After yesterday’s long epistle, I thought I would leave the actual clinic story until today. Give you all a bit of breathing (and in Carolannt’s case, peeing) space, as it were. The clinic was quite bland compared with the journey up there but – as befits a great National Health Hospital – Salisbury could still spring a few surprises.
Marly asked about parking at SDH (Salisbury District Hospital) and was surprised when I found a parking space so easily. The reason is that there are acres of parking and even more space around to allow the hospital to develop It is new-ish and build on top of a hill, just south of the city, with open farmland all around.
They also charge an arm and a prostate to park – but I don’t find that a problem. I’ve got a job and I’m not going there that often. That sounds really condescending, but it’s not meant to be. I am very lucky that I don’t have any debts, I pay my rent on time (alright, that’s a whole load of money, but I’ve got to live somewhere) and what’s left over in the bank is mine to do with as I wish.
It is a problem, however, for the patients and visitors who go there every day – sometimes twice or three times a day - or have to park for long periods. I know parking charges bring in a good lump of cash for the hospital – and those of us who live within the SDH catchment are fortunate to have such a good hospital – but there must be a better way. Over to you Mr Politician.
No more serious stuff for now – back to the clinic.
When I sat down, like a good little boy, I found myself next to a pile of new magazines, mainly Woman, Good Housekeeping, Hello, and many other periodicals with a feminine slant. Not one car mag, aeroplane mag, even gardening mag (although I’m not a gardener, anything would have been nice during the hour-long wait) I was also sitting facing the biggest television screen I have ever seen in my life. It was huge….shiny gleaming with chrome…..massive………..and off!
I spy with my little eye……….Have you ever played that on your own? You either win every time – or lie and make the other you have another go! Or you cheat and change the thing you’ve seen, but you always get found out!
I thought about going for a walk, but I didn’t think I would be able to find my way back easily without unwinding a ball of string as I go. Anyway, I left the string in the car, today. If I got lost, I might miss my place. At least they didn’t have those numbered ticket dispensers you see in some clinics. I remember going to one hospital – it might have been Bournemouth – and the wait was so long I dozed off. When they called my number, I snapped awake, jumped up and ordered half a pound of honey-roast ham and a piece of Stilton!
Back to Salisbury – the wait came to an end when the nurse called my name and off we went into a small consulting room. Now we went through all the basic housekeeping which ensures that I will not wind up having the wrong operation – having bits removed that I still need or having things inserted into places where they really would not normally be welcome.
The two MRSA swabs were fun. As you all know, you stuff one up your nose and the other one into your groin. The nurse wouldn’t help with either one. Spoilsport.
Then the urine sample. She handed me a bottle, about three inches long and an inch across – then asked me if I could manage or did I need a funnel. I really didn’t know how to take that…….did she mean that I seemed so infirm, my hands would shake and I’d splatter all over the floor?
Suddenly I understood – she thought I was hung like the proverbial pit pony and………
Moving swiftly on, we did the blood samples for cross-matching and so on. I told her my blood type and explained that I was a blood donor. “Hmmm, sorry,” she said. “You probably won’t be allowed to do that again, I’m afraid. They might not want you, now.” Funny, but that hit me very hard. I’ve enjoyed my Tony Hancock experiences. (Go on, just add a comment if you know what the hell I’m talking about. Let’s see how many of you have lied about your age!)
Then we were done. I had to wait to see another nurse who would explain all about the admission next Friday, the surgery and how I would feel afterwards (I already know that one – festering sore!)
I went back into the waiting area and sat facing the TV again. This time it was on; it was the Tricia Kilroy-Silk Opera or something, people shouting and swearing at each other, accusing each other of all manner of sexual antics and dishonour; shouts of “Bring on the DNA. Bring on the DNA.” as if it was some kind of punk-rock band.
In the words of a grand old stager of radio….”Is it me?”
Not for long the dire daytime TV – my name was called and another small consulting room beckoned. More questions about who I was and did I know why I was there. Then came the first obstacle. The nurse described the incision as being from belly-button down. “No,” said I. “That’s not what it said on my letter – it’s supposed to be a perineal incision.”
“Oh dear – we haven’t done one of those in years. I go and check.” And off she went. Now let me say, quite clearly, that I didn’t want a perineal incision in the first place (or the second place, come to that.) I had set my heart on a damn great scar and I was bloody well going to get one. I just felt a bit miffed that they could send out a letter with the wrong information on. What if I was a model / stripper / porn star? I wouldn’t want a festering great scar running down my abdomen, would I? My modelling career would be completely finished.
Come to think of it, whatever scar they leave, my days of being a porn star are over, anyway. Which way is the Job Centre?
Back she came. “No, sorry, the incision will be down your abdomen.” Secretly I breathed a sigh of relief. In a pub, I could now roll up my shirt, brag about how long I was on the operating table and display the badge of honour, a six-inch scar running down from my belly button.
Imagine doing that with a perineal incision! I’d have to stand up and drop my trousers and knickers, put one leg on the table, lift what was left of my tackle up out of the way so that everyone could see the scar, and then they would probably need a magnifying glass. Getting dressed again might be a bit of a problem – depends if the landlord throws my trousers out as well as me!
Back in the consulting room, we discuss pelvic floor exercises. I’ve now got a leaflet telling me why I need to do them and how to do them correctly. No pictures but loads of words. One classic line is “…imagine you are trying to stop yourself breaking wind….” Now that WILL be a new experience!
I’ve also got a leaflet about the catheter and bag. I don’t know why but this is the one element of the whole operation that really gives me the most worries. But I’ll deal with it – somehow.
Then the nurse told me one final gem of information – one that made me giggle for the rest of the journey back to work. It made me think about it all afternoon and, worryingly, I couldn’t wait to get home in the evening and try it out.
But it was strange. I tried it dry, but that hurt, so I ran myself a bath and did it soaking wet. That was better, but the bubbles kept getting in the way and messing it up. Then I pulled the bath plug and turned the shower on – that was it. That was the way to do it.
I tried a heart shape, a triangle – even tried a landing strip. In the end though, it all had to come off – I wasn’t going to let some young slip of a nurse shave MY pubes. I’d probably make a right fool of myself!
That was yesterday – tonight, I’m sitting at the PC and it’s itching like blazes. How do you girls put up with it? PMs only please!!!!!!!
More soon,
Much love
Steve
