Tag Archives: nurse

Blood, blood, blood . . .

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This morning I went to have my blood extracted, not all of it, but a substantial amount. I went for two tests, but it’s just occurred to me that they took three tubes of blood. No doubt it will all become clear in a few weeks when I get another helping of unwanted medical advice.

They did my blood pressure too. It’s high. They know it’s always high when they take it in the surgery – it’s known a the “white coat effect”. It’s also a result of being messed about by the NHS with more inaccurate record keeping and unwanted tests and attempts to make more appointments I don’t want. To be fair, it’s more complicated than that and just as deadly as ordinary blood pressure, which is, as we all know, more dangerous than a charging rhino. Or so my doctor would have me believe. On the other hand they also told me that losing weight would lower my blood pressure, which turns out to be inaccurate. I’m beginning to think that the medical profession may not have all the answers.

To add to my annoyance my weight has crept up. It’s not a disaster but it’s disappointing. It has become more difficult to cut back after my appetite returned, and I’m still eating  less than I used to, so I thought I should at least be steady, rather than putting weight on. It’s a puzzle, but one that is easily solved by use of the ELF method – Eat Less, Fatso.

Not sure what to do for the rest of the day. I was planning on going out with Julia but as she is now booked in for flu vaccination at 2pm (after having been involuntarily rescheduled twice – ran out of vaccine the first time and and staff illness the second) the day is less convenient than it was. She won’t be able to settle if we go out before the appointment and it will be dark not long after the appointment, so it’s not really practical. That was one of the reasons my blood pressure was up this morning.

The header picture is a reminder of what we did in November 2019. And a reminder that I am hungry.

Back to Normal

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I went for a haircut today.  Julia’s orders. Because of my lack of dress sense she’s keen on my looking as tidy as possible in case someone mistakes me fora tramp. I was going to do my own hair (it hasn’t been done since the start of lockdown) but it can be tricky getting it right so I agreed. I haven’t actually had my hair cut by anyone else for about ten or twelve years, when I had it done on a whim while was in the barber with the kids. For some reason they would never let me cut their hair.  The time before that was about 25 years ago. It’s saved me a fortune. Anyway, after enduring a conversation that hasn’t changed a lot in the last 25 years (despite the fact it’s a different barber from the one that did my hair in that shop 25 years ago), I was then charged a price that hasn’t changed a lot in the last 25 years. To be honest, I may start going there regularly as it’s so much tidier when someone else does it. And I had my eyebrows touched up. That’s when you know you are getting old.

The nurse who took my blood this morning is the mother of a kid who went all the way through school with my kids. He joined the army when he left school, went to work on cruise ships and liked the sea so much he’s now joined the Royal Navy. Quite an adventurous life so far. It was nice to catch up.

I also went shopping. They ask you to be considerate to their staff by wearing a mask (and most people do). Sadly, two of their staff and a security guard couldn’t be bothered to wear a mask. Makes you wonder why you bother. Also makes me wonder what message they think they are sending.

I’m now going to think about trimming my beard. If I’m careful I can tidy it enough to satisfy Julia whilst leaving it long enough to scare small children.

Oh, the shopping? I bought her some flowers. And a quiche. I’m back at work tomorrow and I fancy a slice of quiche.  also bought steak. I’m going to cook tonight. Baked potato, steak, salad. Looks good, virtually no effort. That’s my sort of cookery.

Bullied by a Nurse

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Today I went to see the nurse. She had look at my toe and decided that I have to go back on Friday so she can dress it again. No wonder the NHS costs so much to run. It’s a toe. It needs a plaster. It doesn’t need a whole appointment.

I hope that appointment runs better than it did today. I was there five minutes before my 8.45 appointment and had to wait until 9.10 to be seen. As far as I could tell the nurse had no patient in, she was just doing some admin. As a result, I ran late, was caught in traffic and ended up being late for work. It was only two minutes late, but I hate being late, full stop. I particularly hate being late because someone else has delayed me.

Wednesday should have been my day off but I agreed  to go in because a number of things cropped up yesterday. It just goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished. You try to do a good thing and karma creeps up behind you with a sandbag.

We had an interesting conversation about health. I will paraphrase but give a general idea.

The nurse asked if I had thought of going onto statins then said:”Oh, you’re already on them.”

“Are you sure? Nobody has told me that I am.”

“You must be. Your cholesterol is only 3.7.”

In broad terms 3.7 is considered good, though it doesn’t do to get too smug about this stuff. After years in the poultry industry, and watching research and marketing collide, I know that cholesterol changes from good to bad on a regular basis.

“I don’t think I am.”

Clatter of keyboard

“Oh, you’re not, but you should think about taking them.”

“If my cholesterol is so low you think I’m already on them, why do I need to take them?”

“Er . . . well, your triglycerides are a little high and recent research shows that you’re more at risk of a stroke and heart attack.”

There is always some new research. I am actually at risk of a  stroke and heart attack because I’m far too heavy and because I don’t exercise. I don’t need “recent research” to point that out.

Nor do I need more tablets. I currently take seven sorts of tablet. Two of them are to counter the effects of the other five. The last thing I need is more tablets.

This is probably a good place to leave it. I am going to give serious thought to lifestyle changes and new strategies for avoiding contact with this particular nurse.

 

 

 

Not My Best Day

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It’s been another flattish sort of day. I spoke to a nurse practitioner from Rheumatology again today. She was not the same one that I spoke to last week and didn’t have any notes relating to what had been discussed last week.

This was disappointing and inefficient, but it’s happened before. I’m trying my best to be nice to NHS staff during this time of stress. Actually, I try to be nice to NHS staff all the time, but they sometimes make it very difficult.

This proved to be the high point of the discussion, which went rapidly downhill. In the end all the points I’d agreed with the other nurse last week were reversed. She did not like me pointing this out.

She also contradicted the advice given by the doctor a few weeks ago – that I should stay indoors and avoid shops – by telling me I was ‘not special’ and could use public transport.

I’m going to carry on being nice to NHS staff, by not covering the whole conversation and not giving my views. She has, she said, come out of retirement to help out during the crisis. Though I am grateful to her for her efforts, I can’t help reflecting that she was trained in the days when the NHS was less concerned with the dignity of the patient, as it is now called.

An example is how they used to administer spinal anaesthetics. I went in about 16 years ago. They made me sit naked on a bed in a room full of staff while they stabbed me in the spine with needles. Last time I went in they allowed me to wear pants and a gown while they stabbed me in the spine through a gap in the back of the gown. Same stabbing, more dignity.

But they still used the same undignified method of inserting a camera into my bladder…

nurse holding syringe

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

 

 

 

Thursday, Bloody Thursday

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This being Thursday I went for a blood test. They are currently taking blood fortnightly and last week, to be honest, after several months of weekly tests, I felt like something was missing all morning.

Today’s appointment was 9 am, which was unusual as they are normally around 11. It looked like I was going to get a lot of Christmas preparation done today, which was good because I have a long list from my beloved.

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, as Robert Burns said, Gang aft agley. 

I was seen on time, but after two goes at getting a sample from the right arm the nurse decided to ask a colleague to have a go at the left. As if by magic the colleague appeared just as the phone was ringing.

“Ha!! exclaimed my nurse, “it must be ESP.”

But it wasn’t. The other nurse had bent down to pick up a piece of paper and her back had locked, so she was coming through to ask for help in taking blood from her patient.

Eventually we secured the services of a third nurse.

She had a go in the left arm, admitted defeat and instructed me to go to the City Hospital phlebotomy unit. That’s a word that’s just crying out to have a poem written around it. So I drove home, had a glass of water, as recommended by the nurses and went to phlebotomy.

These days you take a ticket, just like a delicatessen counter at the supermarket.

Mine was A161.

The screen flickered on as I sat down and a bored robotic voice called ticket number A149 to Bay 1. The woman next to me let out a great sigh. I would later find out that she had the ticket before me.

The difference was that I had a book and she didn’t. As I learned about the currency reforms of Henry VII she carried on muttering and shifting in her seat.

After what seemed like quite a short time I was in a chair with a young woman in a red coat (dyed, rather than blood stained). I can see that a red coat is practical but it did make me think back to the days of the barber surgeons. We discussed my previous history of unsuccessful blood sampling (this isn’t the first time I’ve been sent to hospital after the Practice Nurses found it tricky) and she set to work.

One prod of the arm, one puncture and, seconds later the sample was in the tube.

To be fair to the Practice Nurses they do a lot of different things whereas the phlebotomists are specialists in taking blood. It’s all they do. Smile, stab, label the sample and start again. It must be very dull. I’d be tempted to do it wrong just to relieve the boredom.

As I left the hospital I noted the time.

11.00 am.

Just goes to show that some things are meant to be.

 

The Final Countdown

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It’s 9.40 am. I’ve already had my first hospital trip of the week and my time is now my own until 7.30 am on Thursday. At that point (fingers crossed) I should enter the final phase of the operation that has now lasted six weeks. Based on previous experience and the scanty information I was given at the beginning I was expecting it to be over in 3 days. Yes, what an idiot I was.

It is now three days until the operation and seven more before the catheter comes out. I am counting…

Although I’ve tended to concentrate on the urological side of things, as there are ready made elements of pathos and low comedy in that, I’m also been investigated for a range of other problems, all identified on my visit in December.

Take the Great Warfarin Farce as an example. I asked for the tests to be left until I’d finished with the operations but the doctor insisted. It involves visiting a hospital on the other side of town twice a week and eating rat poison. They may call it Warfarin and pretend not to know it has another use but I’ve fed bucketfuls of the stuff to rats over the years. It was first sold as a rat poison in 1948 and as a medicine in 1954. I leave you to draw your own conclusions

I went for my first appointment and I got off to a bad start with the nurse by enquiring why I had to give the same information every time I visited and why they couldn’t store it from visit to visit. She didn’t like that.  To be fair, she probably hears it a lot.

Things worsened when I told her I couldn’t make the next date for testing as I would be in hospital. Basically she called me a liar, and supported this by calling up a copy of my discharge letter to prove it said nothing about part two of the operation.

I suppose she thought I just wore the urinary catheter for fun.

“That,” I said, “is the discharge letter from the emergency admission last week. You need the one from 10th April.”

“Ah!,” she said, “I see.”

However, the operation didn’t happen and I had to stop the Warfarin five days before the next operation. That meant I was on Warfarin for five days.

I’ll cut to the chase – on my last test the nurse, a more practical and cheery individual than the first one – said: “I don’t even know why they started you on Warfarin until after the operation.”

So, I’m off Warfarin at the moment, though Julia has intimated she’s at a point where, if I don’t stop whining about the NHS, she’ll be happy to feed it to me, whatever the nurse may say.