Nothing trivial I hope
My GP advises I go to hospital and rings for an ambulance; three hours later, none has arrived. I get a lift to the hospital to find all the local ambulances stacked outside, each with an ill patient, waiting to be able to offload them to A&E, but they have to wait.
I am seen by a doctor on the dot of the 4-hour deadline, diagnosed (provisionally but correctly) and treated.
A system under strain, staffed by people whose commitment and skills are matchless. So my notes below seem rather petty.
Not stamp-collecting
Important question on admission: “What is your religion?“. Not a moment to teach questionnaire design, I thought, but I bristled.
This sign is to be ignored
Several noticeboards and other surfaces forbid the use of mobile phones. Everyone uses mobile phones, and much patient admin is done using them.
Should I stay or should I go
Very short of beds. Closely interrogated on Friday night if I would be OK with being sent home that night. I definitely would, but they find me a trolley in an examination room and feed me sandwiches; somehow a bed on a ward is found for me the next day. I spend the rest of my stay asking when I can go home…
Tyranny
On the ward, there is a man with dementia; he talks (sometimes sings) all the while he is awake, which is much of the night as well as the day. His torrent of talk is mostly complaining, often about fantasies (someone has stolen his walking stick, he wants a drink that isn’t available, he will take command of the hospital tomorrow and jail everyone who has offended him…). He occasionally lashes out, throws things; he falls into endlessly chanting his latest gripe, like the world’s most annoying child. Everyone’s patience is exhausted, and sleep is possible only when he sleeps. I arrived ill; I’m now ill and shattered. The solution would be a private room for him (or me), but the beds are jammed up and down.
I wonder aloud to a nurse if my ward mate needs an extra pillow; I could hold it down for him, I add helpfully. She stifles a smile.
Magic soundproof curtains
When discussing your condition, it’s nice to have some privacy. This is achieved by pulling the Magic Soundproof Curtains around the bed, and then you can have your consultation without anybody being able to overhear… It all seems very British.
The importance of being Ernie
Names are written on a whiteboard over the bed; opposite me is a chap called Ernest. “Call me Ernie,” he asks every member of staff. None of them correct the whiteboard, and everyone new calls him Ernest.
Highs and lows
I return rather breathless from showering and dressing. “Time to do your stats.” I caution: “I’ll be out of line, I’ve just been moving about — do you want to wait 10 minutes?” Apparently no, this isn’t possible. Predictably, my blood pressure is the highest I’ve had recorded, and my saturation is so low that they insist on giving me oxygen.
Opposite, Ernie returns from the loo. His nurse declares, “I’ll do your stats a while later, let you settle down first.” Sensible.
Not long after, a consultant sweeps in and after a brief glance sweeps away my oxygen line. I mean, I know you’re short of beds, but give me the chance to go home and die instead… In fact, she discharges me.
To be a pharmacist
Poised for escape, my medications are reviewed.
“All looks fine, you’re not on any anti-coagulants….”
“Yes, I am!”
There are no important interactions with my other medications, but still, not something I should have to volunteer.
