I mentioned in last month’s newsletter (SIGN UP FOR A FREE BOOK – http://eepurl.com/cz-Mpv ) that I had been in hospital and was overwhelmed with the number of emails I had from kind readers asking me all about it, so I thought I’d write up a blog post to explain the circumstances.
I am well into the wrinkly era now, a time when things can start to go horribly wrong. I have however taken great care of myself. I go walking, from the front door to the car, and from the car to the mall. I repeat the process to return home. I firmly believe that if I don’t over extend my body then it will last longer. That makes sense, doesn’t it? There’s plenty proof. Why are there so many sports specialist doctors who were unheard of before people were into extreme sports and exercise? You could also blame the gyms and personal trainers repairing the damage of those who went too far in a desperate effort to keep fit.
Sadly, despite my care I cannot fight gravity, and it’s pulling all kinds of bits of me out of shape, including my water disposal unit. They advised I go and have that repaired, I understood it was a little like darning a sock?
Well, that’s what I thought, but let me start at the beginning – the initial blood test to ensure it was still circulating and disease free. DH (Dear Husband) was due for one at the same time. In our town, you go to the local clinic at 8am and they collect the said red stuff in batches. Two tables, two queues. Now I won’t go into details in case I faint, being hyper squeamish, but it all started with the kind nurse battling to find any source from which to extract anything from my little blue channels which had gone to ground. At table two other people came, donated and went while my poor nurse was struggling to find a willing vein. I emerged sometime later, full of holes covered in bits of cotton wool and plasters.
The pre op appointment was less traumatic, until I read the Google translate of the papers I had signed. They were going to take all THAT out! In a panic I raced down to my local doctor, no appointment, but with a performance worthy of any Emmy award she gave the gibbering patient five minutes of her time. No, that’s not what it says, but, if they find … it’s just in case … I wasn’t totally reassured.
D Day arrives, check into day clinic at hospital, get called in, peel clothes off in changing room, and I must say they have some very chic gowns these days, that wrap around you properly, not the gaping kind that exposes your backside to the world.
Next port of call was the premed room, and I lay on the bed shivering like an aspen leaf. I considered making a bolt for it, but having got this far decided to see it through. A charming young nurse approached announcing he was going to put in a catheter. What? Wouldn’t that be after the procedure? Didn’t he know I was still intacta so to speak? Ah this must be the Spanish word for drip. We had another battle lasting several minutes as he huffed and puffed.
He departed and I got chatting with the nice Spanish girl in the next bed. We commiserated about missing the weekend fiestas. After a while she stopped talking to me. Had I said something offensive in my pathetic Spanish? In the bed further over the patient was snoring. It was then I noticed the bed under my left hand was soaking wet. The bed was being anaesthetized while I was wide awake, that couldn’t be right surely? I managed to wave to a nurse and she had another attempt to connect me to the little bag on the stand looming over me.
I remember them sitting me up and I think stabbing me in the back with a needle and then nothing.
I came too when two nurses approached me, hoisted me up by the armpits and asked if I could stand. No, I crumpled to the floor. No wonder there was no pain, that must have been an epidural, I’d heard about those. They tried twice more at half hour intervals and finally third time lucky and they carted me off to the recovery room.
‘Go pee,’ they said and then you can go home. What? I’d expected at least a night languishing in a hospital bed. I’d loaded up my iPad with Netflix movies and stuffed my Kindle full of easy read novels.
I’ll gloss over the next bit, but simply tell you I waddled to the changing room, clutching DH with instructions to take plenty of Paracetamol and a follow-up appointment in a month. Oh, and there was a long list of DON’T DO. Thank heavens for Google again, but that bit about going home and doing a little light dusting must surely be a mistake?
Two weeks on and I’m still not dusting. Shamelessly I am now milking this for all its worth. DH has been the perfect Florence Nightingale and I’m in no hurry to get back to housework just yet. I may never get a free ride like this again in the future. Well, I also got an infection – not from the hospital – which added antibiotics to the painkillers.
I’m taking a translator with me to the follow up next week. I want to know what they actually did, and how much of the real me they have left behind. At my age I can’t afford to lose important parts I’ve lived with for decades. I still need them to walk from the front door to the car and into the mall.
lucinda E Clarke 