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 11 - 15

UNDER THE KNIFE 11.

Sat 11th Jan 12 pm

I draw back the curtain and see a shattered man. His eyes are red and puffy, the poor bastard looks like he’s gone three rounds with an angry Mike Tyson, and I feel for him. With the arrival of a stranger, he tries to hold it together. No chance. So I introduce myself and dive into the morass of his problems. I let him talk; get it off his chest. It seems to make a difference that he’s talking to another man, a little more controlled maybe? I explain how the Doctors are obliged to give the patient the worst possible scenario; it’s their job. Nothing is written in stone, (worth a damn anyway), and his chances are what he is going to make of them. His eyes lose their glazed look and he starts to respond.

We talk at length, and when Nicky turns up I give her an earful too, it must be the sweet-talker in me because after a while they both appear to be at ease. God! What a mess. Elvis upstairs, Bulawayo’s bag overflowing, a couple convinced there’s going to be a funeral, Victor trotting, and Fred crooning. Am I going mad???

Thank you sweet Jesus, lunch has arrived. The catering staff are thrown into utter confusion, with a patient missing, another unable to eat, plus of course, Victor, who is currently surviving on sandwiches (brought in by his wife), they have six orders and three takers. Life is hard for the “food squad.”

It is six p.m. and the “Visitors” descend. I am so glad that I have requested “NO VISITORS”, (except for Family of course). This falls on deaf ears for some of my friends, but mostly, they have listened, Thank God! At visiting time I switch on the television. I watch the News; I keep up to date on the farming “Soap”, and read. Meanwhile, my compatriots are bombarded with people, lot’s of people, oceans of people, all wanting to know how they are feeling. I personally feel that visiting should be cut to thirty minutes, that way both visitors and patients are spared the pain of making meaningless small-talk for hours on end. Get them in, say hello, and get them out. It is nice when they bring “goodies” though.

After the visitors leave, the tea trolley comes round, we all have chocolate, (the tea and coffee are foul). The evenings “goodies” are brought out and shared, it is always a veritable feast – lots of home-made cakes and the kind of chocolate biscuits you normally only see at Christmas, perhaps the visitors aren’t so bad after all.

Elvis is back from surgery and in great shape, he is from good farming stock, he is bullet proof. I can see him getting sent home in a couple of days.

Things aren’t so good for Bulawayo. His bowels are refusing to co-operate, mine are the same, it must be the change of environment or something. We both decide to speak to the mighty Mandy, she will wave her magic wand and all will be well. No wonder I can’t go, the mess that Victor leaves behind is enough to make a Dung Beetle throw up. What is wrong with the man? Doesn’t he realize that hygiene is of the utmost importance in here; we’ll all get bloody dysentery the way he’s carrying on. I have cleaned the toilet after him five times in two days, it’s not the most pleasant of tasks if it’s your own, never mind somebody else’s, so I decide that enough is enough and trundle off to seek out Sister. Today it is turtle-shaped; she’ll sort him out. She’ll frighten the bloody life out of him. He deserves it!

UNDER THE KNIFE 12.

Sun 12th Jan 6.30 am.

There’s an icy little wind blowing this morning and I huddle in the “Sin-Bin” with my usual accessories. It’s a fine time to ruminate upon what has happened, and what might. In this temperature it’s easy to clear your head and gather your thoughts, get yourself ready for the coming day.
The Robin is back and I am pleased to see him, in my pocket I have some biscuit crumbs to give his day a good start. The little bugger ignores them and flies off, he probably doesn’t like the look of me, a lot of people don’t.

The “Sin-Bin” is right opposite the Department of Pathology, which incorporates the Mortuary, and the comings and goings at this time of the morning are brisk. I suppose it’s a good time to shift the mortal remains of those who have passed away during the night, but even though they are shrouded in stainless steel it is still a little disturbing.

I fancy that the hospital authorities will do anything to deter smoking, even outside the building; the “Sin-Bin” is the only place in the whole complex where it is allowed. On that front I am doing quite well. I am down to eight cigarettes a day and not feeling one damn bit better for it, just guilty when I leave the ward, they all know where I’m going.

Young Terry is a little more settled, he is having his operation tomorrow, it must be urgent! Nicky, his wife is staying at the hospital; they provide accommodation for relatives of children and the very sick. An excellent idea I think.

Bulawayo is not entirely happy, he is still on his back umbilically attached to the dreaded bag, I don’t envy him one bit, it’s painful and degrading. I derive great pleasure from fussing around him and Elvis, performing helpful little tasks that the nurses would have to be called to do. The both of them start calling me “Mum.”

Victor is very subdued, must have been something someone said!

Fred? Well I don’t know what to say about Fred. He’s like the “Invisible Man”, the only time he really speaks is at the evening “goodie feast”, the rest of the time he just croons to himself and reads motoring magazines. No trouble to anyone is Fred.

Shock, horror! Wayne has strolled onto the ward. “Anyone got a light?” he enquires. Victor is the only other smoker on the ward, but is too engrossed in the examination of a sandwich that his wife brought in last night, so I lend Wayne mine. I do not realize what grief I will reap from that little gesture.

At visiting time, my daughter, Eirlys, and my grandchildren come to see me. They have brought in a large box of chocolates, and I make the kid’s day by opening them and inviting both to tuck in. Eirlys has a good head on her shoulders, so when the conversation starts to wane she suggests that they leave. That was the perfect visit.

All in all, Sunday is a bit of a dog day. The visiting hours are extended and we only get an hour off for good behavior, just time to eat supper and get ready for the next onslaught. I say we, but I really mean they, I, am the lucky one, the one who spends that particular period of torture reading, napping or watching television. I can come and go as I please. It is very, very nice. There is one little niggle though, Wayne has started appearing every hour or so looking for a light. It’s becoming a bit monotonous and I suggest to him that he asks his parents to bring him in a lighter. He just grins and makes this kind of grunting noise. Hmm, not a University graduate then? Never mind, only one more day.

UNDER THE KNIFE 13.

Mon 14th Jan 8.30 am.

We are having breakfast. Terry has just gone upstairs, we all tried to give him as rousing a send off as possible, but it is always in the back of your mind that things could go wrong. I have told him that I am with him in spirit and I believe that he has the mental strength to get through it. I’m sure he does.

My charges, Bulawayo and Elvis, are both doing well under my care, if you regard emptying urine bags and pouring water as care. Mind you, I also fill in their menu cards, pump the beds up and down and cut up their food. I really enjoy it. Last night, I contrived to fill in Victor’s menu card for I am convinced that before his self -inflicted abstinence, he was blaming the staff for getting things wrong when the meal was exactly what he ordered. I’ll catch him!

As far as the bowels are concerned, no joy, well not much, a bit like rabbit droppings. Bulawayo is the same. We’ll have to press Mandy.

Carol is coming in this afternoon, as she does every day, after school. It’s a wonderful arrangement, we are able to spend three quarters of an hour together before the end of visiting time, and it means that she doesn’t have to make the long journey back in the evening. The school is half way between home and the hospital.

The sheets on the vacant bed are changed. Here, beds are not empty for long. I am feeling very saintly at the moment; it must be all this clean living. Three square meals a day, cleanliness at all times, reduction in nicotine intake, and NO BOOZE! My liver must think that I have converted to the Muslim faith. Dream on my little vital organ, for you this is just a short holiday, though I do admit that I’m not missing alcohol at all. It’s a bit like not being able to smoke on airplanes, you can’t, so you don’t think about it. Well not much.

Wayne is still being a bloody pest. Now though, he wants a cigarette as well as the light, on the hour, every hour. Due to his cadging I am starting to run short myself, so this morning I gave him twenty pence and told him to phone his parents and get them to bring him in cigarettes and a lighter. He just grinned, grunted, and said “you’re top of the range, you are,” and just kept the twenty pence. Lord give me strength.

The new occupier of young Terry’s bed is brought in. It’s Richard. He has been in intensive care since Wednesday, so that they can keep a close eye on his condition. I am shocked by the state he is in. One half of his face has this awful sag and both his arm and leg on the same side refuse to work, talk about a shadow of his former self! His speech is severely affected, as is his ability to get around, so he has to be helped by two nurses to do everything. It’s really sad to see a man of his stature reduced to such a hopeless mess. There but for fortune comes to mind.
The word is, that with a lot of luck he will regain the use of arm and leg, and that his sardonic facial condition, in time, will improve. But it’s going to be a long uphill struggle for him and I do not envy him his task.

Lunch arrives. Thankfully Elvis can now take care of himself, which enables me to give Richard some much-needed help, poor dab (as we say).
The staff are absolutely brilliant. They know that I help the others, and keep my food warm until I’ve sorted them out. You know, I nearly became a male nurse. Yes honestly! But that’s another story.

UNDER THE KNIFE 14.

Tue 15th Jan 5.45 am.

I have my eyes shut but I am awake. The staff nurse shakes my arm gently and whispers, “time to get up for your bath John,” and hangs the “NIL BY MOUTH” sign over my bed, there is no chocolate for me this morning. I have been told that I am second on the list, and that means that the operation will take place at lunchtime, I don’t know what the urgency is all about. So I ask. “I want you bathed, weighed and gowned by the time I go off shift,” she says, “now be a good boy and do as you’re told.” Who am I to argue, with a bit of luck I’ll be on the table today, I can’t wait.

I scrub the bath with shampoo that somebody has left in the bathroom. The water is of course cold, so I am not in there long, but I am bathed.
Next, the weigh-in, with all this “clean living” I have gained eight pounds and am very surprised. She hands me the gown and tells me that I am allowed a few sips of water. That will do nicely, so I go off to do a little mental preparation, and have a cigarette. God knows when I’ll have the next one.

At half past seven I get a visit from the anaesthetist, a very nice lady, who goes through the procedure and gets me to sign a document, which presumably, lets her off the hook if I croak. I feel much happier now.

At eight o clock I get another visit, this time from the registrar. “The chap who was supposed to go in before you isn’t ready, so we’ll do you first, all right?” “That would be wonderful,” I reply, “I’m ready if you are.” “Okay,” he says, “see you on the ice.”

The porters arrive at eight forty five and along with a nurse we journey upstairs. As the lift doors open I feel like I have been transported into another world. The “Starship Enterprise” is my initial impression, everything gleaming white with dozens of green-gowned people scurrying about. Wow! is it all for me? No is the simple answer, I find out later that there are ten theatres, no wonder it was like the end of a football match up there.

We end up in a kind of stainless steel loading bay where the nurse officially hands me over to the care of the theatre staff, there are five of them. They swarm all over me, attaching various tubes and sensors to my body. I tease one of them about the sharpness of the knife; he’s heard it before and automatically replies, “Well it was last Friday.”

The nice lady is injecting me and I’m just telling her that she’s almost as good as my dentist when……………

I woke up!

A lovely oriental girl of about twenty-five is asking if I’m feeling all right, and I am, I’ve come through it, and I feel fine. She asks me if I want some Morphine and for some reason I refuse, I quickly change my mind as the pain kicks in. The young lady is very good at this, like an eager barmaid she plies me with the means to take all my troubles away. I tell her that I am amazed at how lucid I feel, and she tells me that that’s a good sign. She’s lying of course. It’s the bucketsful of Morphine she’s given me. In truth, I am out of it, right out of it. Right! Get me back to the ward, where I can enjoy it.

UNDER THE KNIFE 15.

Tue 15th Jan 3 pm.

SPECTACLES! The first priority when I get back to the ward are my spectacles, I am virtually blind without them. For some reason I am bleeding from my temples, they are also very sore, so I ask the nurse that’s fussing around the bed why. “Oh that’s the head clamps,” she says, “must have been a bit tight.” A bit tight? I’m bleeding like a pig, at this rate I’ll have to have a transfusion, they must have had points on them like an Assagai, another De Sade invention no doubt. What were they playing at? They only had to ask me to keep my head still and I would have. No need to apply some mediaeval torture device.

I get another shot of Morphine and eat a spot of lunch (a leftover sandwich), now there’s high living for you, but I fancy the Morphine isn’t as good as it used to be - neither is the sandwich.

Carol arrives and I make full use of her presence. I can’t remember, but she told me later that I started ordering her about like a sergeant major, giving her half a dozen tasks before even saying hello. Morphine’s a funny old drug.

I spend the rest of the day drifting in and out of consciousness, or more probably, just sleeping a lot, there is a large blank gap in my recollection of the period.

I am aware that Elvis is out of bed and on his feet, and is repaying my helping him by helping me, he’s a Godsend. The staff of course, just don’t have the time, there is far too much to do taking care of the rest of the patients to hover around me, so they tend to appear every hour or so to see if I’m comfortable and check my bladder function. What is terrifying me is that I also will have to have a catheter fitted, and I don’t want one, thank you very much. No need to worry, after about three hours and a lot of effort, mental and physical, I manage a dribble or two into the bottle provided and breathe a huge sigh of relief. The urine is taken away and measured to make sure that it matches the fluid intake, but I’m sure that if they brandished a catheter at most people, the urine would flow quite freely, putting it politely.

I am finding it very uncomfortable, laying on my back the whole time, only being able to move my head a couple of inches to the left and right, if only they had something more interesting on the ceiling, like a television screen, it would make this part of it far less tedious, but it is the price you have to pay to get well. “Stop moaning Weathers,” I say to myself, “you’ll be on your feet in a couple of days, just keep taking the medication and do as your told, all will be well.”

At the evening dope score I am given oodles of different drugs, I don’t know what they all are but I sleep like a tranquilized Hippo, the staff even wake me up during the night to feed me more Morphine. Pain is obviously not on this ward’s agenda.

After breakfast, I am paid a visit by the consultant surgeon who had carried out the operation. “And how are we feeling today,” he enquires, “not too much pain I hope.” I tell him that I am pretty comfortable, but that it’s mainly due to the fact that I’m having massive doses of Morphine, and ask if it’s really necessary. “I can see where your coming from,” he says, (he’s fairly young), “but why don’t you leave it to us, we know best.”
Well, there’s no arguing with that is there?

Episodes 16 - 20