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 21 - 24

UNDER THE KNIFE 21.

Sun 20th Jan 7am.

Sunday Bloody Sunday. I am outside making the most of the calm before the storm. In a few hours time the building will be inundated with the well meaning but obtrusive relatives and friends of us patients. At the weekend it’s like being in a goldfish bowl, hospital rules dictate that there should only be two visitors at the bedside at any one time, this rule is generally ignored by all and sundry, so consequently there is a constant queue of people filing past my bed waiting their turn to visit, every one of them says the same damn thing, “how are you then, are you better today?” The answer is always the same, “yes thank you very much,” what do they expect you to say for God’s sake, no I slept terribly and I feel bloody awful? I am a gregarious sort of a chap, (most of the time), but getting disturbed every couple of minutes when you are minding your own business and trying to read is most irritating.

It must have been a bad night across the wards, at least six body caskets have passed on the way to the mortuary, the Pathologist will have his hands full tomorrow.

There is some good news though, Bulawayo has been told that he’ll probably be able to go home tomorrow, great for him, disastrous for me, who am I going to talk to? Fred and David John spend so much time together deep in conversation, that I wouldn’t be surprised if they were planning a bank robbery, Richard is very difficult to understand because of his facial sag, and I absolutely refuse to spend any more time conversing with Victor, I always end up wanting to strangle him. Still, hopefully I won’t be far behind Bulawayo in the leaving stakes, just as long as the infection doesn’t get any worse.

Mid morning I am paid a visit by Young Terry, my goodness me he looks well, and I tell him so. With youth on his side his recovery has been meteoric, and he’s been moved out of intensive care into another part of the ward, it’s such a pity that there isn’t any room in with us, but you don’t get to pick and choose your room mates in here. It’s not a Hotel…Far from it!

It’s quite a big day for me tomorrow too; I am having my staples removed. Now I don’t know if you know but in this particular hospital they have dispensed with the practice of stitching wounds, and in most cases simply get a theatre nurse, arm her with a (hopefully) sterile staple gun, and Bob’s your uncle, thirty seconds later the wound is closed. This of course saves countless hours of theatre time which means more operations are carried out, a marvelous invention, when Elvis got out they even gave him a set of special pliers so that his wife could remove the staples at home, the wonders of modern science never cease to amaze me.

After lunch I try to work out a master plan for avoiding the flower clutching army. Draw the curtains round my bed perhaps? Sit with my back to the ward and watch television? Spend the whole afternoon at the sin bin? I settle for a little bit of each and I’m duly rewarded with a peaceful afternoon, trust me to find the right plan too late.

In the all too brief respite for supper Victor kicks off, his food order has not been filled and he has to make a selection from the spare meals that they always have. “Am I bloody invisible then?” he roars, “Is this a bloody self catering hospital? If I’d have known it was going to be like this I’d have brought my own bloody microwave in.”
I don’t know, the torment that they put poor Victor through.

UNDER THE KNIFE 22.

Mon 21st Jan 6.30am.

It is a lovely cold crisp January morning. You just can’t beat this time of day; it’s about as peaceful as things get around here. I have had a fairly good night, only up twice to go to the toilet but that’s because of all the water I’m drinking, I must be getting through at least a gallon a day, which is not a bad thing, my kidneys have been due a good flushing out for years.

At nine thirty the small herd comprising of the Registrar, Raj, and associated medical hangers-on move from bed to bed on the daily inspection. Each patient’s progress is checked and any recommendations for medication or treatment changes are passed down the line to the one with the least qualifications, the one I call “The Waiter.” The reason I call him that is because he looks far too young to have a stethoscope dangling around his neck, and also does not seem to have much medical knowledge. I fancy that he works in the Indian Restaurant down the road and sneaks onto the ward every day pretending to be a Student Doctor. Last week he was given the task of taking a blood sample from Bulawayo, simple enough even for a medical student you would think, but not him. He had five goes at getting the syringe into various veins without success, and eventually had to get a nurse to do it leaving Bulawayo’s arm looking like it belonged to a dedicated Junkie. He’s a very nice chap though.

The herd congregate around my bed, “And how are we today John?” the Registrar enquires, “let’s have a look at that wound of yours shall we?” They all shuffle round behind me to have a look. “How does it feel,” he asks, “I’ve got some very interesting twinges,” I reply, “how does it look?” He chuckles and says, “It’s coming along nicely, if the Consultant agrees you can probably go home tomorrow.” There is much nodding of heads and they move off to the next victim, Bulawayo.

He gets the thumbs up for his departure and starts packing, a little prematurely as it turned out. When you leave the hospital you see, you are given whatever medication is deemed necessary to take home with you, this prescription is made up in the hospital pharmacy. For some reason this can take from two to five hours, leaving the patient just sitting there tying up the much needed bed. Space for a little improvement I think.

At about eleven thirty a nurse heads in my direction. “Are you the one having his staples removed?” I nod; she is someone I haven’t seen before and looks a bit of a bruiser. “Come on then boyo, let’s be having you,” she says and I get an awful sense of foreboding as to the pain she might inflict upon me. It all started well, at the top of the neck it had healed quite nicely and there was no pain at all, but the closer she got to the infected part, the more painful it became.

By now Fred, David John and Bulawayo had gathered at my bed to watch the spectacle, and she, with an audience, decided to make a meal of it. She was happily chatting away ignoring the wincing that was going on, while I gritted my teeth and dug my fingers into my knees with the pain. Sod’s law, she had trouble with the last staple, the one right across the part of the wound that was weeping. She had to have three goes at it and by the time she’d finished I was a bath of sweat, it was like having a tooth removed without anaesthetic…Hell. “There, that wasn’t so bad was it?” she said. I tend to disagree!

UNDER THE KNIFE 23.

Mon 21st Jan 2.30pm.

Bulawayo has just left the ward, it was with a heavy heart that I watched his family usher him away, we have become very good friends in the two weeks of our acquaintance. The poor man had to wait four hours for his prescription to arrive and it turned out to be a pack of pain killers that you can buy over the counter at any pharmacy, all that hanging about for nothing. It just doesn’t make sense! I gave him a hug and shook his hand, I also promised to look him up in his local club and have a pint or two. I haven’t yet but I will.

At three o clock the new patient arrives. His name is Nigel and he is from Llanelli. Nigel has spent the last two weeks at another hospital waiting for an operation on his back and because Bulawayo’s bed became available at short notice they decided to transfer Nigel to Morriston and squeeze him on the list here. After waiting around for two weeks he’s over the moon that something is finally happening. Nigel is a Rugby fanatic, most men from Llanelli are, in fact most Welshmen are, it’s a tribal thing. During the season, the watching of the “Scarlets”, as the Llanelli team are known, and the drinking of vast quantities of Felinfoel Double Dragon ale is mandatory in the town. I cannot fault it; Nigel and I will get on well.

At suppertime Nigel is treated to one of Victor’s usual tantrums and I watch his reaction with interest. His jaw starts to drop and he is transfixed by Victor’s antics. When this evening’s performance comes to an end he looks across at me and mouths a questioning obscenity, I shrug my shoulders and nod. He can’t believe it.

David John is a little down, the barrage of tests that have to be done before they can operate are taking longer than expected, so he doesn’t have a firm day or time to go upstairs. He’s an outdoors man and I think that the confinement is getting to him.

Richard is coming along splendidly. He is walking quite well on his own now, and his speech is definitely better, though the right side of his face is still sagging, it’s going to take a long time for him to get back to normal.

Fred is Fred. He is one of those people who would bounce back if he were run over by a train, indestructible, and a nice man with it. I wish there were more of him around.

I refuse to discuss Victor any more, Right!! Well… It depends what happens.

Carol came in earlier this afternoon, after school, as usual. After a couple of visits when I first came in, she had been telling me what a nightmare the parking situation was, so I suggested that she use my disabled pass and park in one of the many empty designated spaces. She has now told me that she feels so embarrassed, that she limps out of the car and into the building, just in case anybody’s watching. I know the feeling, guilt, just like me at the sin bin.

The evening passes quietly, I can only think about going home tomorrow. A cold beer, one of Carol’s great meals, my own bed, another cold beer. What more could a man want. It all depends on the morning inspection by the consultant, I feel well enough to go home and truth be known I am beginning to get a little bored with my surroundings, the routine is too predictable, it is as close as you can get to being in jail, without a doubt. Let’s be fair though, if you need an operation you have to have it done in a hospital, they do not come to the house like a massage service. But there’s something to think about. No…Not the massage service.

UNDER THE KNIFE 24.

Tue 22nd Jan 6.30am.

I am ruminating upon the advent of middle age and the bodily effects that accompany it. In my particular case I have developed a pair of breasts that a fourteen-year-old girl would be proud of, my urine has a faint whiff of Gorgonzola, there are odd little growths appearing in various places, and sideways on I look six months pregnant.

As soon as I hit fifty it seemed like an invisible hand reached out and flipped off my good health switch, a strange feeling of everything starting to go awry in all departments. Trouble with my teeth, trouble with my back, trouble with my legs, thank God my hair fell out twenty-five years ago, at least I don’t have to worry about that. A casket passes heading towards the Pathology department and I go back to the ward feeling distinctly better.

Breakfast is quite a cheery affair, it looks like there might be a war in Iraq and the stock market has hit an all time low but who cares, in an hour or so I’ll know whether I’m going home today or not. I feel pretty confident that it will be today.

The medical herd arrives at ten. The consultant’s only concern is the dreaded infection and there is a prolonged discussion on whether it is safe to let me out onto the streets, I mean there is a possibility that I might have to cope with taking one tablet four times a day on my own, perish the thought! Finally they all agree that I am able to self medicate and I am given the all clear to leave. Raj has the task of writing the prescription and organizing it’s delivery from the pharmacy, “It should be here by one,” he says, “then you are free to go.” Thankfully there is no mention of nicotine patches; he’s given up that crusade, he knows he’s flogging a dead horse.

I ring the school to let Carol know, thinking that they might release her early in order to pick me up. “Sorry John,” she says, “there’s no way I can get away before half past three, I’ll see you about four okay?” Curses, looks like I’m here for the day, I was hoping to be in the pub by two.

It’s funny that once the seeds of escape are planted you can’t wait to get away, but my luck is running true to form and I have to resign myself to spending the next five and a half hours packing my meager belongings.

Turtle-shaped is the sister on duty and I explain to her that I can’t be picked up until four-o-clock. “That’s no problem,” she says, “but do me a favour love, don’t disturb the bed, it’s just been changed ready for the new patient, you don’t mind do you?”

One-o-clock arrives, no medication. Two-o-clock arrives, no medication. Four-o-clock arrives, still no medication but I do get Carol, I am now decidedly twitchy, I would like to leave please. There is no-one listening to my plea.
Finally at five fifteen Turtle-shaped comes scuttling in clutching my tablets. I examine the box to check on the dosage and find that Raj, (in all his wisdom), has prescribed Penicillin, now in my particular case Cobra venom would be less toxic for I am allergic to Penicillin in a very big way. I impart the information to Turtle-shaped. She is not amused and rushes off to “have a word,” with Raj. A few minutes later a very red-faced Raj turns up with another prescription, which I have to get filled at an outside pharmacy, I have spent the day waiting for nothing. Raj’s revenge!

By six thirty I am at home in a comfortable chair with a cold beer in my hand, at last it is all over. I take a sip of the beer… It tastes absolutely foul. Carol says, “anything else I can do for you love?”

“A urine bottle would be nice,” I reply.

Epilogue