Well, I'm back
Last week I wasn't feeling too brilliant, and it came to a head on the Thursday, which was unfortunate, as it was Dave's birthday - the government now has to pay him for not doing anything. The girls visited - R was a surprise, and F brought Rhiannon, who effortlessly dominated attention. I just ... didn't feel well.
On Friday I felt worse - queasy, sore, pain in various places. So rough that I skipped my final seminar at the Shakespeare Institute, which I hated having to do. F and Rhiannon went home, and I took to my bed. I did promise Dave I'd go to the doctor if I wasn't better by Monday morning.
I lasted till Sunday am, by which time I hadn't eaten for two days, struggled to drink or do anything much really. I had a fair idea what it might be, but this was Sunday, for heaven's sake. What can you do on a Sunday?
Quite a lot, it turns out, especially if you have a kind, helpful husband to do a bit of chivvying. First we rang 1.1.1, which is essentially a phone triage service. I answered some questions, the call centre guy consulted his clinicians and I was told I should see a doctor within the next six hours. Would I like him to make me an appointment at our nearest out-of-hours service, at Warwick Hospital? Yes please. Appointment, for one hour thence (not yet dressed, me, at that point) duly made.
We arrived, found the place and were seen in about ten minutes. Very thorough, friendly, confidence-inducing doctor checked me over. Hmmm. He'd like to talk to the surgical team - would I mind waiting?
He returned in minutes. Could I wait in the A&E (E.R. to Americans) reception and I'd be seen asap. Five minutes later called to see triage nurse to check they had all the details down. Ten minutes after that called in to see surgical team. More, also thorough, checks. By this time I was sweating and giddy. OK, take her to X-Ray in a wheelchair. There I became hot and bothered and definitely at risk of swooning (so much nicer-sounding than 'fainting', don't you think?) so immediately diverted to a side-ward, loaded onto a bed/trolley and returned for X-rays, then back to waiting husband.
I was visited, told they thought I definitely needed to stay in, but it would take a little while to sort out which ward. I sent Dave to buy himself a sandwich - he returned just as the porters came to take me to Beaumont Ward.
As we'd thought it might be a recurrence of my old gallbladder trouble, we had packed a bag, so I was equipped with washbag, nightwear, reading materials, Nexus. All the essentials. I was moved to the ward, met and taken through the admissions procedure, offered food (couldn't face any), installed in my bed, in the corner of a 6-bed ward.
From that point on my memories of the order of events are a bit hazy. I slept, patchily, a lot. I drank lots of water, then they set up an IV drip of fluids, and was nil by mouth in the morning. I saw the Consultant, who said this flare-up needed taming, and then we would definitely have to remove the offending organ. I had an MRI scan. This revealed the pleasing news that I did not have a gallstone trapped in the bile duct, so would not need endoscopic surgery to remove it. There were blood tests, and a sequence of cannulas inserted, as one fell out, one didn't go in properly, one caused a BIG bruise,
(That's my lower arm, BTW.) and so on. Number five lasted the final two days, however.
Throughout the whole experience I was helped and supported by a team of cheerful, professional, caring, thoughtful ward staff, from the cleaner to the consultant. They apologised if anything went wrong and immediately went to any length necessary to sort the issue. They dealt cheerfully with an almost-incoherent old lady, a couple of women with similar issues to me, a woman with serious wrist and ankle fractures, and a Sikh matriarch of 94, whose English was shaky at best and vanished once she got tired and grumpy. There were no Punjabi speakers on the ward, so they found one more than once to interpret, and otherwise just worked with Mrs Kaur (official surname of all Sikh women) until they could sort out what she needed. I think the systems should have been in place to support them and her with the language, but they all coped, cheerfully and indomitably.
Dave brought my laptop in so I could email the university authorities - I have an essay deadline in four weeks, and I doubt if I'll now make it. I also contacted a few other folks.
My bilirubin levels became quite high - a jaundice caused by bile backing up into the liver - so they wouldn't let me go until they were very definitely declining. They are now, though the heavy-duty antibiotics have to continue several more days. I'm still feeling pretty rough, I admit. I shall see my own GP next week and probably have the gall bladder removed in a month or maybe two, once the infection has all gone. I brought a substantial sachet of drugs home with me.
And, as my British friends will take for granted, none of this cost me a single penny beyond a car-parking fee on Sunday. I got Dave to bring in a box of fancy biscuits and a card to thank the ward staff.
This is the NHS they say is in collapse. I have felt like crap most of the week, and have had nothing but prompt, considerate, cheerful attention from overworked people never too busy to stop for a moment, cheer up a patient with a word, hear the circumstances of another's accident, check another had managed to eat the food she'd been given. The NHS is the most wonderful thing Britain has ever created, and we must defend it to our last breaths.
And have you seen the GORGEOUS photos from the EW Buffy 20 years reunion? Is it even possible to but that magazine in the UK? There's one specific cover I really, really want. This will do for the moment, however.
It almost makes up for the fact that TheresabloodyMay sent the Official Suicide Note yesterday and the world is steadily accelerating to crap.
On Friday I felt worse - queasy, sore, pain in various places. So rough that I skipped my final seminar at the Shakespeare Institute, which I hated having to do. F and Rhiannon went home, and I took to my bed. I did promise Dave I'd go to the doctor if I wasn't better by Monday morning.
I lasted till Sunday am, by which time I hadn't eaten for two days, struggled to drink or do anything much really. I had a fair idea what it might be, but this was Sunday, for heaven's sake. What can you do on a Sunday?
Quite a lot, it turns out, especially if you have a kind, helpful husband to do a bit of chivvying. First we rang 1.1.1, which is essentially a phone triage service. I answered some questions, the call centre guy consulted his clinicians and I was told I should see a doctor within the next six hours. Would I like him to make me an appointment at our nearest out-of-hours service, at Warwick Hospital? Yes please. Appointment, for one hour thence (not yet dressed, me, at that point) duly made.
We arrived, found the place and were seen in about ten minutes. Very thorough, friendly, confidence-inducing doctor checked me over. Hmmm. He'd like to talk to the surgical team - would I mind waiting?
He returned in minutes. Could I wait in the A&E (E.R. to Americans) reception and I'd be seen asap. Five minutes later called to see triage nurse to check they had all the details down. Ten minutes after that called in to see surgical team. More, also thorough, checks. By this time I was sweating and giddy. OK, take her to X-Ray in a wheelchair. There I became hot and bothered and definitely at risk of swooning (so much nicer-sounding than 'fainting', don't you think?) so immediately diverted to a side-ward, loaded onto a bed/trolley and returned for X-rays, then back to waiting husband.
I was visited, told they thought I definitely needed to stay in, but it would take a little while to sort out which ward. I sent Dave to buy himself a sandwich - he returned just as the porters came to take me to Beaumont Ward.
As we'd thought it might be a recurrence of my old gallbladder trouble, we had packed a bag, so I was equipped with washbag, nightwear, reading materials, Nexus. All the essentials. I was moved to the ward, met and taken through the admissions procedure, offered food (couldn't face any), installed in my bed, in the corner of a 6-bed ward.
From that point on my memories of the order of events are a bit hazy. I slept, patchily, a lot. I drank lots of water, then they set up an IV drip of fluids, and was nil by mouth in the morning. I saw the Consultant, who said this flare-up needed taming, and then we would definitely have to remove the offending organ. I had an MRI scan. This revealed the pleasing news that I did not have a gallstone trapped in the bile duct, so would not need endoscopic surgery to remove it. There were blood tests, and a sequence of cannulas inserted, as one fell out, one didn't go in properly, one caused a BIG bruise,
(That's my lower arm, BTW.) and so on. Number five lasted the final two days, however.
Throughout the whole experience I was helped and supported by a team of cheerful, professional, caring, thoughtful ward staff, from the cleaner to the consultant. They apologised if anything went wrong and immediately went to any length necessary to sort the issue. They dealt cheerfully with an almost-incoherent old lady, a couple of women with similar issues to me, a woman with serious wrist and ankle fractures, and a Sikh matriarch of 94, whose English was shaky at best and vanished once she got tired and grumpy. There were no Punjabi speakers on the ward, so they found one more than once to interpret, and otherwise just worked with Mrs Kaur (official surname of all Sikh women) until they could sort out what she needed. I think the systems should have been in place to support them and her with the language, but they all coped, cheerfully and indomitably.
Dave brought my laptop in so I could email the university authorities - I have an essay deadline in four weeks, and I doubt if I'll now make it. I also contacted a few other folks.
My bilirubin levels became quite high - a jaundice caused by bile backing up into the liver - so they wouldn't let me go until they were very definitely declining. They are now, though the heavy-duty antibiotics have to continue several more days. I'm still feeling pretty rough, I admit. I shall see my own GP next week and probably have the gall bladder removed in a month or maybe two, once the infection has all gone. I brought a substantial sachet of drugs home with me.
And, as my British friends will take for granted, none of this cost me a single penny beyond a car-parking fee on Sunday. I got Dave to bring in a box of fancy biscuits and a card to thank the ward staff.
This is the NHS they say is in collapse. I have felt like crap most of the week, and have had nothing but prompt, considerate, cheerful attention from overworked people never too busy to stop for a moment, cheer up a patient with a word, hear the circumstances of another's accident, check another had managed to eat the food she'd been given. The NHS is the most wonderful thing Britain has ever created, and we must defend it to our last breaths.
And have you seen the GORGEOUS photos from the EW Buffy 20 years reunion? Is it even possible to but that magazine in the UK? There's one specific cover I really, really want. This will do for the moment, however.
It almost makes up for the fact that TheresabloodyMay sent the Official Suicide Note yesterday and the world is steadily accelerating to crap.