I am getting increasingly nervous of going within sniffing distance of a hospital. Every time I as much sneeze near one, I seem to get more holes in my body. Or as John said this week “They might as well put a zip in it”.
So it shouldn’t be any surprise to you opening up this blog or me writing it that I was taken again to a John Radcliffe Hospital on Sunday night after John, fed up with seeing my writhe around the floor moaning and not eating his dinner, made me call 111. Stupidly I had assumed my flu like and sickness symptoms were just that, a good old fashioned common bug. And not some excuse for the medical profession to get their sharp saws out again.
But alas as I was feeling a bit too rosy with a high temp and very sore post op scar, I was diagnosed with a nasty little infection after repeated tests (some we will never understand were quite necessary thank you very much indeed!) and others which seemed a little over the top; x rays at 2.30am and CT scans. But happily this resulted in my being plugged into the hardcore antibiotics which I needed to sort out the infection. And a promise to finally get this infection under control.
After many hours on a trolley in the surgical assessment ward (also known as the ward where he who cries loudest gets the first bed), I was transferred to a nice quiet room as payment for my patience and met David Bailey. Well I met one of the David Baileys. My male tattooed nurse tried to get into the Guinness book of records by taking part in a stunt to get over 126 David Bailey’s together in one place. I think he was about 3 DB’s short. Seems an awful shame.
Then followed a procession of doctors wanting to have a gander at my scars and lumps and bumps and noticing the hamaetoma / hernia, poked it very hard until it popped. Well I suppose it was lucky (although it didn’t appear so at the time) that this set off one of my extremely painful bowel spasms which I have been having since the liver surgery (and put down to scar tissue). This time David Bailey was on hand to witness and he didn’t like it one bit. He pumped me full of tramadolly and when this didn’t touch the sides, squirted morphine into my mouth before I could tell him he would regret it later when he came to clear up the bathroom or barf room as it became known.
My surgeon got wind of this and came to see me and told me in a stern voice that I was going to have an operation to fix the small bowel hernia and stop the obstruction in my bowel and it was going to be tonight. No thank you, he really wasn’t interested to hear I was going to Cornwall on Thursday for a week’s holiday.
That night turned into the wee hours which turned into the morning. But it went ahead finally and I am now escaping from hospital with yet more holes in an already holey tummy and yet more enforced rest. Sorry Mum and Dad. No lifting. No drinking. And a missed holiday.
“Didn’t dating used to be a lot easier than this?” said John wistfully as he wheeled me out of the JR into his car last night.