Tag Archives: Hospital

Fish, Chips and Disappointment

Well, I’m back home already. No overnight stay, no pain, no blood.

On the downside, there was no operation.

I rose at 6.00 and, like Paddington Bear, breakfasted on marmalade sandwiches. Five and a half hours later I was washed, packed and provisioned. I was also starving and slightly nervous, as medical staff kept drifting through, asking to see my appointment letter. In the end one of them, having drawn the short straw, sidled up and asked me to step through, obviously trying to separate me from the herd.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not on our list.” she said, and like a modern nightclub the NHS operates on the policy of “if you aren’t on the list, you aren’t coming in”.

So, despite having a letter telling me when to report, despite having rung to confirm and despite having had my pre-op done while I was on the ward last week, I was sent home.

That’s the summary anyway. In real life it took longer, with more muttered excuses and a lot of waiting.

I’m now waiting for a new date.

On the positive side, this gave us the time to enjoy the sunshine and go for haddock and chips at The Big Fish and Julia allowed me to have syrup sponge and custard to get over my disappointment.

I’m now engaging in one of my favourite activities – mentally composing a letter of complaint about my cancelled appointment. I always seem so much more intelligent at this point – the draft always seems so much better than the final written version.

I’m currently debating whether I should offer to fit catheters to the staff concerned as this might concentrate their minds on the delay in removing mine.

Turning into Nero Wolfe

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I think I’m turning into Nero Wolfe. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just seems to have happened. I’ve turned into a fat man who doesn’t leave the house. I have the waistline, the aversion to exercise and I even have a selection of orchids. I say a selection, but I’m actually 9,997 orchids short of Wolfe’s total.

OK, I’ll come clean – I’ve had the waistline for a while, but being confined to the house hasn’t helped.

The cost of Nero Wolfe books on Kindle starts around £4, which is higher than I want to pay for something with no physical presence. I’ve bought one for a penny, though P&P is £2.80. It’s a tricky balancing act. £4 for a load of pixels, or £2.80 for stamps and a second-hand book I’ll give away.

I’m currently packing for hospital (just one more day left) though it’s unlikely I’ll get a lot of reading done while I’m in there. I’m making sure to pack Wodehouse this time, and a packet of sandwiches. My previous experience shows I’m likely to need cheeriness and sustenance.

What I really need is an auriga to follow me round the hospital and whisper in my ear how lucky I am. I tend to find that as I lie there in the operating theatre my good fortune isn’t always at the forefront of my mind.

Part 3 – Free at Last!

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After the drainage procedure the pain immediately subsided, and I suspect that what remained was due to the drainage rather than the abscess.

We will now deal with the bed. It finally arrived from a secret off-site location (after a second call was placed), at 9.30. That’s about 8 hours. I presume it was either stored a long way away, or that it was close and they pushed it all the way by hand. To suggest a third choice, that it took eight hours because they couldn’t organise a party in a brewery, would be a cheap shot.

It was a monster, requiring furniture to be moved round, and had a pump which operated constantly, and noisily, to keep the special mattress inflated (this strikes me as a bad thing in a piece of furniture designed to facilitate sleep).

There were other faults – the main one being that it was so high I couldn’t get into it unassisted. For some reason The Great Bed of Ware comes to mind. City Hospital is currently running a campaign (End PJ Paralysis) to encourage patients to get dressed properly and get active. Strange really, considering they seemed to go out of their way to render me immobile.

I won’t mention the the list of other faults, as several of them have already come back to me as bad dreams. It’s difficult to imagine anyone being traumatised by a bed, but I promise you, on top of everything else, that bed came close to breaking my spirit.

Once I had been assisted into bed, and we had addressed various problems with adjustments things took a turn for the worse when a junior doctor arrived with a cannula. I had hoped to avoid having one but it seemed that they couldn’t get enough antibiotics into me by mouth alone. When you think of the alternatives I suppose intravenous isn’t so bad.

As usual, it didn’t go in at the first attempt and the doctor decided to try my right hand. I try to avoid the right hand as I often catch it whilst doing things. In this case, I started by bleeding on the book I was reading; this wouldn’t have happened if the cannula had been in the left hand. Second, I caught it on the cuff of my nightshirt whilst preparing to wash next morning, This resulted in a cannula that stuck out at a strange angle. I got it roughly back in position and replaced the dressing as well as I could, but it wasn’t quite right.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of boredom punctuated by random bottom inspections. Dark forces are obviously afoot in the NHS, striking back at the rising trend of patient dignity. Under the guise of skin inspections to prevent bed sores, random members of staff wander along at irregular intervals and demand to see my heels and bottom.

I may refuse to show them next time, on the grounds I am a man, not a baboon.

Finally, Julia arrived to visit and help with my liberation. The first thing she did was point to a spot by my side and say “What’s that?”

It was the cannula. I must have plucked it straight out, which couldn’t have taken much effort as I didn’t even notice.

We asked a passing nurse to dispose of it instead of leaving it lying about. She didn’t seem grateful for our help in keeping the place tidy, but maybe she was just sad at the idea of losing me.

Light at the End of the Tunnel

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As the day progressed I started becoming more agitated. It’s hard to settle when you have a 4 pm hospital appointment. At least, by scheduling two health appointments on one day, I wasn’t going to waste two days.

It was cardiology this time and I haven’t been looking forward to it. It proved to be one problem after another. First I had trouble folding myself into the taxi as all this sitting round is making my knees seize up, then I got lost in the outpatients department. I say “lost”, but some proper signs would have helped. By the time I got to the right place I was three minutes late, annoyed with myself for poor punctuality and irritated by the signage.

At that point I discovered I’d left my glasses at home and my arms aren’t quite long enough to allow me to read.

It got worse when I was sent off to another department for my third ECG in six weeks. Why not do one and use it three times?

Things improved after that. The ECG technician apologised for asking me to remove my upper body clothing and I replied it was no problem, and a real bonus to keep my trousers on for once.

That led to an amusing story about her morning. She asked a patient to remove his upper clothing so she could attach the sticky tabs and turned round just in time to stop him removing his trousers. It seems he thought he was in for a haemorrhoid examination. I’m not sure where sticky pads and wires fitted into his view of things…

Anyway, much cheered, I made my way back to the clinic to be weighed (again), measured (again) and have my blood pressure taken (again). I seem to have shrunk by two inches since my last measurement. Sadly I haven’t grown any lighter.

After examining all the evidence the doctor told me she’ll write a letter to my doctor, and said I was free to go. She didn’t need to tell me twice.

That’s one to cross off the list.

Now that I have a date for Male Urology I also feel I’m close to crossing that off.

I’m tempted to say I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but that just reminds me of a flexible cystoscopy.

Eeeek!

Hospital Food

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I have been in hospital three times – 30 years ago, 12 years ago and 2 days ago.

Thirty years ago the menu system served to me was the meal that had been ordered by the previous occupant of my bed. That, at least, was the theory, but subsequent experience suggested it might be less logical than that.

The conversation tended to centre on “operations I have had”, which didn’t really improve the atmosphere around the dining table.

The random nature of the menu arrangement became clear when, after three days, I left without once getting the meal I’d ordered. What I did get was mainly boil-in-the-bag scrambled egg, consisting of a square yellow block surrounded by water. With the addition of random veg and bits of fish and meat…

I will leave this painful episode with a quote from one of the convalescents, who actually seemed to like the stuff: “You don’t get food like this at home, do you?”

I had to confess that I didn’t get food like that at home.

Spool forward 18 years and once again I’m in the grip of the NHS. They have had my trousers down, tested my prostate and declared an intention to insert a camera into my bladder via a passageway quite clearly not designed for the purpose.

They had to take me in again after getting it wrong the first time – I’ve run them into one as they were only a few months apart. On each occasion they cancelled first time due to lack of beds.

The first meal was cold because we were at the far end of the ward. The only choice was fish and chips (bread-crumbed fish garden peas) because everything else had run out. There were five of us but only four fish, so they chopped the tail sections off and served them up to the fifth man.

They didn’t actually run out of food again in the next few days but we never had the full menu available or hot food. I did suggest it might be nice if they started at our end of the ward sometimes but they just looked at me in a snotty manner and ignored me.

To be fair, the food and system were both better than my previous experience.

Finally we have the latest round of visits – the December swelling and the events of Friday. More trousers, more tests and more cameras.

They have a new trolley, which keeps the food hot, and they seemed to have plenty of food. The choice is better and the standard is higher. The fish was better, it was battered and the peas were mushy, as is proper. It isn’t perfect, it tends to lack vegetables, but they do deliver it to your bed, and I did look forward to mealtimes.

That anticipation may have been due to boredom rather than the dining experience, but it’s definitely an advance on 30 years ago, when I used to dread the menu lottery and developed a fear of scrambled eggs.

A Tale of Tubes and Tears

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The last few days have not been great, though due to the magic of blogging you won’t know that. When you’ve been reading about the trip to Wales I’ve actually been in hospital in Nottingham. On balance, despite the unpleasantness of a stay in male urology, I prefer Nottingham. There were no Kites, and no bilingual road signs, but the food was better and there was no problem with finding a toilet when you wanted one.

However, as a consequence of the operation and the bad night that followed I’m feeling subdued and tired, so I’m taking the easy way out and talking of hospital rather than Wales.

I quite enjoyed the first part of the visit, though I really don’t like spinal anaesthetics – being stabbed in the backbone isn’t my favourite procedure and I’m not fond of anything that involves putting my feet in stirrups whilst men with beards mess around with urological equipment.

The operation was OK, and being awake allowed me to watch what was happening and talk to people. The recovery room was also quite fun, and the nurses on the ward were very cheery. I even arrived on the ward in time for lunch (fish and chips followed by apple pie and custard).

They even, to look on the bright side, fitted me up with a personal toilet system. It has taken care of the problems I had with passing water, and it means that I can no longer be caught short as I have all I need strapped to my leg.

I was horrified at first when they told me I was going to have a catheter for 6 weeks, partly because it’s the sort of thing that only happens to old men, and partly because I was hoping to have everything fixed up in one go. It seems they want me back in six weeks to tidy things up and remove some stones from my bladder. Typical NHS, you go in for help with one problem and come out with another.

Tea (served at 5pm) was tomato soup followed by leek, chicken and ham casserole with mixed veg. I had the tinned fruit for dessert to try and increase my intake of fruit and veg. You don’t really get enough fruit and veg in hospital, which is strange (a) because it’s healthy and (b) because nurses are obsessed with asking about bowels.

The food was excellent, far better than when I was in 12 years ago. It was hot for one thing, which wasn’t always the case last time.

I could do a post on hospital food, and may well do that later. I won’t, however, dwell too much on catheters. I can be quite amusing on the subject, but it’s really more suited to the rugby club crowd rather than the sophisticated readership of WordPress.

No pictures today – there wasn’t much that was suitable to photograph.

A Lucky Escape

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I went to Urology today. I was clean, fragrant and mentally prepared. My paperwork was in order, I had filled in my IPSS test and monitored my liquid intake and output for three days.

Those of you who like anagrams and word games may well be looking at those letters and pursing their lips. If you know that IPSS stands for International Prostate Symptom Score, and is therefore connected with urine, that pursing is probably becoming more pronounced.

I asked if they realised it was a badly chosen anagram and after a moment of thinking the nurse smile and said, “Yes, it does look like they’re taking…”

The result of today’s tests?

We didn’t actually get that far as there’s another procedure that needs doing before the test results will mean anything.

However, I’m not downhearted. Or annoyed. Or wondering why the hell we spend so much money on a health service.

I’m just glad that the whole fiasco only took forty minutes and gave me a whole day of beautiful Spring weather.

We went to Carsington Water, saw plenty of birds, Scarlet Elf Cups and two Brimstones.

Carving at Sheepwash Car Park – Carsington

I had a Chicken Tikka pie and chips for lunch Julia had a pasty. What more can I say? It was “Today’s Special” and I love a bargain. I’m on nine types of fruit and veg for the day and about to make it ten with an apple. May go mad and have some grapes for eleven.

The pictures are from the stones in the Sheepwash car park and a few other things we saw around.

Jacob’s Ewe and Lamb

Scarlet Elf Cup

Redshank at Sheepwash

Lapwings and Knot

Down at the Doctors

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Yes, I was down at the Doctors today.

8.30: Arrived at City Hospital – damp Victorian red brick and escaping steam being the motif of the morning

8.45: Found parking space and stood in queue behind lady who couldn’t work the ticket machine

8.50: Walked into automatic door, which turned out to be broken and thus not automatic

8.55: Booked in

8.57: Seen by Anaesthetist, who provided clear and practical information

9.15: Back at the car, feeling reassured, but also £4 poorer for car parking (I’d allowed for up to 2 hours) and wondering why the Anaesthetist I saw five days ago couldn’t have given me the information

9.25: Back home eating healthy cereal (see, I have been listening to the doctor) and croissants. OK, so I’m leading into this health stuff gradually.

Blood Pressure,Tranquility and a Simple Solution

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I’m generally at peace in three places. One of these is when I’m out in nature (though a cold day at a gravel pit doesn’t work the magic as much as a spring day in the woods. Another is in church. The third one is among antiques.

We seem to be wired to respond to nature, and I suspect church builders knew more about promoting tranquility a thousand years ago than we do now. As to the third, I’m not sure why it happens, but it does. It might just be that I’m strange.

One place I find it hard to be relaxed is in hospital. That probably starts in the Workhouse. They weren’t meant to promote relaxation, which is fine when you are building to scare the poverty-stricken and the elderly. When they were turned into hospitals, as many of them were, a change of emphasis might not have been possible. I’m not saying this is the reason, but it might be.

There is also the well known “white coat effect”. I used to be able to control this by imagining sunlight streaming into a wooded clearing. These days, I can’t hold the picture in my mind and I frequently find myself having discussions with doctors about my blood pressure.

I don’t know why it should be so. I’m overweight, so as far as I’m concerned that gives the blood more room to spread out. I should have low blood pressure, not high. Unfortunately this, according to my doctor, is not how it works.

Plan B then, should surely to go back a few hundred years and do a bit of cupping and bleeding. Looking at it logically this will reduce the pressure, just like letting air out of a tyre. Simple.

I shall have a word with my doctor when I see them on Thursday.

Hospital,taxis and optimism

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What did I do today?

I’m having difficulty working it out, to be honest. I did spend several hours in hospital having tests and filling in forms. I was also weighed, bled and patronised. The good news is that I am lighter than I was when I was weighed before Christmas and I will be able to replace the blood. As for the rest of it, they probably interpret it as me being irascible and curmudgeonly. They aren’t wrong.

The diagnosis is that I’m riddled with poor health, if not actually at Death’s door, and I need lots more pills, tests and treatment. This is strange, as I’m feeling pretty good and doing more exercise, so you’d think I was OK. It’s just that if you give doctors equipment they are going to look for a reason to use it.

Worst bit of the day was the taxi service. Their new automated system locked me out twicwe and I ended up being late, which raised my heart rate and blood pressure despite my best efforts.

On the way back it cost me more than the journey to hospital. I’m not sure why this should be, maybe it costs more going up hill.

The photos are from last year, just to remind us of what is to come. Unless you’re in the Southern hemisphere.