Inflatable slippers keep you awake as well

So I had the operation - well, this is purely an assumption on my part because I had been asleep for a while, but someone must have done something because my lower back was bloody sore - and I was taken back to Side Room 3, where I had begun my surgical adventure the day before. I had a drip connected to my right hand and one of those nose clip thingies which I never realised before was to supply oxygen; and we used to watch Casualty – tut!

I was initially provided with a bottle to pee in but, worryingly, it was constructed of egg-box cardboard and the nurse told me to press the call button as soon as it had been used, otherwise... well, the consequences don’t bear thinking about. As if it wasn’t bad enough having to try and defy gravity by using the damn’ thing, while I was fumbling beneath the sheet with it, I accidentally pulled the drip needle from my right hand; for an instant, I did wonder where all the blood was coming from. So, fresh sheets, gown etc. I might have been forgiven for thinking it would be quite nice to be sponged down by a nurse; not so, although it might have been because there was another nurse there at the time.

She took the bottle (by this time, I had persuaded them to give me a decent plastic one – gravity still presented a problem, though) and, as she crossed the corridor, I heard her shout to her colleague “I’ve taken his bottle – thousand mil!” I wondered if this was a record for I could think of no reason for mentioning it other than the existence of some kind of competition.

Apart from the old feller further down the corridor shouting “Great Britain!” and “No, get back!” at the top of his voice, the buzzer at the nurse station going off every few minutes (this was immediately adjacent to Side Room 3), the nurse coming in to do “obs”, the raging storm and the inflatable slippers, it was very peaceful.

Inflatable slippers? Ah, yes, these are innovative devices which fit over your feet and are designed to prevent DVT by inflating and deflating constantly, very much like the armband on a blood pressure machine.

The best thing about my hospitalisation? Morphine.

Christmas and infection

Inevitable, wasn't it? Well, both of the above, of course. One happens at the same time every year and the other happens to me after an operation.

There is now officially no more room in my tablet box: antibiotics have been added to the Amlodipine, Ramipril, Paracetamol, Codeine Phosphate and Diclofenac. If I could only jump up and down, I would rattle. Still, it's apparently not too serious but I've got to go back to see the nurse to have the wound redressed on Christmas Eve and again on Monday. If only it was my birthday before then, I could go free on the bus! Anyway, with the first part of the heading in mind, I would like to take the opportunity to wish all of you a stupendous Christmas and New Year and desperately hope to be able to make the February meet to see a lot of you again. I've said this before, but you are a marvellous bunch of people who I have been privileged to know during the past few years. It's a great shame the internet wasn't around sooner. Love to all of you.

Confused, Salisbury

So there I was on Thursday 11^th December, finally, in hospital, full of apprehension because it would be the first time I would ever be confined in one overnight; it wasn’t so much the fear of undergoing surgery, more the indignities I could potentially suffer. I mean, your private functions go out the window, don’t they? No, don’t be daft, you know what I mean, I had my own side room with a shower and toilet - anyway, the window didn’t open wide enough.

I had received a letter instructing me to make my way to a certain ward at four o’clock but we were a little early, having arrived just after half-past three. We were shown into one of the ward bays (which are a pretty good size, more or less circular and contain four beds and a small seating area with a view of rolling countryside and Car Park 8). At a quarter to five, I was shown to my room by a very pleasant, rather portly black nurse (in case you were wondering, I mention her ethnicity because I would like you to imagine the way she moved, as if a hidden calypso was dictating her gait) who said “Could you walk this way?” I restrained myself; oh, all right, I didn’t. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I’m hoping to be able to soon.” She had the good grace to chuckle.

The last thing I expected was a room to myself with an en suite shower and toilet and a considerable amount of the aforementioned apprehension swiftly dissipated. We explored the room and I unpacked my nightie etc. Nobody had yet appeared to tell me what to expect but Sheila had to get home so she left at about a quarter past five and I was left twiddling my thumbs (as far as I was physically able to), wondering what I should or shouldn’t be doing. I fiddled with the overpriced Patientline (now in administration and taken over by Hospedia, I understand) telephone and TV (the radio service was free), read a bit of my book and pondered over the Telegraph crosswords; I finished those at about twenty past seven and, shortly after this – hurrah! - a nurse came in and took my blood pressure and temperature. I thought it would be nice to know the forthcoming routine so I interrupted her conveyor belt and asked if that was all that was going to happen for the rest of the night. “Yes,” she answered. Little liar.

I got into bed quite early, read a bit more and fell asleep unusually early for me, at about ten, but was awoken at midnight by the aforementioned nurse – the mendacious little minx - who visited again to do my “obs” (you do slip into the jargon quite quickly – “obs”, “meds”, “bedpan” etc.

There was no further interruption until twenty to four when the nurse came in to take my jug of water away (you are allowed fluids only up to two hours before surgery but I had been told earlier that I would be able to have a couple of sips to take my normal blood pressure medication). She obviously didn’t trust me and said, “I have to do this because you’re going to theatre in the morning.” This was the first I’d heard of it; it made good sense, though, as I was already there but nobody had confirmed when I was going until then. “I can have a little with my medication, though, can’t I?” “Oh, no.” “Oh, right.”

A little later (about half-past six), while I was having a wash and the nurse was changing the bedding, another nurse shouted through the door that I could have a couple of small sips of water in order to take my medication. I began to feel like those passengers at Terminal 5 on opening day, except I don’t suppose any of them had numb legs.

To be continued...

Shortly = 45 minutes

How crap is an almost four month interval between blogs? Utter, entire, total, complete, absolute, comprehensive, full-blown, thorough, unmitigated, wholesale, downright, and many other adjectives too numerous to mention (go on, check with Roget), that’s what.

So, with abject apologies (becoming increasingly all too common) and, as intimated to a mutual friend recently, here is the first since what we only just had time to refer to as summer. That last one recounted the medical position extant at that time. Anyway, things have moved on and I have now been given a date for the operation (Friday 12^th December) when the consultant will perform an L4 spinal decompression and partial discectomy; if you want to know where L4 is, you’ll have to look it up on a map (someone has told me it might be just off the M4).

Last Thursday, I had to go to a pre-admission clinic which I was led to believe would be a quick question-and-answer session but which turned into a marathon, kicked off by the orthopaedic receptionist who, when saying “Sister will see you shortly” omitted to explain what her version of “shortly” meant (see the heading). Anyway, suffice to say that the thoroughness of the staff at Salisbury District Hospital was admirably demonstrated by the number of tests I was subjected to: blood pressure (OK, but the new machine they had only acquired last week was acting up and it was a “best of three” calculation), MRSA test (swab up the nose), weight (best glossed over), *ahem* test (glucose levels, some present, as it turned out but subsequently acceptable), X-ray (the worst part of this was when I had to get dressed and realised that I couldn’t undo the knot I’d tied at the back of the gown and had to try and remove it over my head - try not to think about it), blood (results have proved fine, overnight service!), ECG (no problems) but removal of the ten adhesive contacts afterwards was like how it must feel being waxed. I had arrived at the hospital at 2.45pm and left at 5.15pm, arriving home a bare 10 minutes before Manchester City kicked off in their UEFA Cup game against Schalke 04; it was too late to cook so we had to send out for Chinese – shame!

Also, Sky+ came into its own as the dog had to be walked and horse fed, so the match was put on hold for a good 15 minutes – I turned my phone off to curtail any potential piss-taking: not necessary, as it turned out! I am currently going through a grump phase because of the imminent surgery, the earliness of the date of which has resulted from a cancellation and, if I’m honest, I’m a bit frightened. I attribute the cause of my current absence from anything other than limericks to this state of mind. Copout, perhaps. Sorry and all that. I really hope I can make the next meet but, in the meantime, please bear with me.