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 16 - 20

UNDER THE KNIFE 16.

Wed 16th Jan 11 am.

I am just discovering how difficult life can be when you are bed-ridden. The most ordinary of tasks like eating and washing become the equivalent of scaling the Materhorn with a grand piano strapped to your back! As far as eating is concerned, you have to get the table into a position where you can rest your chin on it, that way the food has only a few inches to travel to your mouth, thus negating the probability of spilling it all over the bed and yourself, which is most embarrassing, and worse, wasteful. The perfect height is achieved by a combination of adjustments to both bed and table, raise the bed and lower the table. Sounds easy doesn’t it? Unfortunately it is not so. You see, the table is specifically designed to be tamper-proof, that means that any attempt to adjust it results in the damn thing either trapping your fingers or collapsing onto your kneecaps, both very painful. The other villain of the piece, the bed, has four operating levers, the secrets of which are known only to nurses and Isembard Kingdom Brunel. If operated incorrectly, it will deposit the patient on the floor, a bit quick!

This is where an aide comes in handy, for if any of the above does happen, there is someone there to (a) take the blame, and (b) call a nurse.
I am very fortunate, Elvis is most adept at table and bed adjustment, well he’s a farmer, mends tractors and things, and mechanics is second nature to him.

Just before lunch, a staff nurse comes in to give us some great news. Young Terry has not only come through his operation with flying colours, but also his tumor wasn’t anywhere near as bad as they thought. He is still in intensive care, but is making great strides in his recovery. The news has made our day.

It’s all very quiet on the ward at the moment. Bulawayo and myself are both confined to bed, Richard sleeps most of the time, Victor has stopped trotting, Fred is still reading, which leaves only Elvis, who goes from bed to bed like the hospital pastor.

In mid-afternoon two nurses appear in plastic pinafores. “We’re going to give you a bed bath John,” one says, “can you take off your top for us.”
In my Morphine fuelled haze my mind races, I close my eyes and picture a couple of Geisha girls, washing me down gently with lotus scented warm water, massaging my body and catering to my every whim. No such luck! They just wash my face and chest, hand me the flannel and bowl, and say, “you can do the rest.” Life can be cruel.

At suppertime Victor starts to get back to his old self. He claims that his sausages taste like “dead cat,” though how he knows what dead cat tastes like I cannot imagine, though there are times when I’d like to stuff one down his throat! His operation is planned for tomorrow and to say that he is a worried man would be putting it mildly. He had a steel plate put in his head some ten years ago and the surgeons can’t quite work out how they are going to remove it to carry out further surgery, of course without the operation, the tumor will just carry on growing and eventually force it’s way out wherever it can, steel plate or not. I feel really sorry for his wife. She is totally dominated by him; he must be the husband from hell at home. I watch her cringing at his bedside, obviously being shouted at, (in a whisper), for bringing in the wrong flavour crisps or something. He’ll have a lot to answer for when he crosses the great divide.

UNDER THE KNIFE 17.

Thu 17th Jan 8.30 am.

I really must stop talking about Victor in such derogatory terms. We are all eating breakfast and Victor, poor dab, is just having his pre-med in preparation for the trip upstairs. It must be the confinement that causes the nervous strain, at the moment I am spending every minute of the day in the same room as five other men, so any little foible that is irritating tends to be blown out of all proportion. Anyway, when he gets back from theatre he’s going into intensive care for a few days, that should keep him quiet, and give us a much needed break.

At ten thirty, two physiotherapists arrive. Bulawayo is going to be tested on his ability to walk. He has been on his back, in bed, for six days now, five of them spent attached to a urine bag, lucky boy, thankfully it is gone and his bladder is functioning properly. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for his bowels, or mine for that matter, we are both suffering together. He takes his first tentative steps; everything is okay so he is taken off in a wheelchair to try climbing stairs, apparently the ultimate test. After five minutes or so they return, he has passed the test and is officially “out of bed.” A broad smile covers his face.

To my utter surprise they come over to me. “Your turn next,” says the pretty girl with the Scots accent, “just lean on us and we’ll see how you get on.” I grit my teeth and determinedly walk toward the door. After a few steps I am able to walk unaided and I am also taken for a go at the stairs, it’s a bit of a struggle but I make it up and down the short flight, I have passed too. Look out Sin Bin here I come.

I am in Heaven, I’m outside in the fresh air with a cup of chocolate and my first cigarette for days, discussing my operation with other former operates, our scars are compared and waiting times debated, Oh I’ve missed this place.

On my way back to the ward I encounter Raj, he knows where I’ve been by the guilty look on my face. “We can get you some nicotine patches if you want?” he says, I decline, and mumble something about having to be strong-willed enough to quit without them, I think he knows he’s on a loser with me.

Back in Stalag fourteen I discover that Victor’s operation has been cancelled, he is in a hell of a state. He of course has had a pre-med so is stoned out of his brain, he is packing his clothes, then unpacking them, he doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing. A nurse appears and suggests that he go back to bed, which he does, then as soon as she disappears, he gets up and starts doing the same thing. Because he’s in such a mess, and a danger to himself I ring for the nurse. She gives him something to calm him down and he is asleep for the rest of the day.

Bulawayo and I have lunch together, standing up, it’s a real treat for both of us, we do though, have the mutual bowel problem, which we discuss at length. The only real answer is industrial strength bowel flush, which the mighty Mandy must be able to lay her hands on; she knows where all the “good stuff” is. We formulate a plan. When she comes in tonight with the dope trolley, we will launch a two-pronged attack, catch her at the door before she has a chance to deal with the others, with one of us either side of her weeping and pleading, she’s bound to take pity on us and do the necessary. She can’t refuse…Can she???

UNDER THE KNIFE 18.

Thur 17th Jan 10.30 pm.

At the appointed hour Mandy arrives to peddle her wares. The Molly Malone of Morriston. She is not the smallest of girls, more what you would call “comfortably cuddlesome.” We put our plan into action. She is a pushover and says, “righto boys, I’m going to give you my own concoction, if that doesn’t shift it you’ll have to have an enema, both of you.”

An enema!!! An enema!!! Oh no, Julian is back on shift tomorrow, you can imagine what he’s going to do with a bowl of warm water and a length of rubber tube to two helpless victims behind closed curtains… It doesn’t bear thinking about. Mandy assures us that the potion has never failed before and I feel a little easier, I trust her implicitly. I had good cause to. About ten minutes after taking it there is an almighty gurgling from my abdomen, talk about the God of thunder, I have to beat a hasty path to the toilet where, for the next five minutes I come as close as a man can, to giving birth. I will not try to describe the awful beast that left my body, but I will say that I was definitely four pounds lighter afterwards.

On leaving the toilet I encounter a beaming Bulawayo with two thumbs up, he has been successful too, we both go off to tell Mandy the good news.

I have the best nights sleep since arriving here and wake refreshed and ready for anything. Except Julian that is. As usual I have my continental breakfast, cup of chocolate and a cigarette, al fresco at the sin bin, the topics of conversation are wonderful at six thirty in the morning.

When I get back to the ward I find a very unhappy Victor with his head in his hands. “What the bloody hell are they trying to do to me,” he wails, “I’ve already been here a bloody week, and I’ll be here another bloody week the way that they’re going on, I’m going bloody home.” I decide a word of friendly advice is in order. “Look here Malcolm,” I say, “you know well that if you leave that bed, God knows when it’ll be available again, you might not get back in for months, use your head and stay where you are.” He looks at me like I have just picked his pocket. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going bloody home and that’s that, they can stuff their bloody operation.” I go for a wash and leave him to it.

After breakfast I pay young Terry a visit in intensive care, he is in great shape. Oh to be young and fit, his recovery has been almost miraculous, the crescent shaped scar covering half his head is healing well and he doesn’t seem to be having Richard’s problem with his face sagging. All in all things are going splendidly for him. He tells me that his kids are coming to see him at the weekend; he is so excited poor lad and I remember the state he was in just a few days ago. Faith in oneself is a wonderful thing.

Elvis is getting discharged later on today; he must have the constitution of a bull elephant, mind you, he had less work done on him than Bulawayo so a shorter recovery time was always on the cards. His departure means of course that there will be a new face on the ward and I can only hope that whoever it is will be as nice a bloke as him. I’m going to miss old Elvis.

UNDER THE KNIFE 19.

Fri 18th Jan 7.00pm.

Elvis has left the building. It was sad to see him go, he has been a tower of strength; a constant source of mirth and the lack of his presence will affect us all.

His replacement is a gentleman by the name of David John Williams, a Welshman through and through. David John hails from the coastal town of Pembrey in West Wales, a very beautiful part of our country, it is a National Park and he works in the conservation and upkeep of it, making sure that it remains an area of natural beauty. Nice job. He is obviously an outdoor man, ruddy faced and well weathered, with a broad smile, horny hands and the lilting West Wales accent that sounds exactly like Cornish.

David John has been called in at short notice, his problem is so severe that they need to operate as soon as possible. It’s not a happy tale. He too has a tumor and the evil little beast has contrived to punch a hole in his sinus cavity, with disturbing results. The brain you see, actually floats in what is called brain fluid, and the body produces a certain amount if this fluid every day to maintain the level in the skull so that the brain floats happily. If for some reason the level drops, the brain starts to sit on top of the spinal column causing extremely painful headaches and vertigo. What happens with David John is that whenever he tilts his head forward, to read a newspaper for instance, the fluid literally runs out of his nose draining his skull cavity and making his life a total misery.

The surgeon really has a job on his hands with this one, firstly he’s got to remove the tumor, and then somehow he has to plug the hole in the sinus cavity, definitely not for the faint-hearted I would say. But David John is a very matter-of-fact sort of a chap, and has taken the whole thing in his stride, whatever will be, will be is his attitude, and he is to be highly commended for it, personally I would have jumped off the nearest cliff.

The more time I spend in here the guiltier I feel, people with far greater physical problems surround me and I am touched by the way that they just accept their fate. I do not include Victor of course, as far as he’s concerned, the four horsemen of the apocalypse are winging their way to collect him, he’s English you see.

On the way back from my post-supper cigarette Victor’s wife had cornered me in the corridor, she was terribly worried about his insistence on going home. She told me that she was totally unable to cope with him in his present mental state, I can’t see for the life of me how she copes with him when he’s normal. Anyway I recommended that she speak to the Sister, who would in turn make Victor an offer he couldn’t refuse, no stay, no operation, simple as that! Later, when Mrs. Victor comes back on the ward, she gives me a broad smile and a wink, I guess the plan must have worked and I am most pleased for her.

I do have a small problem of my own though. The base of the wound in my back has become infected, it keeps weeping through my pyjamas and messing up the pillow, so much so that I have to have a towel underneath me to try and soak it up. Raj prescribes antibiotics and asks the nurses to keep an eye on it, it’s a little unsettling as I’m told that they will not let me out until the infection has cleared. Just my bloody luck!

UNDER THE KNIFE 20.

Sat 19th Jan 7.30am.

What a dreadful night. The powers that be have decided to cut down on the Morphine, I am allowed a couple of painkillers instead but they are nowhere near as good. Consequently, I have started to experience pain, mostly in the neck, which I suppose can be expected under the circumstances, but it still hurts.

The main reason for the sleepless night though, was not the pain, but the bloody racket! Fred and David John are getting on like a house on fire; they both have a great deal in common. Woodworking is the top of the list. David John has a large collection of antique tools and machinery, all wood related, so they were talking late into the night about their mutual interest. The other big thing they have in common is the unbelievable decibel level of their snoring, it sounds like a couple of Harley Davidson’s with their exhaust pipes removed, the noise is incredible.

On top of that, Richard has started reciting what sounds like the Koran in his sleep, it was so bad that I got up three times and went for a cup of something with the nurses, but every time I came back, it was still the same, even the furniture was trying to get out of the room.

The two main culprits wake up, and I immediately take them to task, “look here my lovely boys, I’ve been awake all night with your snoring, can’t you wear an oxygen mask or something?” Fred quickly goes on the defensive, “my wife never complains,” he says. “That’s because she probably sleeps in another room,” I reply, “if I were married to you I’d sleep in another bloody street.” We all have a bit of a laugh and get on with our ablutions.

Richard has at last started to make progress, although his face looks a mess, he is beginning to become more coherent and can make his way to the toilet unaided.

Victor is on another planet. Ever since the decision that he stay in was made, he has retreated into his own little world, mostly just sitting by his bed reading or laying down asleep. He only surfaces at meal times and when his visitors arrive, (he is allowed to go out for a cigarette as long as he is accompanied by one of them), then he hurriedly wraps himself up and hustles his poor wife down the corridor to the main entrance where he puffs smoke into the faces of people coming in. Thoughtless? Our Victor? Never! He is also being fairly civil to the staff, and I can’t help thinking that they’re slipping him a little something to keep him that way, large doses of Valium perhaps. Unfortunately, whatever he is on hasn’t improved his untidiness, his bed is always a mess and his bedside cabinet like the inside of a litter bin, it’s no wonder he can’t find anything.

Bulawayo is explaining to me in detail how a steam engine works, it’s fascinating stuff. I didn’t know that you have to build up a tremendous head of steam a couple of miles before an uphill gradient, and almost let the fire out on a downhill, it is most enlightening. The thought of spending three days traveling a thousand miles through southern Africa, sleeping and eating in a railway carriage, nothing on the horizon but wilderness and wild game, driving a steam train, brings out the Boy Scout in me, and I want to be there…Now!
Well, maybe when I’m a bit better.

Episodes 21 - 24