A spell in hospital has consumed me. No writing done for weeks.
After a night rolling around in agony, with accompanying vomiting, I had a phone appointment with the paramedic who is attached to my GP’s surgery. ‘Go to A&E now!’ he ordered. Bit dramatic, I thought but his diagnosis was spot on and I ended up being admitted.
I was in A&E when the announcement that the Queen had died came on the TV. An odd experience which bonded my fellow patient patients. A&E was a slick operation and I felt in very safe hands. The wait was considerable though. Triaged at 4, on the ward at midnight. And, after all that, I was expected to make my own bed and get changed into NHS issue pyjamas. Not too awful a request I suppose but tricky after a long day feeling weak and poorly and with an IV drip attached.
However, I was very lucky there was a bed available. I’ve always been a staunch supporter of the NHS and consider myself very lucky to live in a country where it took me in, tested and diagnosed me, treated me and sent me on my merry way with aftercare in place (although more of that later).
An infected gallbladder required IV antibiotics, fluids and (almost) nil by mouth. A carefully constructed meal of a tiny tumbler of Bovril, the same of apple juice, a jelly and a truly revolting protein drink was handed to me. It was fine at first but soon became repetitive. What seemed especially cruel, though, was the insistence I order meals from the daily menu ‘just in case.’ Apparently the proper food was great!
An ultrasound scan followed (was relieved it wasn’t twins) and a rather alarming MRI during which I tried meditation techniques as I’m extremely claustrophobic. Hopeless, as the machine is far too noisy and you get breathing instructions booming down the earphones. Instead, weirdly, I obsessed about chicken curry. Just couldn’t stop thinking about it. Think I’d had about four of the ‘meals’ described above by that point though.
I was promised by the doctor who discharged me that I would receive an outpatient appointment within 2 weeks. Nothing arrived, either through snail mail or on the fancy new online health portal where I can access information. When I rang the relevant department I spoke to someone who couldn’t care less. There was no record of my ever being in hospital, of my treatment and certainly not of any outpatient appointment. I need the appointment to review ongoing treatment and to be put on a waiting list for an operation. This person blamed the new computer system and said, ‘It’s very irritating.’ Not as irritating as it is for the patient! She promised to look into it but, of course, I’ve heard nothing.
Again, it’s down to me to chase this up. I can be persistent when needed. I’ve learned to be that annoying ‘squeaky wheel.’ Over the past couple of months I’ve had to be. We hear many reports of the NHS being criminally understaffed and stretched beyond breaking point. The care I received was patchy. Mistakes were made and communication was dire but mostly I saw good people trying to do their best in extremely trying circumstances. Although at least they had a choice about being there. I didn’t! As I began to feel better, I could be my own advocate. Those who are too ill can’t do that. And they shouldn’t have to; they should receive the best possible care when at their most vulnerable.
Since I’ve been home I’ve slept a lot. And got angry. Angry that the health care system we pay for is in the state it is. I’ve also learned to embrace the low fat lifestyle …
The one lovely thing which came out of all this was receiving some gorgeous bunches of flowers. A huge thank you – you know who you are!
Hope you’re all well and healthy.
Love,
Georgia x