So by now you’ve heard the whole sorry saga of my week in hospital. I honestly cannot find the words to describe how good it felt to walk through my own front door and crawl into my own big cosy bed. We really do take the little luxuries in life for granted. There is nothing like sliding between freshly laundered sheets, in clean pajamas, after a long hot shower. As mastercard says...priceless.
It’s been four weeks since I was released from the hospital, and while I feel a good bit better than I did in there, things still aren’t great. The consultant is still tap dancing around answers in his best Fed Astaire style, and my sleep is still fairly non-existent.
However, while still a touch anxious, I am by no means depressed. Why are doctors so quick to assume people, and women in particular, are depressed? GP’s seem to prescribe anti-depressant tablets at the drop of a hat, dishing them out like sweeties at a kiddies party. If the NHS is so deep in debt, surely some of that wasted money could be clawed back by cutting down the number of patients who have been misdiagnosed with depression?
The first few weeks out of the hellhole were tough. I was still dragging ass, and unable to get my head in the game enough to read or knit for any length of time. I slowly worked my way back up to activities, feeling childishly proud of myself for something as simple as doing all the dishes in one go, or for getting more than one load of laundry done in a day.
Sadly enough, the highlight of my third week out was the fact that I finally managed to have a go at playing with my new Just Dance game for the Wii. Ok, I only managed one short dance before having to collapse on the sofa, but hey I finally dancing again! It brings you back to the title of today’s blog. Look around you, take in the little things, and above all, appreciate the small pleasures that life offers you.
Sunday 28 February 2010
Saturday 27 February 2010
Jesus may love you, but everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.
I never want to get old. Being old, from all I have seen, really really bites. It’s bad enough to lose your dignity, having to be helped with such small tasks as washing or going to the bathroom, but the thought of losing my grasp on reality scares me, and this recent hospital stay hasn’t helped. I’ve talked about Sweary, the elderly patient who like to slag off the nurses. Well this lady was in her 80’s, blind, partially deaf and going senile to boot.
If you tried talking to her, she would become more coherent the longer you spoke to her, but strangely enough, the nurses really frowned upon you talking, ok shouting, to her in the middle of the night, and unfortunately that was when she was most awake. I never even found out what she was in hospital for, but she made my stay hell.
Her favourite trick, once she’d realised that shouting for a nurse wasn’t going to work, was to sing at full volume and top of her songsheet was the Sunday school classic ‘Jesus Love me’. Well boys and girls, I’m not afraid to admit that at 3.55am, after 47 runthroughs of verse one, the thoughts crossing my mind were far from Christian. Jesus may love her, but I was ready to pop an air bubble in her IV.
Obviously, I didn’t stoop to murder. However, this was my breaking point, and after being denied a sleeping tablet by the nurses, I hid in the bathroom and had myself a damn good cry. The docs had been making a song and dance about me being depressed, but this was the first time I began to think they might be right. I say began, but it didn’t last long. I wasn’t depressed just exhausted and desperately in need of a 12 hour sleep session.
By morning, I really wasn’t feeling much better and keeping cheerful was getting tough. Finally, it was time for rounds again and The Consultant and his minions appeared at the end of my bed. Once again, despite being a mere 3 feet away from me, they jabbered away as if I didn’t exist then turned on the failproof ‘charm’to ask about my mental state that day.
Basically, the underlying message of their visit, was that they had no clue what was wrong with me. They decided to spring me free from my incarceration simply because they didn’t know what else to do. Eight long days of ups and downs, and all for nothing it seemed. They wanted to see if my sleep problems were actually a symptom, or merely a side effect of the hospital circus. It didn’t really matter at the time, all I heard were the magic words.’ You can go home for now’. Thank you god, freedom is mine!
If you tried talking to her, she would become more coherent the longer you spoke to her, but strangely enough, the nurses really frowned upon you talking, ok shouting, to her in the middle of the night, and unfortunately that was when she was most awake. I never even found out what she was in hospital for, but she made my stay hell.
Her favourite trick, once she’d realised that shouting for a nurse wasn’t going to work, was to sing at full volume and top of her songsheet was the Sunday school classic ‘Jesus Love me’. Well boys and girls, I’m not afraid to admit that at 3.55am, after 47 runthroughs of verse one, the thoughts crossing my mind were far from Christian. Jesus may love her, but I was ready to pop an air bubble in her IV.
Obviously, I didn’t stoop to murder. However, this was my breaking point, and after being denied a sleeping tablet by the nurses, I hid in the bathroom and had myself a damn good cry. The docs had been making a song and dance about me being depressed, but this was the first time I began to think they might be right. I say began, but it didn’t last long. I wasn’t depressed just exhausted and desperately in need of a 12 hour sleep session.
By morning, I really wasn’t feeling much better and keeping cheerful was getting tough. Finally, it was time for rounds again and The Consultant and his minions appeared at the end of my bed. Once again, despite being a mere 3 feet away from me, they jabbered away as if I didn’t exist then turned on the failproof ‘charm’to ask about my mental state that day.
Basically, the underlying message of their visit, was that they had no clue what was wrong with me. They decided to spring me free from my incarceration simply because they didn’t know what else to do. Eight long days of ups and downs, and all for nothing it seemed. They wanted to see if my sleep problems were actually a symptom, or merely a side effect of the hospital circus. It didn’t really matter at the time, all I heard were the magic words.’ You can go home for now’. Thank you god, freedom is mine!
Round and round and round again
Weekends on a hospital ward are a little different to the mid week hustle. The biggest difference is that there are no doctor’s rounds in the morning, though you do see the odd junior dogsbody running around signing for prescriptions etc. It means, that during the day at least, things are a little more peaceful and a lot more boring...if that’s even possible.
Days on the ward seem like endless stretches of time broken only by the rigidly timetabled meals, and the not so well timetabled obs rounds. Nurses flit by, always rushing to the next ringing call bell, and requests are often forgotten. It would be easy to say that they are ignored, but I know that it’s not that simple. These men and women have far too many tasks to do already, and so when asked for something simple like a jug of water, or an extra blanket, it’s far too easy to simply forget that they had been asked.
I think the worst thing of this whole experience was the way the doctors treated me. They stand in a wee huddle at the end of the bed discussing you as though you weren’t even there. Then they turn on that patronising smarm and ask ‘and how are we feeling today?’ WE? I am climbing the damn walls, thank you very much. Calmly, and patiently I explained my symptoms, over and over again, to every doctor who came by the bed. However, instead of coming up with any answers, all I got were yet more questions. Every doc had a different answer, and not one agreed on the type of tests I should undergo.
The only thing that was keeping me sane was Emma, in the next bed, though we were often in trouble with the nurses for setting off our monitors. I particularly remember the Sunday evening. I’d finally caved and paid for the hospital TV. I wanted to watch the vampire diaries, and the superbowl final ,and with no internet, TV was the only way to go. So I shuffled off to the card machine, and then got myself all wrapped up in my blankies with my water glass nearby.
It was only after I got comfy I realised that I was in trouble. I still had an IV in my right elbow, which meant I couldn’t bend my arm. Have you ever tried to put on a pair of headphones one handed? Even worse, I was right handed, and having to use my left for everything. Cack-handed doesn’t cover it, and after a minute or two my giggles started. Emma didn’t take long to follow and soon both of us were rocking with laughter. We’d barely started when the thud of racing feet came our way and a frantic nurse skidded to a halt between the two beds. ‘Just what are you two troublemakers up to now?’ It seems that on a hospital ward, fun is forbidden too.
Days on the ward seem like endless stretches of time broken only by the rigidly timetabled meals, and the not so well timetabled obs rounds. Nurses flit by, always rushing to the next ringing call bell, and requests are often forgotten. It would be easy to say that they are ignored, but I know that it’s not that simple. These men and women have far too many tasks to do already, and so when asked for something simple like a jug of water, or an extra blanket, it’s far too easy to simply forget that they had been asked.
I think the worst thing of this whole experience was the way the doctors treated me. They stand in a wee huddle at the end of the bed discussing you as though you weren’t even there. Then they turn on that patronising smarm and ask ‘and how are we feeling today?’ WE? I am climbing the damn walls, thank you very much. Calmly, and patiently I explained my symptoms, over and over again, to every doctor who came by the bed. However, instead of coming up with any answers, all I got were yet more questions. Every doc had a different answer, and not one agreed on the type of tests I should undergo.
The only thing that was keeping me sane was Emma, in the next bed, though we were often in trouble with the nurses for setting off our monitors. I particularly remember the Sunday evening. I’d finally caved and paid for the hospital TV. I wanted to watch the vampire diaries, and the superbowl final ,and with no internet, TV was the only way to go. So I shuffled off to the card machine, and then got myself all wrapped up in my blankies with my water glass nearby.
It was only after I got comfy I realised that I was in trouble. I still had an IV in my right elbow, which meant I couldn’t bend my arm. Have you ever tried to put on a pair of headphones one handed? Even worse, I was right handed, and having to use my left for everything. Cack-handed doesn’t cover it, and after a minute or two my giggles started. Emma didn’t take long to follow and soon both of us were rocking with laughter. We’d barely started when the thud of racing feet came our way and a frantic nurse skidded to a halt between the two beds. ‘Just what are you two troublemakers up to now?’ It seems that on a hospital ward, fun is forbidden too.
Friday 26 February 2010
With friends like these...
I was really getting sick of the whole not sleeping thing. It was 2.30am and all wasn’t quite well on the CCU. Earlier in the week I had been told I had to wear surgical stockings to help prevent DVTs, or blood clots for those of you less well versed in hospital acronyms. Now I’m a very retro girl and I love anything vintage. I’ll wear garters and stockings far far quicker than I’ll put on a pair of tights, but these are not your average stockings. These are boa constrictor tight, itchy as hell and bright raging green. Even worse, I wasn’t allowed to take them off...ever.
After 3 days of non-stop usage, I’d had enough. The itching was driving me crazy, so I did the one thing I try never to do. I pushed the nurses call button and waited for that soft shoed angel to appear. After a few minutes of explaining, and whinging, and alright, out and out pleading, she finally agreed to let me take the instruments of torture off for an hour or two and I finally got some sleep.
Morning broke with the usual blood pressure and temperature rounds, and I had to put the evil stockings on again, but at least this time I had two hours sleep to fortify me. I waited patiently for the drug round and my morning cocktail of tablets to swallow down. As the nurse dispensed my goodies she informed me that I was being moved again. Again! Dear god it was like musical beds in this place! I was heading back to ward 16 again. OK, so I’d just gotten comfy, but this was a good thing. This meant I was getting better right? Surely this had to mean that I would get some answers soon?
This time my transfer was by wheelchair and I was getting used to the length of corridor between the two wards. A short hop later and I was pushed down the ward to see Emma waving at me. She was pointing at the empty bed beside her and calling ‘Here! Put her here!’ Thank god they did put us back together, and we took a few minutes to catch up on the few hours we’d been apart. Yes I know that sounds sad, and like some sort of old married couple, but hell, there was bugger all else to keep us sane except for each other.
I glanced around my new abode to take stock of my new neighbours and had to do a double take. Surely God wouldn’t be that cruel? Nope, he or she was, and there facing me were the screamer and the foul-mouthed old lady from the first ward I had been on. Give the staff their due, the screamer looked loads better and was even sitting in a chair beside the bed, but in the bed beside her, Lil Miss Sweary was dozing away.
I soon learnt that this was a routine. Sweary would sleep all day, bitching at the nurses when they woke her for meals or the obs rounds, then wake about 7pm and talk all damn night. I say talk, but what I really mean, is talk, sing, cry, shout and obviously, swear. All night long! The doctors prescribed her a sleeping tablet, but it didn’t work. So the rest of us asked for sleeping tablets...and were refused. How in the hell was anyone meant to rest in this madhouse?
After 3 days of non-stop usage, I’d had enough. The itching was driving me crazy, so I did the one thing I try never to do. I pushed the nurses call button and waited for that soft shoed angel to appear. After a few minutes of explaining, and whinging, and alright, out and out pleading, she finally agreed to let me take the instruments of torture off for an hour or two and I finally got some sleep.
Morning broke with the usual blood pressure and temperature rounds, and I had to put the evil stockings on again, but at least this time I had two hours sleep to fortify me. I waited patiently for the drug round and my morning cocktail of tablets to swallow down. As the nurse dispensed my goodies she informed me that I was being moved again. Again! Dear god it was like musical beds in this place! I was heading back to ward 16 again. OK, so I’d just gotten comfy, but this was a good thing. This meant I was getting better right? Surely this had to mean that I would get some answers soon?
This time my transfer was by wheelchair and I was getting used to the length of corridor between the two wards. A short hop later and I was pushed down the ward to see Emma waving at me. She was pointing at the empty bed beside her and calling ‘Here! Put her here!’ Thank god they did put us back together, and we took a few minutes to catch up on the few hours we’d been apart. Yes I know that sounds sad, and like some sort of old married couple, but hell, there was bugger all else to keep us sane except for each other.
I glanced around my new abode to take stock of my new neighbours and had to do a double take. Surely God wouldn’t be that cruel? Nope, he or she was, and there facing me were the screamer and the foul-mouthed old lady from the first ward I had been on. Give the staff their due, the screamer looked loads better and was even sitting in a chair beside the bed, but in the bed beside her, Lil Miss Sweary was dozing away.
I soon learnt that this was a routine. Sweary would sleep all day, bitching at the nurses when they woke her for meals or the obs rounds, then wake about 7pm and talk all damn night. I say talk, but what I really mean, is talk, sing, cry, shout and obviously, swear. All night long! The doctors prescribed her a sleeping tablet, but it didn’t work. So the rest of us asked for sleeping tablets...and were refused. How in the hell was anyone meant to rest in this madhouse?
Stop the World, I want to get off.
So, as I’ve said before, CCU was very peaceful in comparison with my previous residences. Obviously, that’s not counting the constant low hum of monitors, or the beeping of racing hearts. I had never realised how mesmerising watching a wavy line could be. I pestered the nurses to explain what ‘tachy’ and ‘brady’ meant (fast and slow basically) and why the machine recorded them. I became an expert at spotting when my ectopic beats (that’s extra beats to you laymen) would appear, and would hold my breath and play statues every time I set the monitor off...which was pretty often. I even held off on going to the toilet too much, because every time I moved, my heart rate would sky rocket.
I got to know my ward mates as best I could and discovered that Emma loved the twilight books almost as much as me. I don’t care if I’m 30 plus and sad, I really enjoyed them and will happily spend hours analysing them with fellow fans. Unfortunately, after only 5 minutes of discussion, we started talking about the men in the films and found a nurse flying to our sides as the heart monitors went off the scale. Oooops. So, no talking about men then. I don’t watch soaps, or read magazines, and I was still too listless to do much reading or knitting. What the hell else was I to do? Even worse, they were moving Emma across to Ward 16. I was being abandoned!
Naturally I spoke too soon, for as rounds started I had the first of four different doctor’s visits. Yes I said four! Even more fun, they all had different opinions of what was wrong with me, and what they should do to fix me. Those curtains were opened and closed more often than Jordan’s bra comes off that day. Eventually, they decided to do a test called an Ajmaline reveal. I will admit that when they explained the test to me, I did have a mini panic in my head. It was a fairly scary test, but at least they said I could have someone with me. So, ignoring the frantically beeping monitor, I slipped into my dressing gown and fluffy boot slippers (Thanks Auntie Angela, most useful crimbo pressie ever) and toddled off to the day room to update the parents, and beg my baby sister to come hold my hand. Hell I don’t care if I’m meant to be a big girl, I was scared shitless and desperate for a familiar face.
A few hours later, after a rather amusing argument with the pharmacy people who did not want to dispense the drug needed for the test, the posse arrived at my bed with a lot of scary equipment. There was the, by now, very familiar ECG machine, the drip stand and a fucking huge needle, and then there was the crash cart. Yup, that thing with the paddles that you see on every medical drama, usually with a hot doctor attached screaming ‘clear’.
For the umpteenth time in the last 5 days, the world and his dog got to stare at my tits as I was loaded up with sticky tags and electrical wires. They even put the rubber mats for the paddles on me. Hell what were they expecting? I was beyond paranoia and into full blown fear by now. I just kept repeating to myself that they would let my sister back in once I was covered up again. Except they didn’t let her back. Some Hitler in knickers at the front desk said that she and her boyfriend had to come back in an hour when the test was over, and wouldn’t let them on the damn ward. This was not in my contract peeps. I wanted a hand to hold and where the hell was it?
The test itself wasn’t pleasant at all. As usual, my veins were less than co-operative with getting an IV put in, and it took several botched attempts before they managed to get a baby-sized one in. Once the drug was in, the seriousness hit me. My tongue was numb, I had pins and needles all over, and was dizzy as all hell. They were taking ECG’s every 5 minutes to start with, then they cut it down to every 10minutes. Suddenly, just lying on the bed doing nothing was looking better and better every minute. Staring at the Doctors and nurses surrounding me, I was reminded of a line from an old musical. ‘Stop the world, I want to get off!’
I got to know my ward mates as best I could and discovered that Emma loved the twilight books almost as much as me. I don’t care if I’m 30 plus and sad, I really enjoyed them and will happily spend hours analysing them with fellow fans. Unfortunately, after only 5 minutes of discussion, we started talking about the men in the films and found a nurse flying to our sides as the heart monitors went off the scale. Oooops. So, no talking about men then. I don’t watch soaps, or read magazines, and I was still too listless to do much reading or knitting. What the hell else was I to do? Even worse, they were moving Emma across to Ward 16. I was being abandoned!
Naturally I spoke too soon, for as rounds started I had the first of four different doctor’s visits. Yes I said four! Even more fun, they all had different opinions of what was wrong with me, and what they should do to fix me. Those curtains were opened and closed more often than Jordan’s bra comes off that day. Eventually, they decided to do a test called an Ajmaline reveal. I will admit that when they explained the test to me, I did have a mini panic in my head. It was a fairly scary test, but at least they said I could have someone with me. So, ignoring the frantically beeping monitor, I slipped into my dressing gown and fluffy boot slippers (Thanks Auntie Angela, most useful crimbo pressie ever) and toddled off to the day room to update the parents, and beg my baby sister to come hold my hand. Hell I don’t care if I’m meant to be a big girl, I was scared shitless and desperate for a familiar face.
A few hours later, after a rather amusing argument with the pharmacy people who did not want to dispense the drug needed for the test, the posse arrived at my bed with a lot of scary equipment. There was the, by now, very familiar ECG machine, the drip stand and a fucking huge needle, and then there was the crash cart. Yup, that thing with the paddles that you see on every medical drama, usually with a hot doctor attached screaming ‘clear’.
For the umpteenth time in the last 5 days, the world and his dog got to stare at my tits as I was loaded up with sticky tags and electrical wires. They even put the rubber mats for the paddles on me. Hell what were they expecting? I was beyond paranoia and into full blown fear by now. I just kept repeating to myself that they would let my sister back in once I was covered up again. Except they didn’t let her back. Some Hitler in knickers at the front desk said that she and her boyfriend had to come back in an hour when the test was over, and wouldn’t let them on the damn ward. This was not in my contract peeps. I wanted a hand to hold and where the hell was it?
The test itself wasn’t pleasant at all. As usual, my veins were less than co-operative with getting an IV put in, and it took several botched attempts before they managed to get a baby-sized one in. Once the drug was in, the seriousness hit me. My tongue was numb, I had pins and needles all over, and was dizzy as all hell. They were taking ECG’s every 5 minutes to start with, then they cut it down to every 10minutes. Suddenly, just lying on the bed doing nothing was looking better and better every minute. Staring at the Doctors and nurses surrounding me, I was reminded of a line from an old musical. ‘Stop the world, I want to get off!’
Thursday 25 February 2010
Silence Is Golden
Result! A whole 4 hours sleep. It felt like heaven and though I could have done with some more, I was happy to settle for that. I was even more pleased when the now rather unhappy staff nurse returned to apologise for the night before. Yes, I was right, the student had fabricated the entire thing and was going to get a bollocking when she arrived for her next shift. The day was getting better and better. All I needed now was a free pass to get home and the day would be complete.
After what felt like hours, and was in fact, hours, the docs made their way round again and I sucked in a deep breath and waited to hear the magic words ‘you can go home’. You can probably imagine my disappointment when they said that they wanted to do more bloody tests. I mean, you can only give blood so many times, right? Still, I was a good girl and sat patiently while the nurse attached the sticky pads and leads of a wireless heart monitor to my chest. At least this ward was a little quieter. I would cope, that’s all.
Not even 30 minutes later the ward sister appeared and announced that I was moving...again. It seems hospital beds are like buses. You can’t get one for love nor money, then two come along at once. This next move was to the Coronary Care Unit, and I’ll be honest, the name alone scared me a little. I’m only 32, why the hell did I need to be on a tiny ward with 8 beds and a permanent crash team on standby? Was I really that ill? And if I was, why the hell was no one telling me anything?
So yet again, I packed my belongings (which were rapidly starting to look like I’d moved in permanently) ,dumped everything onto the bed and waited for Igor to arrive to move me. You know I feel a bit mean calling the porter ‘Igor’ cos it isn’t his name, but he honestly walks and talks just like a mad scientist’s sidekick from an old 50’s horror film. He didn’t take long, lurching into the bay with his lop sided gate and we were off again.
The CCU was as scary as the name had sounded, at least to begin with. As I said, it only had 8 beds, and everything was hushed for the afternoon quiet time (I kid you not). Lights were off, visitors had been chased away and the blinds were down. They took their nursing seriously on that ward. The people here were much more ill than those I’d seen previously and most of them were waiting for an operation at an Oxford hospital.
The ward was divided into two bays of four beds, with the most ill patients in the right hand bay, and us not quite so ill peeps on the left. Well...I say not so ill, but the lady nearest the nurse’s station was dying, and had an endless stream of weeping family slipping in and out of her curtained off area. Facing her was a gentleman who was clearly very ill, and constantly wearing an oxygen mask, though he was clearly trying hard to keep optimistic. He had a wee portable dvd player and was watching endless episodes of Sherlock Holmes at full volume.
The woman in the last bed turned out to be my life saver. She was 36 and a routine angioplasty had discovered a 99% blocked artery in heart and she was waiting to go to Oxford to have a stent placed in it. Other than that, she felt perfectly healthy, and like me was climbing the walls.
They wheeled me to my place and I realised there was a monitor screen by the bed. I could see exactly what my heart was up to at all times. Now I don’t know about you, but I think that makes things even scarier. Every time I moved my pulse would race off and the machine would start yelling at me.
As a teacher, I had taught enough basic science that I knew what a resting heart rate should be. I even knew that it would get a bit faster as I moved about, however, I sure as hell knew it shouldn’t race to 160+ just because I straightened out my blanket, or turned over in bed! Nope, this wee machine was too much info, and hell on any attempts to sleep, as the minute you rolled over in bed (and your pulse raced off again) it set off its siren wail to the nurse’s station, and you waited patiently for the nurse to appear to reset the machine. Funnily enough, yet again, sleep eluded me.
After what felt like hours, and was in fact, hours, the docs made their way round again and I sucked in a deep breath and waited to hear the magic words ‘you can go home’. You can probably imagine my disappointment when they said that they wanted to do more bloody tests. I mean, you can only give blood so many times, right? Still, I was a good girl and sat patiently while the nurse attached the sticky pads and leads of a wireless heart monitor to my chest. At least this ward was a little quieter. I would cope, that’s all.
Not even 30 minutes later the ward sister appeared and announced that I was moving...again. It seems hospital beds are like buses. You can’t get one for love nor money, then two come along at once. This next move was to the Coronary Care Unit, and I’ll be honest, the name alone scared me a little. I’m only 32, why the hell did I need to be on a tiny ward with 8 beds and a permanent crash team on standby? Was I really that ill? And if I was, why the hell was no one telling me anything?
So yet again, I packed my belongings (which were rapidly starting to look like I’d moved in permanently) ,dumped everything onto the bed and waited for Igor to arrive to move me. You know I feel a bit mean calling the porter ‘Igor’ cos it isn’t his name, but he honestly walks and talks just like a mad scientist’s sidekick from an old 50’s horror film. He didn’t take long, lurching into the bay with his lop sided gate and we were off again.
The CCU was as scary as the name had sounded, at least to begin with. As I said, it only had 8 beds, and everything was hushed for the afternoon quiet time (I kid you not). Lights were off, visitors had been chased away and the blinds were down. They took their nursing seriously on that ward. The people here were much more ill than those I’d seen previously and most of them were waiting for an operation at an Oxford hospital.
The ward was divided into two bays of four beds, with the most ill patients in the right hand bay, and us not quite so ill peeps on the left. Well...I say not so ill, but the lady nearest the nurse’s station was dying, and had an endless stream of weeping family slipping in and out of her curtained off area. Facing her was a gentleman who was clearly very ill, and constantly wearing an oxygen mask, though he was clearly trying hard to keep optimistic. He had a wee portable dvd player and was watching endless episodes of Sherlock Holmes at full volume.
The woman in the last bed turned out to be my life saver. She was 36 and a routine angioplasty had discovered a 99% blocked artery in heart and she was waiting to go to Oxford to have a stent placed in it. Other than that, she felt perfectly healthy, and like me was climbing the walls.
They wheeled me to my place and I realised there was a monitor screen by the bed. I could see exactly what my heart was up to at all times. Now I don’t know about you, but I think that makes things even scarier. Every time I moved my pulse would race off and the machine would start yelling at me.
As a teacher, I had taught enough basic science that I knew what a resting heart rate should be. I even knew that it would get a bit faster as I moved about, however, I sure as hell knew it shouldn’t race to 160+ just because I straightened out my blanket, or turned over in bed! Nope, this wee machine was too much info, and hell on any attempts to sleep, as the minute you rolled over in bed (and your pulse raced off again) it set off its siren wail to the nurse’s station, and you waited patiently for the nurse to appear to reset the machine. Funnily enough, yet again, sleep eluded me.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
I’ve got to get out of this place
After a second night of no sleep my patience was fast waning, and I wasn’t impressed by some of the nurses I had met. One Gestapo wannabe actually told me off for warning her that The Screamer was trying to escape. Despite the fact that this time she’d managed to swing her legs all the way off the bed and had actually made contact with the floor, pulling out two of her IV lines in the process, I got told off. ‘What do you think we do when you’re not here missy?’ well actually nurse, as it took you 15 minutes to answer the call bell I pushed, I think she falls and sets back her healing even further, but thanks for asking. With only 2 trained nurses, and a handful of HCA’s for nearly 30 beds, calling the ward ‘stretched’ was a joke. Adequate care was almost a thing of the past and they were only just scraping through.
Doctor’s rounds brought no joy for me, only the prospect of yet another day sampling the not so hospitable joys of the NHS. It did mean musical beds again, and this time we lost Wheezy and Singy, and gained Dumb and Dumberer. Dumb was living in the past and would relive long gone conversations in between her breaks from shouting at the nurses and calling them names. The highlight of that day was hearing this frail looking little old lady call the nurse a motherfucking bitch troll from hell. She would turn the air blue with regularity.
Finally, at 7 pm, after a day of listening to the yelling, bleeping and hissing from the oxygen masks, and just as my visitor arrived, they finally found me a bed and the prospect of sleep was in sight again. I packed up my belongings and the porter started the short trek along the corridor to the new ward.
Once there, I was quickly settled and staring round me in stunned shock. Sure, there were still the odd bleeps and buzzes and the inevitable brrrr of a phone, but in comparison with the CDU it was blissfully quiet. I even started to feel more positive. My sister and her other half appeared to entertain me, and things really looked a ton brighter.
As we were chatting and catching up on life outside hospital, a student nurse appeared and asked if she could ask a few questions to admit me to the ward. She asked 2 questions, then announced that as I had guests, she’d come back later. I found it a tad strange as they’d been there when she appeared with her clipboard and it hadn’t bothered her then, but I kept my mouth shut, and just nodded like a good little patient. However, she didn’t come back and 2 hours later I saw her slip her coat on and head home. I still had no chart, and was waiting for the jug of water she had promised me.
When the drug round started, the chart magically appeared, and as soon as the nurses moved on, I did exactly what my mummy had taught me. I hauled that puppy up from the end of the bed and read every line in it. I may not have 7 years medical training, but I’ve spent enough time in hospitals, and around my mum, to pick up enough info to work out the gist of it if nothing else. I could see that I’d been having a high temperature off and on, and that my blood pressure was getting lower and lower. Then I turned a page and found the new bit that the student had started. I’m sure you can imagine my disgust when I realised that instead of coming back to ask her questions she’d gone ahead and made it up. I was now allergic to Penicillin, had been admitted with shortness of breath and had no history of dizziness or fainting in the last six weeks, or history of heart problems in the family.
So the fact that I was allergic to bisoprolol, not penicillin, and had been admitted with a blackout after dizziness was just a minor detail. Again, being my mother’s daughter, I wasn’t going to let that slide and as soon as I could snag a nurse (still no mean feat, cos they were just as short staffed on the new ward) I explained that one or two bits weren’t quite right. ‘No, they’re fine’ was the answer and no matter what I said, the staff nurse argued until she was blue in the face that I was wrong and she was right. Well, I was too knackered to fight and was ready to hit the sack so I left her ‘looking into it’ and curled up for the night, crossing my fingers and toes that sleep might actually, finally be in sight.
Doctor’s rounds brought no joy for me, only the prospect of yet another day sampling the not so hospitable joys of the NHS. It did mean musical beds again, and this time we lost Wheezy and Singy, and gained Dumb and Dumberer. Dumb was living in the past and would relive long gone conversations in between her breaks from shouting at the nurses and calling them names. The highlight of that day was hearing this frail looking little old lady call the nurse a motherfucking bitch troll from hell. She would turn the air blue with regularity.
Finally, at 7 pm, after a day of listening to the yelling, bleeping and hissing from the oxygen masks, and just as my visitor arrived, they finally found me a bed and the prospect of sleep was in sight again. I packed up my belongings and the porter started the short trek along the corridor to the new ward.
Once there, I was quickly settled and staring round me in stunned shock. Sure, there were still the odd bleeps and buzzes and the inevitable brrrr of a phone, but in comparison with the CDU it was blissfully quiet. I even started to feel more positive. My sister and her other half appeared to entertain me, and things really looked a ton brighter.
As we were chatting and catching up on life outside hospital, a student nurse appeared and asked if she could ask a few questions to admit me to the ward. She asked 2 questions, then announced that as I had guests, she’d come back later. I found it a tad strange as they’d been there when she appeared with her clipboard and it hadn’t bothered her then, but I kept my mouth shut, and just nodded like a good little patient. However, she didn’t come back and 2 hours later I saw her slip her coat on and head home. I still had no chart, and was waiting for the jug of water she had promised me.
When the drug round started, the chart magically appeared, and as soon as the nurses moved on, I did exactly what my mummy had taught me. I hauled that puppy up from the end of the bed and read every line in it. I may not have 7 years medical training, but I’ve spent enough time in hospitals, and around my mum, to pick up enough info to work out the gist of it if nothing else. I could see that I’d been having a high temperature off and on, and that my blood pressure was getting lower and lower. Then I turned a page and found the new bit that the student had started. I’m sure you can imagine my disgust when I realised that instead of coming back to ask her questions she’d gone ahead and made it up. I was now allergic to Penicillin, had been admitted with shortness of breath and had no history of dizziness or fainting in the last six weeks, or history of heart problems in the family.
So the fact that I was allergic to bisoprolol, not penicillin, and had been admitted with a blackout after dizziness was just a minor detail. Again, being my mother’s daughter, I wasn’t going to let that slide and as soon as I could snag a nurse (still no mean feat, cos they were just as short staffed on the new ward) I explained that one or two bits weren’t quite right. ‘No, they’re fine’ was the answer and no matter what I said, the staff nurse argued until she was blue in the face that I was wrong and she was right. Well, I was too knackered to fight and was ready to hit the sack so I left her ‘looking into it’ and curled up for the night, crossing my fingers and toes that sleep might actually, finally be in sight.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
Why Does It Always Rain On Me?
Why do people think that hospitals are restful places? Where does the ‘angel of mercy’ nursing stereotype come from? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met some amazing nurses, and my mother and several good friends are in the profession, but like all professions, healthcare has its unwanted relations, who give everyone a bad name.
After waiting on a very uncomfortable gurney in A+E for 9 hours (yes, you did read that number correctly!) I was finally moved to what is known as the Clinical Decisions Unit, CDU for short, or as I have come to call it, The Tenth Circle of Hell. It’s a bit like a holding pen for casualty, or that room that Royal Mail have for the letters whose authors were dumb enough to forget the post code on their envelope. Chaos wouldn’t even come close to describing this place.
Buzzers sounding, alarms wailing and beds being trundled past by igor-like porters, and that was only the first 5 minutes! I was placed in a bay with 6 beds and within minutes, after staring around the room, I knew that as usual, I had drawn the short straw with my roommates.
To my immediate right was a young girl who had recently had her appendix removed and managed to catch a post op infection. Ok, so far, so good. I looked left and started to get disheartened. The lady in that bed seemed pleasant enough, but was sporting a chest drain that rattled and gurgled like a leaky old gutter. Casting my eyes across to the opposite beds, my heart gave up on sinking and plummeted to my boots. It was like some twisted version of Snow-White’s dwarves. To add to Sweaty and Wheezy, in the left corner we had Singy, the centre bed was Tiny (ok, admittedly, she was pretty nice) and finally, to the far right was the Screamer.
Singy liked gospel and in particular ‘Oh Happy Day. She also liked singing at top volume, slightly off key and with numerous repeats. When I say numerous, imagine a CD on repeat..repeat..repeat. Tiny was a lovely lady, but really rather ill, and her monitors would go off with amazing regularity which would lead to a stampede of medical staff thundering into the room and barking staccato orders in stentorian voices, generally just as I’d start to doze off. Then there was the Screamer who started out ok, with more of a moan than a scream, but gradually her muttered ‘oi’ would rise like a soprano reaching for that glass -shattering high ‘c’. Much to my horror, around midnight, she decided to change her repertoire. As her agitation built, she would start trying to climb out of her bed, and with all the wires and tubes she was trailing, my palpitations went into overdrive!
With this motley crew, I wasn’t expecting the best night’s sleep but I was still vaguely hopeful. When the lights were still shining brightly at 1.30 am, my hope was waning, but I dutifully lowered my bed (by remote! I so need one of these babies at home. It’s the only good thing about being stuck here.) turned off my light, pulled all of my four blankets over me and closed my eyes.
There is only so much you can do about trying to sleep. I used to brag that I could sleep anywhere, and as I had in fact fallen asleep under the main speaker in a busy nightclub, it wasn’t just telling tales. However, that was a few years ago, before the stresses of being a teacher and the joys of Betablockers came into my life. Now sleep is my most treasured commodity and I guard it like a leprechaun with his pot ‘o’ gold. Thanks to a change in tablets before Christmas, I hadn’t been sleeping much...well at all really. Since Christmas Eve, I hadn’t managed much more than an hour or so a night. 5 weeks later, after being admitted to hospital, I was more than ready for a good 12 hour marathon kip, but like that pot ‘o’ gold, it was always just out of reach.
Tuesday brought another game of musical beds, and we lost Sweaty to the surgical ward. She was replaced by a girl my own age who was in the throws of a rather massive asthma attack. She was gasping and sucking at the air around and just not taking any of it in. While they eventually calmed her down a bit, her fear of all things medical was verging on a severe phobia and the slightest thing would set her off. Things such as The Screamer’s escape attempts, which were now coming every ten minutes like clockwork. Bless the nurses, I have no idea how they kept their patience, cos I was ready to pop an air bubble in her IV after an hour and apparently she’d been there for days.
Days start early on the ward, with the nurses starting the blood pressure/temperature obs at 5.30 am. I eventually saw the cardiologist about 10 o’clock and listened with resigned ears as he told me about the tests they would be doing today...and tomorrow. My 24 hours was stretching and I was far from amused. The only bright sign was that he wanted me moved up to another ward which specialised in cardiac/respiratory patients. It was just a matter of waiting for a bed.
Naturally, being as tired as I was, I was not a happy patient, though I tried hard to be a good one. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m a pretty active person. I’m a doer, a worker, a ‘the devil makes work for idle hands’ kinda gal. I’m getting better at leaving work at work and have spent more time on my hobbies in the last few months, but I am still training hard to win an Olympic gold in multi-tasking. Simply put, I don’t do bored.
To my horror, one unfortunate symptom of this as yet unknown heart/possible exhaustion/we don’t know what the hell is wrong condition, was being unable to focus on one thing for very long. I couldn’t knit more than 2 rows before having to put it down, or read more than 3 pages before casting the book aside to lie listlessly in bed. I was climbing the walls! Luckily Cheeky Charlie came to the rescue again and brought me my laptop and a selection of dvd’s. It was only after she left that I discovered that my laptop didn’t play dvd’s. With no sign of a bed in the other ward, I was fast approaching breaking point, and facing night 2 in hell, I started planning my escape.
After waiting on a very uncomfortable gurney in A+E for 9 hours (yes, you did read that number correctly!) I was finally moved to what is known as the Clinical Decisions Unit, CDU for short, or as I have come to call it, The Tenth Circle of Hell. It’s a bit like a holding pen for casualty, or that room that Royal Mail have for the letters whose authors were dumb enough to forget the post code on their envelope. Chaos wouldn’t even come close to describing this place.
Buzzers sounding, alarms wailing and beds being trundled past by igor-like porters, and that was only the first 5 minutes! I was placed in a bay with 6 beds and within minutes, after staring around the room, I knew that as usual, I had drawn the short straw with my roommates.
To my immediate right was a young girl who had recently had her appendix removed and managed to catch a post op infection. Ok, so far, so good. I looked left and started to get disheartened. The lady in that bed seemed pleasant enough, but was sporting a chest drain that rattled and gurgled like a leaky old gutter. Casting my eyes across to the opposite beds, my heart gave up on sinking and plummeted to my boots. It was like some twisted version of Snow-White’s dwarves. To add to Sweaty and Wheezy, in the left corner we had Singy, the centre bed was Tiny (ok, admittedly, she was pretty nice) and finally, to the far right was the Screamer.
Singy liked gospel and in particular ‘Oh Happy Day. She also liked singing at top volume, slightly off key and with numerous repeats. When I say numerous, imagine a CD on repeat..repeat..repeat. Tiny was a lovely lady, but really rather ill, and her monitors would go off with amazing regularity which would lead to a stampede of medical staff thundering into the room and barking staccato orders in stentorian voices, generally just as I’d start to doze off. Then there was the Screamer who started out ok, with more of a moan than a scream, but gradually her muttered ‘oi’ would rise like a soprano reaching for that glass -shattering high ‘c’. Much to my horror, around midnight, she decided to change her repertoire. As her agitation built, she would start trying to climb out of her bed, and with all the wires and tubes she was trailing, my palpitations went into overdrive!
With this motley crew, I wasn’t expecting the best night’s sleep but I was still vaguely hopeful. When the lights were still shining brightly at 1.30 am, my hope was waning, but I dutifully lowered my bed (by remote! I so need one of these babies at home. It’s the only good thing about being stuck here.) turned off my light, pulled all of my four blankets over me and closed my eyes.
There is only so much you can do about trying to sleep. I used to brag that I could sleep anywhere, and as I had in fact fallen asleep under the main speaker in a busy nightclub, it wasn’t just telling tales. However, that was a few years ago, before the stresses of being a teacher and the joys of Betablockers came into my life. Now sleep is my most treasured commodity and I guard it like a leprechaun with his pot ‘o’ gold. Thanks to a change in tablets before Christmas, I hadn’t been sleeping much...well at all really. Since Christmas Eve, I hadn’t managed much more than an hour or so a night. 5 weeks later, after being admitted to hospital, I was more than ready for a good 12 hour marathon kip, but like that pot ‘o’ gold, it was always just out of reach.
Tuesday brought another game of musical beds, and we lost Sweaty to the surgical ward. She was replaced by a girl my own age who was in the throws of a rather massive asthma attack. She was gasping and sucking at the air around and just not taking any of it in. While they eventually calmed her down a bit, her fear of all things medical was verging on a severe phobia and the slightest thing would set her off. Things such as The Screamer’s escape attempts, which were now coming every ten minutes like clockwork. Bless the nurses, I have no idea how they kept their patience, cos I was ready to pop an air bubble in her IV after an hour and apparently she’d been there for days.
Days start early on the ward, with the nurses starting the blood pressure/temperature obs at 5.30 am. I eventually saw the cardiologist about 10 o’clock and listened with resigned ears as he told me about the tests they would be doing today...and tomorrow. My 24 hours was stretching and I was far from amused. The only bright sign was that he wanted me moved up to another ward which specialised in cardiac/respiratory patients. It was just a matter of waiting for a bed.
Naturally, being as tired as I was, I was not a happy patient, though I tried hard to be a good one. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m a pretty active person. I’m a doer, a worker, a ‘the devil makes work for idle hands’ kinda gal. I’m getting better at leaving work at work and have spent more time on my hobbies in the last few months, but I am still training hard to win an Olympic gold in multi-tasking. Simply put, I don’t do bored.
To my horror, one unfortunate symptom of this as yet unknown heart/possible exhaustion/we don’t know what the hell is wrong condition, was being unable to focus on one thing for very long. I couldn’t knit more than 2 rows before having to put it down, or read more than 3 pages before casting the book aside to lie listlessly in bed. I was climbing the walls! Luckily Cheeky Charlie came to the rescue again and brought me my laptop and a selection of dvd’s. It was only after she left that I discovered that my laptop didn’t play dvd’s. With no sign of a bed in the other ward, I was fast approaching breaking point, and facing night 2 in hell, I started planning my escape.
Emergency Paging Dr Beat.
I’ll, be honest, I’ve heard of blogs, and understand the concept. I just didn’t think it would be something I would ever do. After all, I’m no writer, and with my terminal case of verbal diarrhoea you’re lucky if I make sense at all. However, this week I’ve found myself a reluctant resident in one of the NHS’s finest medical establishments and after listening to my tales of life chez l’hôpital, one of my guests suggested I have a stab at documenting life on the front line. Naturally, my first instinct was to laugh it off, but after 4 days here, I’ll try anything to relieve my boredom.
I arrived here on Monday morning bright and early. Admittedly, I’m not much of a morning person and don’t so much leap out of bed, as reluctantly peel away the duvet and drag my zombie-like body towards the bathroom for some cold water to kick start the day. Monday was no exception. I’ve not been sleeping well lately and hadn’t slept at all that night, so I was feeling particularly useless on my rise from the dead...sorry bed. I wandered into the bathroom, parked myself on the loo, with the day’s ‘to-do’ list scrolling through my head, and promptly blacked out. Not your Hollywood swoon with a graceful slide to the floor, but a cheek plastered to the wall and drooling down my chin job. So attractive! I came to a few minutes later and decided that just maybe, rather than driving myself to A+E, I should perhaps ask my neighbour to drive instead.
I’m amazingly lucky in my flat, in that I have fab neighbours on my floor. It’s a bit like being back in Dorms again, but more importantly, I like to think they’re good mates. So after a minute or two to wipe up the drool and make sure I was covered, if not decent, I banged on Charlie’s door. She looked just as awake as I felt, but didn’t hesitate to offer to drive me in, and we were suited and booted and on our way in to casualty in no time at all.
Now, I’m pretty cack-handed and have spent my fair share of time sampling the delights of various emergency departments, and so I wasn’t that worried about going in. After all, it was 8.30 on a Monday morning, how busy could it be? It wasn’t as if I had to contend with weekend drunks or sporting heroes. Judging from my years of experience, I reckoned we’d be in and out in about 2 hours or so. Perfect. Get them to check me over just in case, then crawl back into my bed and attempt to catch up on my missed sleep. It was the perfect plan...and like the best laid plans, destined to go awry.
all started so well. The department was empty and I was seen by the triage nurse in less than 5 minutes. We settled down for the expected hour and half wait to see the docs. True to form, an hour and a half later I was called through to a cubicle. Thankfully, the lovely Charlie had stayed with me and was on hand to keep me entertained. See I’m not a good patient, I hate to wait for anything and have a tendency to forget or underplay my symptoms, and after calling me through , the rather scary doctor clutching the obligatory clipboard and sporting a 5 o’clock shadow, proceeded to disappear like the after eights at a party. There wasn’t hint nor hair of him for another hour, and just as I was settling in for my toddler in a tantrum scene, he finally reappeared. Man he was scary, he barked out questions like a drill sergeant on parade, and treated me like a specimen on a glass slide. He ordered some bloods and vanished yet again...for another bloody hour!
Thankfully, he was swiftly replaced by a very handsome young registrar, who made me go through the whole damn rigmarole again. Why do they bother taking a history and triage notes, if you’re going to have to go through it again and again? Still, I wasn’t so pleased to see him when he said that they were going to keep me in for observation. ‘Just 24 hours’ he promised. ‘Just let the cardiologist take a look then you can go home.’ I should bloody coco. I’m still here 5 days later!
I arrived here on Monday morning bright and early. Admittedly, I’m not much of a morning person and don’t so much leap out of bed, as reluctantly peel away the duvet and drag my zombie-like body towards the bathroom for some cold water to kick start the day. Monday was no exception. I’ve not been sleeping well lately and hadn’t slept at all that night, so I was feeling particularly useless on my rise from the dead...sorry bed. I wandered into the bathroom, parked myself on the loo, with the day’s ‘to-do’ list scrolling through my head, and promptly blacked out. Not your Hollywood swoon with a graceful slide to the floor, but a cheek plastered to the wall and drooling down my chin job. So attractive! I came to a few minutes later and decided that just maybe, rather than driving myself to A+E, I should perhaps ask my neighbour to drive instead.
I’m amazingly lucky in my flat, in that I have fab neighbours on my floor. It’s a bit like being back in Dorms again, but more importantly, I like to think they’re good mates. So after a minute or two to wipe up the drool and make sure I was covered, if not decent, I banged on Charlie’s door. She looked just as awake as I felt, but didn’t hesitate to offer to drive me in, and we were suited and booted and on our way in to casualty in no time at all.
Now, I’m pretty cack-handed and have spent my fair share of time sampling the delights of various emergency departments, and so I wasn’t that worried about going in. After all, it was 8.30 on a Monday morning, how busy could it be? It wasn’t as if I had to contend with weekend drunks or sporting heroes. Judging from my years of experience, I reckoned we’d be in and out in about 2 hours or so. Perfect. Get them to check me over just in case, then crawl back into my bed and attempt to catch up on my missed sleep. It was the perfect plan...and like the best laid plans, destined to go awry.
all started so well. The department was empty and I was seen by the triage nurse in less than 5 minutes. We settled down for the expected hour and half wait to see the docs. True to form, an hour and a half later I was called through to a cubicle. Thankfully, the lovely Charlie had stayed with me and was on hand to keep me entertained. See I’m not a good patient, I hate to wait for anything and have a tendency to forget or underplay my symptoms, and after calling me through , the rather scary doctor clutching the obligatory clipboard and sporting a 5 o’clock shadow, proceeded to disappear like the after eights at a party. There wasn’t hint nor hair of him for another hour, and just as I was settling in for my toddler in a tantrum scene, he finally reappeared. Man he was scary, he barked out questions like a drill sergeant on parade, and treated me like a specimen on a glass slide. He ordered some bloods and vanished yet again...for another bloody hour!
Thankfully, he was swiftly replaced by a very handsome young registrar, who made me go through the whole damn rigmarole again. Why do they bother taking a history and triage notes, if you’re going to have to go through it again and again? Still, I wasn’t so pleased to see him when he said that they were going to keep me in for observation. ‘Just 24 hours’ he promised. ‘Just let the cardiologist take a look then you can go home.’ I should bloody coco. I’m still here 5 days later!
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