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!
Showing posts with label illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label illness. Show all posts
Saturday, 27 February 2010
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?
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