Emergency Paging Dr Beat.

This was meant to be my first ever post. Written in the hospital bed that started this whole ball rolling. It truly belongs in the Feb 2010 folder, so try to imagine it there if you can ;-)

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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.

It 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!

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?