“There's three things in this world that you need: Respect for all
kinds of life, a nice bowel movement on a regular basis, and a navy blazer.”*
Robin Williams
It turns out my new hospital ward isn’t a proper ward
either, it’s actually the waiting area for the endoscopy patients masquerading
as a ward. I’m manoeuvred into a spare space. In fact, it’s quite a large
space, I’m surprised they haven’t squeezed another bed in here. I look around
and assess my new cohorts, they seem quite a languid bunch. Perhaps I can
enliven them by asking them if they want to join my new club? Before I have chance to acquaint myself with
my new fellow patients though I hear a bit of commotion in the corridor as
another bed is wheeled into our make-shift ward under protest. The new arrival
sounds unhappy and is shouting something about a wheelchair. His protests
however go unheeded as his bed is slid into the gap next to mine. The new patient
considered his new surroundings and then looked over at me to see his new
neighbour. “Hello Ken.”, I said.
Ken and I concur on the fact that the Chemotherapy Day
Centre made a much better ward than the Endoscopy Waiting area. This new ward
is however much better staffed with a small squadron of busy nurses and care
assistants under the watchful eye of an amiable matron. I assume she was a
matron, although Victoria appeared much younger than the other nurses she was
certainly the matriarch of the ward and her approval and wisdom was constantly
being sought.
Upon arrival yesterday morning I had had a cannula fitted in
order to hook me up to a drip and it had been left in situ, presumably for easy
access to my blood should they require some more. It hadn’t been used since and
I suspect a fresh one would be required now anyway. It is quite uncomfortable
so I had asked the nurse in the Day Centre for it to be removed, but she wanted
to check with the doctor first and it never got done. I mention it to Victoria
who looks at it, makes an executive decision and whips it straight out. I’ve
always liked Victorias.
Once again Ken and I have arrived fashionably too late for
dinner but our attentive staff are determined that our late arrival time should
not impede our evening meal. A cheese sandwich is rustled up for me and hot
meal that I couldn’t quite discern found for Ken. Ken is however far less
concerned about his evening meal than he is with the loss of his wheelchair. He
explains to each nurse in turn that he requires the wheelchair in order to get to
the toilet unaided, but no one, not even Victoria, is able to find him a new
wheelchair.
I text Tori the details of my latest ward so she can track
me down at visiting time. The rules on visiting hours are however more strictly
adhered to in the Endoscopy Waiting Area Ward and Tori barely has time for Ken
to tell her about the determents of the Endoscopy waiting area compared with
the palatial Chemotherapy Day Centre and the heartless confiscation of his
beloved wheelchair before it’s time for her to go again.
A new male doctor greets us for the final round of the day.
Ken’s up first and the curtain is drawn around Ken’s bed. I overhear that Ken’s
request once again for his wheelchair goes unheeded and he is instructed to
lean right forward so the doctor can examine his lower back. Ken’s protests
that the pain is in his leg are soon replaced with screams of agony and a
fairly accomplished set of expletives as the doctor prods and probes Ken’s
lower back. “Yes”, confirms the doctor, “Definitely a back problem rather than
a leg problem”. The curtain is pulled back to reveal a sullen looking Ken,
still propped upright in his bed. “Sadistic bastard”, he whispers to me as soon
as the doctor is out of earshot. Once again, there’s nothing much for me from
the doctor, a check-up on my pain score, which I’m now ranking as about a five,
a reminder to take my chemotherapy tablets and (having confessed that I have
had no bowel movements since being in hospital), a foul-tasting drink to help
open my bowels. I’m dosed up with enough morphine to secure me a partial nights
sleep and a still fully blocked bowel by the morning.
When I wake it doesn’t feel as if last nights foul tasting
bedtime beverage has had the desired effect, but ever the optimist I head off
to the toilet to chance my luck. I swing open the toilet to reveal Ken proudly sat
atop the porcelain, kecks around his ankles, giving it his best shot. I forgot
he leaves the door unlocked to enable his chaperone to enter and convey him
back to his bed, and they can sometimes forget he’s in there. I apologise and
close the door immediately wondering how I can ever unsee the vision. I find an
alternative toilet but to no avail and return to my bed. Thirty minutes or so later
and Ken returns braced by the luckless nurse who most surely had drawn the
shortest straw this morning. I really don’t know why they don’t just find him
another wheelchair. “No luck”, confirms Ken as he’s bundled into the wheel-less
chair beside his bed. “Me neither” I reply. After two days inside all patient
conversation moves away from the weather forecast and gravitates toward the
success or failure of bowel movements.
Tori arrives after breakfast and as has bought me the book
from home I requested along with Ken’s morning papers. Much as I enjoy my
conversations with Ken I feel I have now exhausted his repertoire and its
becoming a bit like watching an old episode of Dad’s Army on UK Gold that I’ve
already seen fifteen times. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t find me great company,
but he does always seem very happy to see Tori when she arrives. Ken is very grateful
for his morning papers. We’re reminded that it’s not officially visiting time
so rather than go straight back home Tori and I go down to the hospital café
for a coffee. We both order latte’s and I discover that since starting the
chemotherapy I no longer appear to like the taste of coffee, but it’s a change of
scenery at least.
Although I am still in pain, there seems little that can be
done other than manage the pain with with a selection of semi-effective drugs,
and as I can do that at home as well as I can in hospital, I might as well try
and persuade them to let me leave today. When I’ve fully arranged and confirmed
my escape I’ll text Tori to come and pick me up, in the meantime she heads back
home and I head back to my bed. I explain my escape plan to the nurse when I
get back to the ward and she recommends the palliative care nurse as my
accomplice. It’s arranged for the palliative care nurse to visit me this
afternoon and if she’s happy that I can self medicate then she should be able
to send me on my merry way with a big box of drugs and a party sized bottle of
oral morphine.
I settle into my book while I wait for the palliative care
nurse to come and assess my ability to stick the right pills in my mouth at the
appropriate times unaided by a trained medical practioneer. My book is a
popular science book about how the imperfections of the human brain influence
our experiences. It’s by a neuroscientist acquaintance of mine called Dr Dean Burnett
and it has a rather gaudy yellow cover. The bright cover attracts the attention
of the nurses and on their various visits each asks me what I’m reading. They
all seem most impressed with the apparent high-brow level of my reading
material; they clearly don’t know the author.
When the palliative care nurse arrives later in the day it
turns out to be just a formality. Although not as rapt as Ken, she is
nonetheless pleased that I’ve had a bowel movement. After three days in
hospital I’ve become quite accustomed to using the phrase “bowel movement”, even
though its not the expression in my comprehensive vocabulary I usually favour
for that particular event. The palliative care nurse prepares my prescription,
goes through the drugs and explains the facilities of the hospice should I wish
to avail myself of them. I can then collect my prescriptions from the hospital
pharmacy and I’m free to go. I’m relieved and delighted to be going back home again
but in a strange way I shall miss my new friends in the S.O.S. club.
*I’d say
tweed jacket rather than navy blazer, but otherwise I think Robin is spot on.
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