A slice of hospital life

I’m unaccustomed to dealing with medical problems, so the prospect of undergoing a routine surgery came not without some trepidation.

This was to be a hernia repair. Possibly the result of lugging a humongous 32-inch Sony CRT television set up two flights of stairs a couple of years ago (as at least two people who will read this will no doubt remember). On the other hand, who knows?

The hernia is nothing serious, spotted early, and highly treatable. From the surgeon’s perspective, entirely routine. Ah, Consultant Surgeons, those well spoken individuals who have graduated from being titled “Doctor” to “Mr”.

I have undergone two (more accurately, one, twice, thanks to inept tree climbing) surgeries during my teens and have no harrowing memories of either event beyond having to eat a bowl of prunes for breakfast. Thankfully, they had evolved to suppository laxatives by the second of that pair.

There was one significant difference now: in my first experiences, I remained in hospital for several days, but here, I was scheduled as a day-patient, arriving at the hospital at midday, then being released during the evening of that same day, probably “around five-thirty”, they explained.

I sat in my allotted chair at my allotted bed – number 9 – awaiting the string of admittance staff. The bed was fully loaded with oxygen and all manner of we-can-deal-with-anything paraphernalia.

First a nurse to check my details. Then the ward doctor to re-check the same details. An anaesthetist to cover additional details (plus the previous ones). The surgeon’s assistant to discuss the procedure’s details (and check some of the initial details), and… well, you get the picture by now, I’m sure.

The underlying theme of all the activity in this pre-op ward is clearly to ensure you are who they think you are. It gets a little tedious, but instills confidence you’re not going to wake up missing the wrong limb.

Between these repetitive exchanges I pretended to snooze – sometimes slipping into the real thing just to fool anyone ‘s suspicions – in order to avoid inadvertently encouraging those kindred day-patients about me to engage me in conversation. I was particularly trying to avoid Mr. “I’ve got the heart of a 25 year old woman” opposite.

Fun in the pre-theatre anaesthesia room consisted of manipulating the bleeping of the pulse monitor.

Once the surgical team arrived to make the final preparations, I will admit to being anxious. No attempts to slow the beeping worked as they jabbed in the necessary pipework. As I started to drift off, I can remember my vision blurring and the beeping accelerating.

I never expect to remember absolutely nothing while under anaesthetic. While coming round, I am convinced I have simply dozed off and am still awaiting the procedure. But, gratefully perhaps, there is simply nothing. If you have never experienced it, it’s quite disconcerting.

Once awake, it was back to the day ward for some toast and a cuppa (that’s when you know you haven’t been whisked out of the country while asleep), and a couple of hours of close monitoring to ensure you are recovered enough to head home.

Unfortunately, I was not. Whether a reaction to the anaesthetic, or a dose of pain-killing morphine, I turned the day ward into a scene from ER television. Doctor and nurses buzzed around me when my blood pressure dropped and I leaked sweat out of pretty much every pore. The result was saline drip, oxygen, and the decision that I would have to remain in overnight for observation.

I was concerned for Jen. Myself, I knew I was safe in good hands. But also knew she would be forced to head home and leave me unexpectedly at the hospital.

The day ward is just that: day, no night shift. So I was carted off to Ward 4 for my overnight observation. One of the day ward nurses stuck with me until she was absolutely sure I was stationed and my new keepers fully in the picture as to what had happened and what was required of them.

A long, troublesome night followed. A typical shared ward with snoring, calls, buzzers, wandering staff and patients, but the a most comfortable bed. What little sleep I managed was disturbed by the regular blood pressure, pulse and temperature monitoring.

The following day was uneventful. The food delivery guy and I had a little exchange about not wanting lunch. “I’ll be gone by then” I insisted. He offered me a good natured, knowing nod as I was still sat in my bedside chair as he wheeled past with his lunch delivery trolley. I was let out soon after.

Throughout the process, even through the weeks of the consultation process and initial tests, I cannot fault the way I was treated by the staff at two hospitals. Thoroughly communicative, friendly, patient, and understanding. I felt as if each one cared, about me, about what I was going through, how I was feeling. I felt they genuinely wanted to make me comfortable, well and to have me feel safe and secure.

I went through a relatively minor procedure, with a hiccup. But I have come away from the experience with a respect and trust for the staff. I would have no concerns about putting myself in the hands of these people again in the future.

Of course, I’d much prefer to not need them!

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