In the big bottom drawer by my bed at home are the
boxes. These are my stacked supply of
prednisolone in 5 mgs and 1 mgs tabs, dozens, enough to de-polymyalgia a whole
street. The boxes are dated and
aging. I haven’t touched them since my
dose rate dropped to zero. They are the
reserve, held against the pains returning.
I should take them back to the pharmacy but they are my psychological
prop.
In the drawer by my bed where I am now there is no
prednisolone. In fact there is not even
a drawer, just a mobile cabinet containing my clothes with a box of Kimberly-Clark Professional
Tissue sitting on its top. In style these
are hygienic regulation NHS. In reality they are little different from the
serviettes offered to me last week at Lobster & Burger in Hills
Street. No printed menu, three items
only served, same price for each, all of them containing lobster.
I’m in an otherwise empty side ward at the back of the
being rebuilt Short Stay Surgical Unit.
The corridor outside is sealed with plastic sheeting held in place with gaffer tape. This is the University Hospital of Wales,
built in 1971 and now showing signs of wear.
I’ve taken oral morphine, given to me in a self-dosing syringe. It’s put a great bank of soft glory between
me and the pain. The catheter with its
bloody bag recedes into the clouds. The
ceiling glows.
I’ve been under having samples taken from inside my
bladder and several tumours removed.
I’ve no idea how long I was in there.
One minute I’m talking to the anaesthetist who is administering dope
into the cannula inserted in my wrist and next I’m seeing two versions of everything
in post op. Now I’m languishing in that half world between
crisp reality and the safe haven of fog.
The night rolls. I
drift through it. At 3.00 am in the near distance an alarm
sounds and the winking equipment around me flickers off before coming back on. Fire alarm. I realise in the total dark that there’s not
much I can do about this, secured as I am to the bed by tubes and drips and
full with somnambulant drugs. I call but no one hears. I reach for my phone and try to check current
UHW status on the UHW web site. Nothing. There’s an emergency phone number. I ring that, at least I think I do. No one answers. I search for things like “what to do in hospital
when there’s a fire” and “large building evacuation procedures” and finally “how
to get down a corridor with a catheter inserted into your old man”. The results I pull up all suggest that help
will come. It doesn’t.
I’m worried, I suppose I am but the dope takes off the
edge. The alarm which has rung for at
least half an hour suddenly silences.
They’ve put the fire out. The
alarm system itself has been consumed in a conflagration. I’m in heaven on the other side. One of those.
Eventually a nurse carrying a torch turns up to check on me. “You alright love? ” I nod.
The following day, which is not long in arriving, the staff
nurse reviews my case. The catheter is
removed. “There’ll be a bit of sensation
as this comes out.” Jeez and a half. The
deal is that so long as there is someone with me and so long as I can lie down
and be looked after for a few days I can go.
That and the fact that I am able to pee again. Sounds so easy doesn’t it?
Down at the SSSU latrines, one working, two out of
commission, one with a sign up showing that it is currently being cleaned, I
get into the queue. There are two blokes
in front of me both aged beyond, using the walls for support and generally looking
terrible. Once it’s my turn I stare at
myself in the mirror. I look pretty much
the same.
Pee is beyond me.
I return to my bed dispirited and depressed. The nurse advises drinking more. “That’s the answer.” I’ve already done two
jugs of water and four polystyrene cups of hospital tea.
“Why don’t you go down to the concourse and have one of their giant
coffees? The walk will help.”
In the real world of the concourse, such as it is,
everyone seems so business-like and aware.
I’m still full of fog. I do a Grande
something, hot brown liquid sold for an exorbitant price and then walk myself slowly
back to the ward. I join the latrine
queue and manage a miserable eighth of a cup.
Nurse says no. Not enough. Drink more.
Keep trying. She hands me another
tea. I can feel it, this flood of
liquid, swilling around inside me. I’m
filling up like a tanker.
Eventually after a
few more failures there’s relief, of sorts, a trickle that the medical staff declare
to be just about sufficient. They need the bed, after all. I’m clogging the system slowing the
flow of patients. So long as I can just
about cope I should go.
It takes a good two days before proper flow returns and a
whole two weeks before the pain subsides.
It’ll happen again, I’m
told. These things, benign mostly, have
an 80% likelihood of regrowth. What causes them? Exposure to certain chemicals, being Caucasian,
getting older. Two out three then. Rock on.
SSSU: Short Stay Surgical Unit
SSSU: Short Stay Surgical Unit
