(no subject)
Hospital
Before the memories fade too much.
Sunday 27th July 2008
I remember being parked on a ward, transferring from gurney to bed and more painkillers. I've no idea of times, faces, whether I was on my own or still had company. Next thing I had any real awareness of was being asked if I had any belongings, any valuable and any wash things. Looking down I was in a hospital gown, which was a little on the small side to say the least. My clothes had been bundled together and pushed into a locker. Trying to work out what I'd been wearing, what I might have carried (what was in pockets)was beyond my drug fuddled state, I remember counting banknotes then putting them into my wallet, twice because I forgot the total both times before it could be recorded.
A clean gown, towel and soap arrived and I was disconnected from the IV and told to grab a shower. I know I tend to be an independent cuss, but strange environment, out of my head drugs, unsteady on my feet. Clues would have been welcome. Clues, and the offer of shower gel came from other beds in the ward. Ensconced in a shower, propped up by a horizontal grab rail, I tried taking stock. Guiltily I remembered the comment about my having dirty feet made by a consultant in the early hours. My side was tender to touch but not particularly painful, the canular in my arm was awkward, it kept getting caught on things. Shower survived, dried off and in clean, better fitting gown (with no back ties) I could step back on to the ward. Boxer shorts protecting my modesty where the gown wouldn't (not that I've ever worried about modesty) I made it back to the side ward and a freshly made bed. It was 7.45am.
Some five minutes later the consultant arrives, proves my side is actually painful rather than just tender, shows me the consent form I'd signed earlier and explains keyhole surgery, which I could expect soon.
Connected back to the IV, the morning drifted. Around 10.30 I realised that Cambridge Folk Festival was going to be a problem, or at least I wouldn't be driving (though I still thought I'd make it at that point) and with a full car load expecting transport I'd better let them know. Mr C is not reknowned for being at his best on weekend mornings,(apparently less so after seeing the sun rise with crates of good beer) I was no where near as lucid as I thought - unfortunately no recording exists.
The morning meandered on till 11.50, a posh black plastic gurney arrived to take me to theatre.
The ante-room heralded a discussion on windows networking and data transfer problems, an unexpected burst of normality, followed by being told I'd feel some pressure on the bottom of my throat, the feel on fingers pushing against my voice box and ...
Before the memories fade too much.
Sunday 27th July 2008
I remember being parked on a ward, transferring from gurney to bed and more painkillers. I've no idea of times, faces, whether I was on my own or still had company. Next thing I had any real awareness of was being asked if I had any belongings, any valuable and any wash things. Looking down I was in a hospital gown, which was a little on the small side to say the least. My clothes had been bundled together and pushed into a locker. Trying to work out what I'd been wearing, what I might have carried (what was in pockets)was beyond my drug fuddled state, I remember counting banknotes then putting them into my wallet, twice because I forgot the total both times before it could be recorded.
A clean gown, towel and soap arrived and I was disconnected from the IV and told to grab a shower. I know I tend to be an independent cuss, but strange environment, out of my head drugs, unsteady on my feet. Clues would have been welcome. Clues, and the offer of shower gel came from other beds in the ward. Ensconced in a shower, propped up by a horizontal grab rail, I tried taking stock. Guiltily I remembered the comment about my having dirty feet made by a consultant in the early hours. My side was tender to touch but not particularly painful, the canular in my arm was awkward, it kept getting caught on things. Shower survived, dried off and in clean, better fitting gown (with no back ties) I could step back on to the ward. Boxer shorts protecting my modesty where the gown wouldn't (not that I've ever worried about modesty) I made it back to the side ward and a freshly made bed. It was 7.45am.
Some five minutes later the consultant arrives, proves my side is actually painful rather than just tender, shows me the consent form I'd signed earlier and explains keyhole surgery, which I could expect soon.
Connected back to the IV, the morning drifted. Around 10.30 I realised that Cambridge Folk Festival was going to be a problem, or at least I wouldn't be driving (though I still thought I'd make it at that point) and with a full car load expecting transport I'd better let them know. Mr C is not reknowned for being at his best on weekend mornings,(apparently less so after seeing the sun rise with crates of good beer) I was no where near as lucid as I thought - unfortunately no recording exists.
The morning meandered on till 11.50, a posh black plastic gurney arrived to take me to theatre.
The ante-room heralded a discussion on windows networking and data transfer problems, an unexpected burst of normality, followed by being told I'd feel some pressure on the bottom of my throat, the feel on fingers pushing against my voice box and ...