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 6 - 10
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 6 - 10
UNDER THE KNIFE 6.
Thu 9th Jan 12am.
The registrar appears promptly at midday, “sorry John,” he says, “they have run into a problem with Richard, your “op” won’t be on until next week, possibly Tuesday, if you like you can go home for the weekend and come back on Monday evening, your bed will still be here, barring emergencies of course.” He must be joking, I have waited all this time for a bed and he expects me to vacate it and return on the off chance that there hasn’t been a nuclear explosion in Swansea over the weekend. Look here, I’ve seen the centre of Swansea at that time and I know. The gunfight at the O.K. corral’s got nothing on it, the main street at 3am on a Sunday morning resembles a group of drunken Lemmings intent on gratuitous violence or, if they can’t get that, Sex. Sex with anybody or anything, you will find no wandering dogs around on a Saturday night, they know better. Consequently there is a constant stream of badly injured drunks admitted to hospital with various ailments caused by their own stupidity. There is no way that any one of them is going to get my bed. RIGHT!
I tell him that I will have a think about it and I guess he detects my resolve, “perhaps you would like to go out with Raj for a Curry, he knows the best places”, hmm sounds like hours of fun! Spend a nice evening with an anti-smoking, anti-drinking twenty year old apprentice doctor. No thank you very much, all the same. I decide to stick it out no matter what the cost, even if it means chaining myself to the bed, it would make a great story for the local paper, I can see it now. “LOCAL ROCK MUSICIAN IN HOSPITAL BED FURORE”. “DRUMMER CHAINS HIMSELF TO BED IN LIE IN”. Fabulous stuff, there would be little chance of them turfing me out with that kind of adverse publicity. Should I phone Carol and get her to purchase a pair of handcuffs? Maybe give a feature writer I know a ring?
I take the slowly catchee monkey route and ask to see the ward sister. I shall throw myself at her feet and plead for mercy, act like a gibbering idiot to underline the mental trauma I am going through, demand sanctuary because the Taliban are gunning for me and if all that fails then Carol will have to go to the sex shop and buy the handcuffs.
Sister arrives and I launch into my act. She listens intently to the whole story. “Look John, if you would be happier staying in there’s no problem.” Oh joy, the black cloud has drifted away and everything is rosy once more, this is in the top ten of happy moments in my life, I’m staying in, cancel the sex shop trip I’m bloody staying in!
Lunch is served; great I’m starving. Victor pokes at his food noisily and we all know what’s coming. Elvis chuckles, I smell a wind up about to happen, a spot of cabaret while he dines. “Something wrong Mal?” says Elvis. I feign concern. “It’s not wrong again is it?” “Well of course it is”, he’s taken the bait, “what the bloody hell is wrong with them, can’t they bloody read?” I am fired now, no turning back. “Do you think you might have filled in the menu card wrongly?” I enquire. “I might have a steel plate in my head but I’m not bloody stupid!” There is no answer to that and in silence we get on with our food. Looks like it’s going to be a long, long weekend.
UNDER THE KNIFE 7.
Thu 9th Jan 5.30 pm.
Supper is a subdued affair. We have heard on the grapevine that there were “unforeseen problems” with Richard’s operation. The surgeon had scheduled for four hours but because of “complications” it had stretched to six and a half, he is in Intensive Care. I feel so, so guilty, the consultant surgeon referred to my operation as a “walk in the park”, so what about Richard? He appears to be a strong, healthy individual, well balanced, father of two beautiful daughters, lovely family, when all said and done an all round “good egg”. Why does it happen to him? Why don’t the complete bastards of this world become afflicted instead? They deserve it!
At seven p.m. beds are shuffled and a new kid appears on the block. Questions are asked and answers are given. He is a seventeen year old called Wayne who was set upon by a group of youths when drunk, they beat him senseless and left him for dead, he has been in Intensive Care for six days and is in a semi-coma. This is not a holiday camp!
I am slowly beginning to realize
what an insular cocoon I have spun for myself, I have convinced myself that
my physical problem is uppermost and should be dealt with immediately with no
regard to the other sufferers on this planet. This place is an education, my
meeting with reality. I need a large Scotch …and a cigarette.
Unfortunately, alcohol is not permitted on hospital premises so I have to make
do with a chat with “Bulawayo boy”. Terry does not disappoint me. A true raconteur,
he brings his train-driving experiences to life, you can smell the steam and
sweat in his stories, the shoveling of the coal and the haunting cry of the
whistle. I feel better now.
Tomorrow, the “Bulawayo boy” will have his vertebrae shuffled around. He fears
not but isn’t looking forward to spending a week on his back. He is a great
guy so I shall endeavor to help him as much as possible with his recovery.
At ten p.m. I make my last trip to the “Sin Bin” (smoking shelter). The camaraderie between all the “Nicoteenies” is something to behold, I would never have dreamt that so many staff, even some wearing theatre gowns, are fellow sinners.
Medication time is at ten thirty; I do not want to miss that. I shall cruise the portable drug cabinet like an antique hunter, if I tell a fib or two I could be well stoned by midnight. Mandy the large, but very pretty, Staff nurse is the distributor this evening and I turn on the charm. “Anything tidy in there Mandy my darling?” I enquire. “Only if you’re in pain Johnny boy” she replies. “Well my back is playing up a bit, and I’m having trouble sleeping, any chance of something?” “Okay.” she says, “two pain killers now and something to make you sleep at midnight”. Fan-bloody-tastic, “Dances with Wolves” is on the television at ten past twelve by then I will feel extremely “comfortable”. My plan works beautifully and by the time whasisname sets up his camp on the prairie I am well out of it. I think I saw the entire Movie but I’m not quite sure. I am settling in nicely.
UNDER THE KNIFE 8.
Fri 10th Jan 5.30 a.m.
Mandy has done the business; the
night’s sleep has been uninterrupted except for a few urination breaks. Everyone
else on the ward is asleep so I raid the drinks machine and take my hot chocolate,
in an idiot-proof beaker, out to the “Sin-Bin”. The night staff are about to
end their shift and could not care less what I get up to.
It is early January and the frost is keen, the wedding tackle shrinks to the
size of two grapes and a baby’s thumb, but who cares?... in here. It is so …bracing,
the quiet before the shift-change storm. After two cigarettes the shivers take
hold and I scurry back to the ward.
Bulawayo is stirring, “All right Terry,” I ask, “yes I’m okay,” he says, “I’d better go for my bath.” On the ward you are required to be spotlessly clean before your operation, it’s a great pity that the person in charge of the boilers doesn’t know this because the water is always cold at that time of day. In retrospect, though, it doesn’t matter; it’s the trip on the trolley that counts.
Breakfast arrives at 8.30. I commiserate with Bulawayo while Victor gripes and Elvis chomps. The atmosphere is strange this morning, I am up, they are down, and so after breakfast I take a stroll. Hmm, maybe not such a good idea after all, hospitals tend to be full of sick people, some, very sick people. I find it a little unnerving and head back to the devil I know.
Curses, Bulawayo has already gone so it’s Elvis, Fred or Victor, before the newspapers come. Wayne is non compos mentis so, I decide to give Victor the benefit of the doubt and try to transform him into a normal human being. Big, big mistake!
During the night, according to Victor,
an unseen member of staff has contrived to remove various items of toiletries,
“some bugger has stolen me shaving brush”, he wails, “and I’m positive I had
more after-shave than that.” As I stand gagging at his bedside I am rescued
by the arrival of the newspaper trolley, “paper Malcolm?” I ask, “I’ll have
the Sun, if he’s got it, he didn’t have one yesterday, what kind of a bloody
newsagent is he?”
Stupidly, I stick it out and try to placate him, “well he can’t help it if he
sells out, and there are a lot of wards before us you know”. “Well he should
bloody-well order more then shouldn’t he?” I am casting seeds on barren ground
and I get my paper, which the man always has, bed is the best place for me,
for when you are laying on your bed reading, no-one seems to bother you.
Poor Wayne, his condition is such that he spurns food, medication, and all that the staff tries to do for him. They are getting a little frustrated, and it shows. I don’t suppose they can help it; spending twenty minutes trying to get him to swallow half a bowlful of soup is enough to unsettle a Saint.
Victor has been to another ward and managed to get a copy of his beloved “Sun”, second hand of course, so he is happy. Elvis is snoring gently; he always has a snooze after lunch. Fred is looking out of the window and humming to himself, doubtlessly planning even more exotic designs for his carved “love spoons”.
There is of course an afternoon “Drug Run”, but I decide to forego that temptation and save it for later. With a bit of luck the mighty Mandy will be on the shift tonight and all will be well.
UNDER THE KNIFE 9.
Fri 10th Jan 3.30 p.m.
Bulawayo has returned from theatre and Elvis is keen to know how he got on, he is having the same job done tomorrow. Well, almost. Except for feeling a little woozy he seems to have come through it all right so we give him some peace to come round.
Wayne still seems to be in a bit of a mess though, he is awake, but just does not respond to what the nurses say, or try to do for him. He has started to listen to his Walkman, some awful Heavy Metal racket, if that doesn’t bring him round, nothing will, but I suppose you have to be brain dead to listen to it! I have to get away, Wayne’s earphones have come off his head and the high frequencies of the Thrash Metal are making me feel physically sick. I think I’ll have a bit of a wash.
Now before I came in, a nursing acquaintance of mine gave me the gypsy’s warning about having a bath or shower in the hospital. She reckoned that unless you were the first in after they had been cleaned, you might encounter a plethora of particularly nasty bugs left by the previous occupant. It was her theory that this was the main cause of the rapid spread of infection on the wards. I have taken her advice, I only strip-wash using my own clean towel, tempting fate is not one of my hobbies.
Half way through there is a hammering on the door. Who else but Victor, “the other toilet is in use, I’m desperate, I know you’re only having a wash, open the door please.” I suspend my ablutions and vacate the bathroom. Victor pushes past me ashen faced, and I hear his first salvo a split second after the door slams, he wasn’t lying then? Poor Victor, but I can’t help feeling that it is divine retribution for his bad behavior. He comes out clutching his stomach, “the buggers have poisoned me,” he groans, “it must have been that fish at lunchtime, once I get a dodgy guts I’m back and fore to the toilet for bloody days.” Elvis and I exchange a knowing look, and we both nearly choke suppressing the laugh, I think I shall wait a while before going back in. I don’t get the chance. Victor is back and forth like a bird feeding it’s young; whatever has upset him has really taken hold. We all use the other toilet.
Supper arrives. I don’t know why it’s called supper, it’s only five thirty in the evening. Surprise, surprise, Victor is unhappy. “I’m afraid that I’m not going to be able to eat that,” he says to the server “that last lot you gave me has given me the trots, there’s an elastic band between me and that toilet, please take it away.” His broad Yorkshire accent gives the statement a particularly venomous quality.
I am helping Bulawayo, cutting up his food and getting him into a position where he can eat it. We both snigger silently. Elvis can’t control himself and snorts a mouthful of food back onto his plate. The catering assistant though, is made of stern stuff, and his comments fall on deaf ears, she has heard it all before, his tray disappears.
I return to my bed to eat. I have ordered the steak and kidney pie and it is absolutely delicious, especially when followed by rhubarb and custard. They have a saying up north. “There’s nowt so queer as folk.” You know I think they might be right!
UNDER THE KNIFE 10.
Sat 11th Jan 7 am.
Morning has broken. Lovely words but they don’t quite suit the situation. I am huddled in the “Sin-Bin” with a purloined chocolate and my first cigarette. There is sleet falling and the only thing moving is a lone Robin poking amongst the cigarette ends looking for morsels; it must be the brown and white colour of the butts that draws him.
The morning shift has come and the night shift has gone, it’s the weekend and the place is transformed. There are no outpatients or office staff around, making the place appear like a ghost town in comparison to a normal weekday.
During the night, Bulawayo had to have a catheter installed; his bladder has been affected by the operation so it has to be drained by this method, (invented by the Marquis De Sade by the look of it!)
When I return, shivering, to the ward I hear Elvis singing in the bath, he’s on the table today but is not the slightest bit perturbed, in fact quite the opposite.
As I hang up my dressing gown, two nurses remove Wayne, bed and all, and take him elsewhere. I am not protesting, he wasn’t exactly the life and soul of the party! I wonder who will replace him?
Victor hasn’t had a good night, and tells his tales of woe while nobody listens.
Breakfast arrives, and mine is the usual. Weetabix, two wholemeal rolls with butter and honey, juice, and a cup of chocolate. Wunderbar. In between mouthfuls I minister to Bulawayo’s needs, taking care not to knock the urine bag over, the nurses wouldn’t thank me if I did. I am becoming institutionalized; routine is the power with which we are kept happy. The clock is the control mechanism, for everything revolves around the time. We know to the second when food is coming, when the papers are due, and of course, “medication time”. Every time there is a movement at the door, we all look up to find out if it’s our monotony that is going to be relieved, so when there are a couple of chattering nurses, wheeling a bed, come in we are all transfixed.
They make up the bed, totally absorbed in conversation, and then leave without spilling the beans. Oh pooh! We’ll have to wait. We do not have to wait long.
A young couple come onto the ward accompanied by the Sister, they are very distressed and the curtains around the bed are drawn immediately. It is difficult to ignore the fact that they are very upset, we can hear both of them weeping uncontrollably. It transpires that the young man, another Terry, has been diagnosed as having a tumor on the brain, quite a large one, and the Consultant has warned them that the operation is a long and dangerous one. His chances of survival are fifty-fifty. Young Terry is a twenty eight year old fitness fanatic, married for six years and has two small children. His local hospital in Mid-Wales have rushed him down here for treatment, they don’t have the facilities, Morriston has. Terry and Nicky, his wife, are both convinced that he is going to die, leaving her a young widow, to take care of the fatherless children. It is not difficult to understand why they are so distraught.
When Nicky goes out for a break, the Sister asks me if I wouldn’t mind having a “chat” with Terry, “I can’t get through to them John love, can you try for me? It would be doing me a favour. Thank you love.” I really don’t know why she’s asked me, but I think that the least I can do is give it a go.