Two Weeks In Pain
Under The Knife
The Everyday Story of Hospital Folk
By John Weathers

A Diary Of Two Weeks In Hospital Under The Care Of The N.H.S
Episodes 1 - 5

UNDER THE KNIFE 1.

Wed 8th Jan 8 a.m.

I have been clock-watching since six thirty. My instructions are to call the hospital on the morning of my admission, to find out whether there is a bed available. My heart is pounding, over the past few days there have been articles in the local paper describing how there is a chronic shortage of beds due to "seasonal illnesses," so I may find myself in a medical limbo, with an operating date, but no bed!

Trembling, I dial the number. "My name is Weathers, and I am due to check in today, is there a bed available?" "Oh yes" a voice answers, "Hang on a minute." A discussion takes place in the background. "Sister, I have a bloke on the phone due in today, there are five coming in but only four beds, what shall I tell him?" Sister answers, "better cancel him is it?"

My heart sinks, I am about to be sent back into that lonely place where all the people "on the waiting list" dwell. I am now, mentally in a heap on the floor but hang onto the phone like the man clutching at a straw. This goes on for a full ten minutes until finally the voice says, "we won't be sure until the doctors have done their rounds, can I call you back?" I want to scream but my automatic pilot "nice boy" comes into play. "Yes, thank you very much, I'll speak to you later, bye." Carol scrapes the heap off the floor, puts it in a chair and administers strong coffee and a cigarette.

You know I have faced some daunting prospects in my time. Opening the show for Black Sabbath, playing in front of sixty five thousand Yes fans at Anaheim Stadium, losing my virginity in Carmarthen F.C's grandstand in January, but none of them compare to this, and I would not recommend it as a method of keeping your nervous system in good order. After forty minutes of wallowing in self-pity and intonations of "why me? why me? the phone rings and I eagerly pick it up.

Second prize, "hello John, this is Ma, have you heard anything yet?" The scream of the banshee is welling up again but once more the autopilot kicks in and with white knuckles I calmly and politely reply, "No, nothing yet they are going to call me back, I will let you know as soon as I hear anything." Mother rings off, and as I put the phone back in its cradle it rings. "Hello, Morriston Hospital here Mr.Weathers, the doctors would like you to come in at about ten thirty okay?"

Okay? O bloody Kay? I have inherited Paul McCartney's money, Charles has made me Prince of Wales in his place, and I have been provided with a lifelong supply of Guinness, Free! Of course it's Okay. We are off to see the Wizard, the wonderful wizard of hospital, where all my afflictions will be cured at a stroke, well, several strokes by the time he slashes through the muscle! Lead on Macduff, for the moment is here at last. Phew! That was close.

UNDER THE KNIFE 2.

Wed 8th Jan 10.30 am.

We arrive at the hospital, it is as usual and expected, bloody chaos. This is the National Health Service 2003, wall-to-wall plaster casts and wheelchairs. Dopey Swansea Jacks wandering about muttering "cowing hell this," and "cowing hell that." They really believe that individually they are the centre of the universe and that everyone else in the building should get out of their way so that their "Darren" can get his in growing toenail seen to, "post haste!" They seem to be the epitome of modern society, the welfare society, they are convinced that the government should support them financially from cradle to grave paying for everything, rents, council taxes, food and of course a few extra quid for getting pissed at the weekend. But enough of that, just so long as I don't have to pay for it or watch them doing it, it's not a pretty sight.

Predictably, there is not a parking space in sight, not even for the disabled, like myself, so Carol drops me off at the main entrance and goes in search of the Holy Grail, it should only take an hour or two to find a space. I am in luck, it is only three hundred yards to the ward so I adjust my backpack and start the long trek. My walking skills are akin to those of the World War II fighter pilot Douglas Bader who lost both his legs in a dogfight and became a hero by learning to fly again without them, a bit of a stagger you would say. Anyway, the trek took a while.

As I reached the ward I suddenly realized that I had forgotten my toothpaste and so, cursing under my breath, retraced my steps to the shop at the main entrance. What joy! After three quarters of an hour Carol turns up. "All right love?" she asks, they must pump Valium in through the air ducts for I am quite relaxed. "Yes", I say "what time have you got to be back at school?" "Well I can't stay too long," she says, "perhaps half an hour." Now in hospital time half an hour is a millisecond, people grow beards and qualify for their old-age pension whilst waiting to see a doctor, and this time, it's no different. She departs, and I am left to admire the expanse of lime-green walls for another hour or so, well, that's only two milliseconds (in hospital time of course), so no problemo, it's the Valium of course, it's very, very nice here.

Eventually, my name is called and I follow the very nice, but turtle-shaped sister into the ward. I am introduced to the registrar, a very nice man, who proceeds to find out, by means of a folder full of questions, whether I am suitable for admission. "Do you smoke?" I tell him that I am afraid I do and his assistant "Raj", tuts and shakes his head. "Do you drink?" I plead guilty; "Raj" shakes his head even more. "Smoking and drinking are bad for you," the pubescent "Raj" tells me, "you should try and give both of them up, you'll live another thirty years." Oh God, as if my physical condition isn't bad enough, I have to get lectured by a youth who hasn't started shaving yet, about the two filthy habits I hold most dear! Fortunately, the registrar, a very nice man, has dealt with degenerates like myself before and after explaining how dangerous the operation could be, if it all went pear-shaped, I am dispatched to my appointed bed, there to meet my fellow inmates and prepare for the knife.

UNDER THE KNIFE 3.

Wed 8th Jan 12.20 pm.

On my way I am confronted by a young male nurse, “hello,” he says, you must be Mr. Weathers for bed three, my name is Julian will you follow me please?” Hmm, he’s got a gold stud in his ear, a glint in his eye, and tight fitting trousers. He takes my bag and leads me into the six-bedded ward. I nod to the other patients and peruse the room that is to be my home for the next ten days.

Aha, my bed is right next to a 26in television set, can’t be bad, beyond that is an emergency exit, even better, means I can do a runner if a nurse appears with a large syringe looking in my direction. There is the “swish” of a curtain behind me. “Would you like to get into your “Jim-jams” before lunch?” he says hand on hip. What? No chance, me get behind a curtain with a young man of indeterminate gender? He has more chance of being voted the next Pope! “No thanks Julian,” I reply, “I’m quite happy like this for now.” “Suit yourself,” he crooned, “you won’t get a better offer you know.” He sashayed off and I got down to introducing myself to the rest of the boys.

This is not a mixed ward, thank God! They appear to be a pretty genial lot at first sight; their names are Richard, Terry, Fred, Malcolm and Elwyn. Richard is a tall, smart, quantity surveyor who comes from a very up-market area of Swansea and talks like it. He has a brain tumor and will have his operation on the same day as me. Terry, is an ex train-driver from Zimbabwe who needs some work doing on his lower spine. Fred, a down-to-earth sixty five year old from Newcastle, he’s in for the same job as I am. Malcolm is a little sullen, also in to have a tumor removed. Elwyn, on the other hand, seems to be the life and soul of the party; it’s the lower back for him as well.

Lunch arrives. Everybody else gets theirs and I am given the meal that the previous occupant of my bed had ordered yesterday. Luckily it is beef stew with sponge and custard to follow, Yum, Yum, proper school dinners, if it’s all like this I will be quite happy. I never could understand some of the boys at my school who turned their noses up at the food, it was always plain but nevertheless tasty, but I didn’t care what they thought as I usually ended up eating theirs as well. Times were hard.

Malcolm complains about his food. “This isn’t the sweet I ordered,” he says. Knowing looks are exchanged between the other boys, and I surmise that this might be a common occurrence, little knowing then how common it was to become. Oh dear, there’s always one isn’t there, and he is it.

After lunch, two nurses arrive with a lorry load of equipment to begin the suitability tests for my operation. Blood pressure, temperature, six armfuls of blood for various testing, I am convinced that after all this I will leave as fit as the Six Million Dollar man, if all the tests are clear.
Julian has left the building, and I feel safe now to get my kit off. Everybody in the family knew that I was going into hospital; so all my Christmas presents reflected this, three new pairs of pyjamas, two dressing gowns, and enough deodorant to start a knocking shop. I just hope Julian doesn’t see my stash; he might get the wrong idea and offer me a bed bath!

UNDER THE KNIFE 4.

Wed 8th Jan 4.30 pm.

I have resolved to give up smoking, after all the smooth-faced youth is a qualified Doctor, so he must be right. After lunch was tough, so I only had one cigarette, well, one and a half. It is strange you know, how, when you find yourself in an environment that discourages smoking you feel like a schoolboy under scrutiny, hidden cameras watching your every move, looking over your shoulder expecting the cigarette police to pounce at any second, but the curse of the dreaded weed will, in the end overcome all, and when you see half the nurses on the shift puffing away, same as you, I am afraid you still feel guilty. Still, nearly time for tea.

Tea arrives, once again Malcom is off. This time it’s about his sandwich. As far as I can tell, the cretins, (his words), in the kitchen have made his tuna sandwich with brown bread instead of the white he ordered, Mortal Sin as far as he is concerned. In the interest of peace and harmony, I point out the benefits of wholemeal bread as opposed to white, to the digestive system. This only serves to send him into a rage, a tantrum of the highest order. The nurses quickly vacate the ward leaving us to endure his ceaseless muttering, I shall henceforth call him Victor Meldrew.

Now for those of you who are not familiar with Victor, I will explain. Victor Meldrew is a character from a T.V. sitcom who constantly complains about everything, his catchphrase being “I don’t believe it”, a very funny show but in real life that sort of infantile behavior becomes extremely irritating and you find yourself wishing them misfortune for their sins and it did come for Victor as you will find out later.

I am getting on famously with the rest of the boys though, Terry used to drive steam trains from Lusaka down to Bulawayo, a three day trip, and his tales of the journeys across the Veldt are riveting. To me he will always be “Bulawayo Boy”. Richard, the quantity surveyor, specializes in septic tank installation, I have one and I can assure you that it is pretty low on my list of interesting subjects. He is however a smashing chap.
Elwyn Prichard, now there’s a name to conjure with, is a farmer and a friend of a friend. Typical farmer, jovial, outgoing and would talk the hind leg off a donkey. I have christened him Elvis. Last but not least is big Fred, a giant of a man. He used to work in the steel industry but is now retired and makes love spoons (a traditional engagement gift in Wales) as a very well-paid hobby, trouble is, he forgets that he’s already shown you the photos of his best work and keeps turning up at the bedside saying, “have you seen the photos of me love spoons?” Yes Fred we have.

So these are my fellow victims, quite a nice cross-section really except for Victor, but it’s sure as eggs he’ll get his cum-uppance.

UNDER THE KNIFE 5.

Thu 9th Jan 6.00 am.

Today is the day, today is the day I have been waiting eighteen months for, today is the day that my body will be returned to its former glory, rejuvenated, cured of all its ills enabling me to begin another stage of the self abuse that I so sorely miss (I’ve had to cut down on everything you know).

I have had a very bad night though. Sleeping in the same room with five other men that are virtual strangers is not for the faint-hearted, it seems that throughout the night someone or other would be snoring, coughing or farting, I was sure at one point that I heard Victor busily complaining to himself in a low monotone. Think happy I say to myself, but to no avail, I am dog-tired from lack of sleep and could not care less if he opened me up with a chainsaw. I steal a cup of chocolate and slope off to calm my nerves with a cigarette.

The morning shift at the hospital begins at 6.30 so when I reach the smoking shelter outside I find it jam-packed with fellow addicts all puffing away furiously. “Oi”, says one nurse from our ward, “your not supposed to have anything to eat or drink, you’ve got an operation today haven’t you?” “That’s not till one-o-clock” I reply with authority, “you can’t have your first fag of the day without a cuppa,” she tuts and says “I know what you mean love”. I roll another cigarette, she won’t squeal.

Breakfast is at 8.30, for some, Richard and myself are “nil by mouth” there are large notices above our beds proclaiming so, consequently we are treated as invisible by the catering staff who, I note, make sure that Victor is the last to be served, this must be so that they can disappear before he finishes poking around in his breakfast and finds something to berate them about. He asks me if I will spread the butter and jam on his toast, I can’t refuse can I, and for my pains I am treated to ten minutes of his ranting. His tea is too weak, his toast isn’t brown enough, the butter is hard and the jam is the wrong variety. God, life is hard Victor, and I’m bloody fasting!

At nine sharp, Richard is taken up to theatre to have his tumor removed. Now I don’t know much about tumor removal but it don’t sound like much fun to me. Apparently, they take off the top of the skull with some kind of circular saw and then carefully remove the offending growth hoping that it isn’t malignant for if it is, they have to whip off the skull again and chop out a bit more. And I thought I was ill.

At about 11.am the registrar arrives and perches on the bottom of my bed clutching a large folder. I don’t like the look of it and my fears are well founded. “John,” he begins, “they’ve run into a couple of problems with Richard’s operation, there is a slight possibility that you might have to be re-scheduled.” Re-bloody scheduled, what the hell does that mean, tomorrow ?, next week?, next month?, next bloody millennium? He can see that I am getting a little agitated and goes into “placate him” mode. “It means, Mr. Weathers, that you go to the top of the list and will be operated on at the first opportunity, could be next week though, let’s see how they get on with Richard, I’ll come back at twelve and let you know for certain what’s happening.” A large black cloud has appeared over my head, I am just flotsam on the raging sea of Neurosurgery, tossed from pillar to post, thrown back to the lions at the very moment of success, oh woe is me, time for a fag I think.

Episodes 6 - 10