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!

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!

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?

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’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.