Hmmmm...I don't like the look of that, nurse. Cover it up for me will you?
It's about 4.30am Saturday morning. The A&E appears quietly busy. No fuss, no chaos, and apart from the occasional Y'FOOKIN'BASTAAAD coming out of a distant cubicle all has the whiff of professional calm and efficiency. I am immediately attended by a doctor, and we quickly review the last 24 hours. He has my notes and seems engaged, concerned and well informed. I have blood tests, vitals checked, a discussion with other doctors of my condition and a call to the surgical team is made. They start putting bag after bag of liquid intravenously into me to get my blood pressure up. I am introduced to my nurse Vicky who again is courteous and quietly efficient. She takes my vitals every 20 minutes or so.
"Any improvement?" I say
"Not really" comes the reply. No patronising jollity here I am relieved to see.
After about an hour, someone from surgery comes to see me and he gives his opinion that I have most likely got an insanely infected gallbladder bent on destroying all in its path, I need to be admitted and following a scan, immediate surgery will probably be required.
A SCAN!! Feet first, and you get a scan. YES!!!!!!!
It's now about 6.30am, and it looks like I'm going to be here some time. First an X-ray, then ward admission. I tell the missus to go get some sleep and come back later - nothing is going to happen till I get the bastard scan, later in the day.
X-ray duly performed (man alive it's FREEZING in there)
Now just relax Mr Simsqu while we take the X-ray. Comfy?
...and off I am wheeled to the ward. I have visions of
and
but I have been believing what I hear and see in the media. The ward I am in has about 20 rooms, most of which appear to be single occupancy, and I get one of those. Bright with a lovely view across London. The room smells good. Crisp, clean linen, everything sparklingly clean, ensuite bathroom. It's not exactly the Ritz but it reeks of efficiency, professionalism, and reassurance.
I am introduced to the nursing team immediately and for the next few hours they continue to pump me full of liquid, keep a check on my vitals, and sure enough, my blood pressure starts to come up. I am visited by one of the doctors on duty (they have their office just next to my room), and she tells me that Mr Gonzales, The Big Cheese SuperSurgeon will be visiting me shortly on his rounds.
Sounds good.
About midday, in He comes, surrounded by a cloud of nurses, doctors, surgeons, surgical assistants with clipboards, anaesthetists. There may have been a couple of Lord High Executioners in the background, I'm not sure
Ahh good morning, I am Mr Gonzales
He is mid-fifties, stocky, jovial, supremely confident, engaged and interested. He speaks rather like Salvador Dali with an outrageous Spanish accent.
"Now Mr Simsqu, we shall await the result of the scan of course," he says, with a little dismissive wave of the hand as if the scan could possibly tell him anything he did not already know, "but I think we shall schedule removal later today, or tomorrow. That is the only sensible course, no?"
There is then a few rapid fire rounds of Q & A with his entourage who have my notes and other blood tests at the ready, and are eager to please him, I get the impression that to be in the wake of Mr Gonzales is a very good place for an up and coming surgeon to be. Suits me.
Then Mr Gonzales is through. "Good, this should take routinely about one hour or so, although this is my first operation! Ha Ha Ha! No no,. It is the second!! HAHAHAHA!! No really, I have performed thousands of them! Thousands!!"
"Thousands!" his accolades chime in and they're gone.
Thousands!!
Mid afternoon into a wheelchair and off for my scan. I am feeling unwell, in some pain, uncomfortable, a bit frightened and anxious, but my missus has been fantastic and is keeping my spirits up. Also, I have a very reassuring feeling that I am in the right place.
I get wheeled into the corridor by the scan room and parked alongside another wheelchair, whose occupant is a deathly white old geezer, wheezing away in phlegmy semi-silence, with a few desultory tufts of snow white hair clinging to the back of his pallid head.
I'm a martyr to me gallbladder, I am.
I try to ignore him. I do not want to become a professional invalid swapping medical war stories, but too late. He senses fresh blood.
(rattle rattle) "Wha...what are you in for?" (hack hack)
"Gallbladder"
His rheumy eyes dart about. "Oooh yes, same 'ere. Eight...eighteen months I've had it. In and out of hospital. Ooh the pain. Let me tell yer, the pain is terrible."
"yes, I know"
"It's like nothing else, the pain. Eighteen months. They can't work out what to do with me. They say I'm a very unusual case. I come in, they treat me, send me home, I come back..."
I want to kill myself. This is incredibly depressing. I know I should be sympathetic, poor chap,. but he's relishing it, and I want nothing to do with this. Fortunately, I am rescued by the scan technician who summons me in.
"Breathe in...hold it..and relax"
"Breathe in...hold it...hold it...and relax"
This goes on for about 20 minutes, except when he forgets to say relax, and I turn purple, but it's basically a breeze.
"Hmmmm, yes...well..you have a very infected gallbladder
YOU THINK???????
...full of gallstones, lots of bile sludge...completely blocked. Very nasty. I'll get these results direct to the surgical team, and they will schedule the operation for complete removal."
and I'm back to the ward. Doc comes in soon after. "Mr Gonzales has reviewed the scan, and he' schedules the operation for tomorrow."
No comments:
Post a Comment