ward is bad enough but to have to sit in a relatively small room surrounded by it was too much to bear. I asked the desk clerk when I might expect to go and she said that there had been a slight problem with my drugs - quel surprise! I sat down once more and glumly chewed on a ham and tomato sandwich whilst listening to the decrepit old biddy next to me ordering the steamed fish as she 'really enjoyed that'. Fortunately, my meds arrived before the fish so I walked out to freedom.

The world never looked as good as the cab took me along the cliffs towards home. The sun glinted off the sea and all was right with the world. Back in familiar surroundings, I suddenly realised just how tired I was so, after a cup of tea and a passing fancy for some orange jelly, I fell into bed and slipped into a blissful 3 hours of sleep.

As I sit here typing the final few words of this blog, the last 5 days seem a distant memory. The body feels fairly reasonable, I've watched Liverpool play (and win!) and nobody has questioned the state of my bowels for over 12 hours.

Despite my somewhat cynical observations, a lot of hospital people have worked hard to help me during this time. My thanks go to all of them as well as the loved ones and friends, both near and far, who have wished me well, worried for me and kept my spirits high. You know who you are - bless you all.

Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 4

Monday morning and the usual 6.30 wake up call. The night had been punctuated by several episodes from Mr Snorey who had been ranting loudly in his sleep. I’m sure that, in normal circumstances, he is a jolly, larger than life character with whom I would establish instant rapport. Currently however, he is prime candidate for my “Hit of the Month” award.

There was a new staff nurse this morning who introduced herself as Lesley. I knew things had changed when she asked why I was eating breakfast? I tried to explain that eating was the most accepted method of dealing with breakfast when she uttered the immortal words ‘This is a surgical ward, you know.’ I can only assume from this that she was of the school of thought that starved all her patients on the off chance that there might be a spare operating table. Then, she questioned me about the fat-free diet whereupon I, in best service traditions, gave only my name, rank and NHS number. Needless to say, I now have a big sign over the bed and she has been to see the kitchen staff!

We then went through a plethora of needless forms and I pointed out that I was lucky to have her here as nobody else seemed to have bothered with them. Totally missing the irony, she agreed that she liked to be methodical and then took my tablets away – the ones I have taken every night for the last 20 years! As I raised a quizzical eyebrow, she observed that there was no label on the bottle and I might not therefore know what they were and thus, place myself at risk. Despite me pointing out that, by her asking me what they were and my replying, it sort of proved I did know, they were duly locked away ready for allocation at the appropriate time.

Back to the forms: What foods did I like and dislike?

OK, now it’s revenge time. If she likes methodical then she can have methodical! I reeled off a list of foods I dislike ranging from fish pie to Somerfield beef sausages, fully expecting her to capitulate and ask me to generalise. Oh no, she wrote them all down and I collapsed once more, defeated.

Later on, she did pop her head round and impishly ask if I needed a blanket bath? Perhaps the Bassett magic had penetrated the Hattie Jacques exterior and found the wanton woman beneath? Maybe, if I wooed her, I could persuade her to remove the low-fat sign? Somehow, I doubt it!

The doctor rounds started and I marvelled once more at the blatant use of child labour. Earnest looking adolescents following their Svengali as they moved from bed to bed; the swots standing at the front looking eager and the less brave hiding away at the back. Mine eventually arrived and told me that it looked like gall bladder but they needed yet another ultrasound and might even consider removing it sooner rather than later! I was pretty keyed up at the thought of going home and felt pretty low at this point so was really pleased when a med. student friend of mine popped in. I tried to persuade her to sign discharge papers but no good. I was even prepared to compromise and settle for asking her to change me to full-fat diet but nope. I waved a sad farewell to macaroni cheese and settled for a chicken sandwich for my lunch.

This whole hospital thing is losing its appeal. At 4.30, the medic popped back and told me they have decided not to ultrasound after all as they are unanimous in their opinion that it is my gall bladder (probably). He explained that if I still have the pain tomorrow and, provided they can find me a ‘slot’, they will operate Wednesday. If I am feeling better, then I can go home and await their pleasure.

This is a tricky one for me to decide. There are more risks if I have it done now but there will be less pain in total. I decided to leave it to Fate, the surgical team and my own particular guardian angel. His name is Barry and he’s great for advising on house decor and soft furnishings – I just hope he’s up to speed on choleocystitis.

The afternoon was a bit quiet but I was buoyed up by the thought of my (low-fat) sweet & sour pork. As it arrived and the Catering Dispensing Technician lifted the cover with a flourish, I gazed at a pale grey, slightly amorphous mass undulating gently on the plate. I hesitantly tried a taste and have to say its relationship to Chinese cuisine was rather similar to China’s relationship with Tibet – cold, sterile, tasteless and totally wrong. It was shite! I drew comfort from my slab of orange jelly as well as Mrs B’s observation that all the prohibited dishes looked disgusting also.

I knew things were getting me down when I started to ponder on the excitement of whether tomorrow’s jelly might be of another colour? Perhaps they make one giant jelly at the start of each month and it lays there in a corner of the kitchen, rather reminiscent of a Torchwood alien, whilst bits are hacked off it each day? Loyd Grossman was apparently the driving force behind this NHS menu so perhaps I shall write to him and ask.

I watched a documentary on Kamikaze that evening and learned some useful tips for my flight simulations. Judging by the footage of the planes plummeting out of the sky, I really feel I am making progress as was evidenced by the number of times I proudly thought ‘I can do that’. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one that can take off, fly and then totally screw up the landing.

Ooh, just one other thing that happened: I had a shower this evening and blagged a razor off one of the nurses. I have an electric one with me but this doesn’t fine-tune my moustache to my satisfaction hence the disposable. The only problem was that I had no shaving foam and there was no way I was going to ruin my skin by going in dry. Luck smiled upon me as I spied a small individual sachet of lubricating gel left over from Goodness knows what. It worked a treat and I can thoroughly recommend it in an emergency! I would imagine however that shaving foam and lubricating gel are not necessarily interchangeable from the other point of view, if you see what I mean. Please tell me if you know differently!

Bertie's Hospital Blog - Part 3

Sunday came and, after the normal early morning routine, I decided to venture out in my green scrubs trousers and tee shirt to find the WRVS shop. Rumour had it they sold proper coffee, newspapers, sweets and all things nice. Unsure of whether parole was allowed, I had slipped past the nurses’ station and quickly reached the lifts. Three floors down and I was there – the NHS equivalent of Switzerland to escaping Colditz officers. I purchased coffee, Werthers (after explaining they were for my grandfather) and Bassett’s Cherry Drops and made my way back. No alarms were sounding so I was feeling pretty damn’ good..........until I realised the doors to the ward were locked! Paranoia instantly took over until I noticed the sign asking visitors to press the buzzer, as a security measure. I pressed it and tried to affect the air of a rather eccentrically dressed visitor. They obviously fell for it as I soon reached the safety of my bed once more.

The rest of the afternoon was not good as I had yet another bout of the pain but Mrs B and the kids arrived with Cher (my laptop), a large bag of Joosters, a bag of gobstoppers and Pepsi. The bed area was now looking a tad cluttered: laptop, iTouch, iPod, mobile phone – not to mention the Sunday paper and its 473 supplements. Football was on the TV but I managed to get a grunt out of Master Bassett before kick-off saw him revert to his normal catatonic footy-watching trance.

At one point, I noticed both Mrs and Miss B in hysterics – I mean real, eye-watering, knuckle stuffed in mouth hysterics. I was also aware of a stentorian voice behind me yelling down a phone that he couldn’t hear the person on the other end. Mrs B weakly gestured behind me before once more falling to the ground in a puddle of mirth and, as I turned, I realised the cause of their bladder-loosening hilarity......Mr Snorey had forgotten to remove the TV headphones!

Poor kids were a little worried when they left - I think one tends to think of parents as superhuman and it's not often that they've seen me really poorly. I'd reached the stage however where I couldn't mask it very well. They toddled off and I could allow myself the luxury of doing what unwell males are best at - moaning, groaning and trying to elicit as much sympathy as possible. The nurse came over and gave me some OraMorph which seemed to do the trick so I spent the evening feeling better and starting this blog.

By the time tuck-down came, my previously canulated arm was starting to get hot with a solid lump above where the canula had been. I spent an uncomfortable night as I had apparently contracted phlebitis which is caused by the canula allowing the vein to become a little infected and is characterised by a tenderness of excruciating sensitivity. It also gets extremely hot and swollen – definitely not recommended.

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!"

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.