Chopper is starting off this recount of our experiences at the hospital on Thursday and I'll pick it up in a bit:
I don’t “do” hospitals. Most trips involve me being stripped naked, probed then slapped with a wet fish by the cleaner posing as a doctor! Or is this my recurring dream? I do get them mixed up so much I never quite remember! Then there is the smell and the sick people and the gel that dries your hands until they crack and get infected with MRSA or some other equally life threatening disease.
I’d woken with a migraine but couldn’t tell DJ in case she called off the surgery or fretted all day, luckily it passed quickly and we went to the hospital with her unaware of any impending doom. We arrived at the new building which still smelt of “new” which was nice, though they didn’t appear to have done any cleaning since it opened but that was OK as I had promised I wouldn’t lick the floor.
We were early and shown to a large, hot room with lots of uncomfortable chairs. It had the window open and the cold air coming in nearly made the heat bearable. I sat as close as I could to it and admired the view. Another lady was ushered in and we nodded uncomfortably, she spoke to DJ, whom I’m sure would rather she didn’t. She talked about her surgery and previous operations, aware that I was in the room and of the other sex when she got to something personal she whispered. Like that was OK because if she whispered I disappeared? When her husband arrived the talk stopped, perhaps he understood whispers! Everything was going reasonably well at this stage (we were even given a mug of tea by a nurse who swore to me she wasn’t a cleaner), even though the time was getting on.
Then it started!!
“NURSE,NURSE, NUUURRRRSSSSSE! I NEED HELP!”
The voice was coming from the room opposite ours from a frail old lady laying in her bed.
“HELP! NURSE!”
Nobody came and we were looking at each other in a very British way, not wanting to say anything but knowing what everybody else was thinking. Why didn’t we get a bacon sandwich with the mug of tea? Well that was what I was thinking apparently I wasn’t on the same wavelength as everyone else!
“NURSE, PLLEEAAASE HELLLP MEEEEE!”
A nurse finally came and spoke to the old lady and offered her reassurance then left. Quiet resumed for at least two minutes until;
“NURSE, NURSE, NUUURRRSE!”
The other lady in the waiting room shouted “two minutes” which seemed to calm her for a bit and we had a new arrival to the room. A small frail looking lady, dressed in pyjamas and furry boots with a duffle bag over her shoulder. She said “Hi” and happily told us she was going home and pointing to the bag. I was sure she said at this point “I’ve got this for the train.” I couldn’t believe it. There was no way this lady was going on the train dressed like that and anyway she could hardly carry the fucking bag! She hadn’t said that apparently, what she had said in my mind was much worse. Three days ago she’d had both her breasts removed and in the bag was the chest drain.
“NURSE, NURSE, I NEED HELP!”
That wasn’t the old lady that time it was me jamming my fist in my mouth so it didn’t come out loud. God knows how DJ was feeling at this time but if she was feeling the same way we soon got our wish, not for the reasons we might have wished. I’ll let her fill you in with the rest of the day as I am far too traumatised!
I woke up yesterday knowing it would be a day that would test my coping skills but I felt fairly confident that I would get through the day relatively emotionally intact. Meaning I would be churning with angst on the inside but I'd be able to keep it from breaking through my deceptively calm exterior.
The day turned out to be a bit of a fiasco though. We went in to see my consultant and sign consent forms at 8am as requested. My consultant is the only one who does this with his patients on the afternoon surgery list. The rest bring patients in late morning. I had left my knitting in the car as I expected to only be there a few minutes before going home for a few hours until nearer surgery time.
The day room had other people in there who wanted to make conversation which I struggle with at the best of times and, as Chopper has already told you, there was some demented woman across the hall shouting for the nurse every couple of minutes so my nerves were frazzling fast.
We sat in the day room until 9.30 by which time my fretful hands were approaching 'flap point' (a good way for people on the autistic spectrum to release stress by flapping hands or flicking fingers though I know not to do it in public). I went to ask the hectic staff what was happening and the charge nurse told me that my consultant wasn't operating that afternoon! I had been put on another consultant's list which no one had bothered to tell me at my pre-op assessment the week before.
We were asked to come back and see this other consultant at 12. Now I don't cope with change well, I thrive on routine and if that isn't possible then I need things to be predictable. So that was one coping string cut but I was grateful to be given an oppourtunity to escape and we left quickly before they could change their minds
Knowing that I would cope better without being around the noise, sight and smell of other people, we had paid for a private room for me. This was ready when we came back and it was very nice. It had the main bedroom, a sitting room and an en suite. Best of all, when the main room door was closed the majority of the nose from the ward was also shut out.
We spent most of our time sitting quietly on the couch in the sitting room. We were interrupted at intervals by the matron (to check me in), the consultant (so I could sign consent forms) and the anaesthetist (who told me his wife says that all men have Aspergers). At one point a staff nurse knocked on the door and told me I had a visitor. WTF? It was the woman who had been in the day room with us in the morning, a nice enough person, but I had paid for a private room, not a social intercourse room. I was uncommunicative and she didn't stay long.
By 3pm I was almost out of wool and struggling to keep my angst under control. Chopper told me that he was certain that I would be taken to the operating theatre once I reached the point where I only had a tiny bit of wool left. I believed him as he is frequently right about things like that. No idea how he does it.
I kept knitting but started to try and explain to Chopper that I was reaching the end of my ability to remain stoic. I think he began to worry when I told him I wanted to give up and go home but he was definitely worried when I reached the end of my wool and no one had come to walk me to theatre. So he hugged me. Though in hindsight I now realise that he may have just been preparing to keep me on the ward by brute force if nessesary. Luckily for him a nurse came to get me less than ten minutes later.
I was not brave.
I hate saying goodbye to Chopper at the best of times and this, obviously, was not. I walked to the operating theatre with lots of tears in my eyes. The ward nurse checked me in and left. I then sat there while the staff had a conversation about having TV screens with outdoor scenes playing on them to lift their mood as OR doesn't have any windows. What about my mood FFS? One managed to tear herself away from the conversation long enough to walk me down to the prep room after I had sighed very loudly.
A man went through my operating checklist and wanted to have a chat with me about Gary McKinnon. I ddin't want to but it did distract me until another nurse came in and they had a conversation about nursing pay scales.
Sigh. Hello? Remember me? The scared woman sitting over on the other side of the room in the draughty hospital gown, clutching a pillow? I'm your impatient.
Finally a trainee anaesthetist (who didn't look much older than N1S), came to go through the checklist with me (yes again) and he noticed that I was upset. He is the reason I didn't walk out of the operating department and actually went through with my operation at that point. He was intuitive and seemed to know exactly what to do to calm me down.
He then took me into my operating room (number 13, I kid you not). The anaesthetist that I had met earlier was there and he quickly got a cannula into my hand and injected something to relax me which was wonderful (I'd like to have it on a regular basis pleaseandthankyouverymuch) and then he put me to sleep straight after.
I woke up very quickly in the recovery room, felt very sore but also very well and desperate to go home. I had told the anaesthetist that I was very worried that I wouldn't be able to maintain my neruotypical facade if I was too dopey and he had promised me that he would make sure I wasn't. I remembered to thank every one in recovery and my anaesthetist and his trainee who came to see me. I kept telling everyone I was fine till they gave in and called for a nurse to take me back to the ward.
The ward staff wouldn't discharge me until I had something to drink, eat and had done a wee. The bullies. All joking aside though the staff were overworked but kind and very efficient. I felt very sore and shaky but was otherwise fine and I wanted OUT! So I forced myself to do the nessesaries and we made our escape.
I still feel a bit sore and somewhat violated down below but am oh so happy to be home. I've got loads of things that I'd like to be getting on with while I am off work but Chopper wont let me do anything and I have to admit that he is right, I am not really up to much at the moment. Don't tell him I said so though ok?
