I
am writing this post from a hospital bed. Hooked up to a sodium lactate drip, I
have plastic tubes pumping oxygen up my nose and a fetching pair of surgical
socks gently squeezing excess venous blood from my feet and calves. As a
general rule, I avoid doctors. Apart from gashes requiring stitches, annual flu
jabs and a freak shoulder dislocation, good health has enabled me to give
hospital medics a wide berth. Well, we caught up with each other a few days
ago.
I
have never experienced pain like it. After being whistled out of the house on a
stretcher, the first few hundred metres of the ambulance journey reinforced my
existing view on the state of the local roads. It felt as if we were on
hexagonal wheels, tramming along the world’s longest rumble strip (Figure 50.1).
Figure
50.1: Aboard the emergency boneshaker
Copyright
© 2002 Tony Scott
Opening
my eyes in the emergency room, I saw a twenty-years-younger version of myself
looking inquisitively down at his latest casualty. It was not a clear-cut
diagnosis, he said, after giving me a good poking, and so would require immediate
confinement and a wide range of both clinical and laboratory investigations. That
was fine by me. Google ‘upper central abdominal pain’ and all sorts of ghastly
conditions will be suggested, which is why online self-diagnosis is rarely a
smart move. Pancreatic cancer has perhaps the worst prognosis. Thankfully, it
was not that. The senior admissions doctor could not decide between a hiatus
hernia, gall stones or depressed liver function. It turned out to be a
combination of all three, each a consequence of the others.
After
being deposited in the surgical assessment ward (Figure 50.2), it became
instantly clear to me why so much written comedy and general black humour are
predicated on emergency medical scenarios. The first patient I saw, an old man
sitting upright in bed, was sporting a huge gauze packing just beneath his
black-and-purple nose. When I asked what had happened, he explained that the
matron had ordered him to get back into bed and he had replied with the
equivalent of, ‘Make me.’ His humour was in better shape than his hooter. The alcoholic next to him was sporting two unbelievable,
Beano-style black eyes, which gave
him the appearance of a malnourished panda in photographic negative. The real
tragedy of his ‘dancing-with-the-pavement’ escapade was having been stone-cold sober at the time.
My first encounter with him was after he had walked assuredly along the
corridor from the bathroom, oblivious to the fact that his dick was hanging
out.
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Figure
50.2: Still smiling
Copyright
© 2012 Paul Spradbery
The
prospect of having an endoscopic camera, complete with ultrasound probe, fed
down my throat sounded far worse than it actually was (Figure 50.3). Lying on
my side, throat semi-anaesthetized, I waited for the IV sedative to kick in. I
was still waiting when the procedure was over. No matter, it was a comfortable
few minutes, and I enjoyed viewing out of the corners of my eyes the live
images on the monitor – The Sky At Night meets
Space Invaders, for the benefit of
anyone who can remember either.
Figure
50.3: Endoscopic ultrasound scan (EUS) – upper, not lower!
Copyright
© 2012 steadyhealth.com
Earlier
today, Ol’ Black Eyes disappeared for his own endoscopic experience. Unlike me,
however, he was wheeled into the room feet first. No oral insertion for him. He
re-emerged an hour later, flat on his back on the trolley, either still spaced
out or just mentally traumatized by The Invasion
of the One-eyed Python, and disappeared into his bay with the curtain drawn hastily around him. A few moments later, the nurse pulled the plug. I hope she
was standing well back. The resulting musical ‘note’ sounded like an air-raid
siren on the short-wave radio, its intonation going wildly up and down for an
impressive ten seconds, and seemingly amplified through a PA for the whole ward
to hear. Now, as any physical scientist would testify, sound waves travel
faster than diffusing gas molecules. Unfortunately, that particular truth did
not occur to me until there was insufficient time to leave the room. After the
air-attack warning came the inevitable smell which was even more stupendous in
its intensity. Then, as if right on cue, my lunch arrived.
As
I close for the night, another alcoholic has just been wheeled in, singing ’O sole mio.
I am scheduled to be ‘released on bail’ tomorrow. Stand by for keyhole surgery in Pt
II. Until then, life will go on as before (Figure 50.4) – it is to be hoped, minus the pain. In the words of the inimitable Joe Walsh: if I had known I would live this long, I might have taken better care of myself. Just as well I am not a boozer.
Figure
50.4: The benefits of having a personal nurse
Copyright
© 2012 Paul Spradbery
Copyright
© 2012 Paul Spradbery
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