Post 416: Everything’s Going South…
AMU was the last place I wanted to be, especially now my second mum (and host) had been excluded from the sh1t show I was in. But at least I got to see her for a while.
At one stage I had to pass her a warm “bottle” I had the temerity to fill in her presence, hiding behind the curtain actually, but that was close enough for me to find the whole peeing process very distressing. But that was A&E and this was not. This was AMU.
There was a smell I cannot describe, but it was not nice. However, I I was told that my day would start with a visit from the junior doctor. That would be followed by the registrar and then any action, if it was needed.
The young doc arrived at 9-ish and after I had been through a bit of a warm preliminary chat he started to hone in from the world to the ward and did it in a friendly way. He asked about 50 questions about my heart, my cancer and me, to which I answered honestly and quickly. He was thorough and thoroughly nice.
The nervousness about anyone overhearing me tell the tales about my life and body diminished with every barrage of linked questioning until I had finished his list and I saw him no more.
Earlier on, after breakfast was served to the boys, the old boys, and they had chomped through their cereals and toast while I was happy with the jug of water, when whey remembered to bring some, things settled down. I wasn’t happy with being there but understood my fate was in other people and it was for my own good, I needed to buck up and stay for the ride. Before too long there was a swap around of beds and patients. This was a transitory ward and nobody stayed too long here — or was that wishful thinking? I saw a mad professor with long straggly hair and a white coat come by and talk to the guy in the next bed; well he looked like a mad professor from a black and white movie, somehow lost in time and maybe even a ghostly doctor doing his rounds like he’s always done. My imagination was not broken, unlike my heart.
The blue curtain was pulled around him, in tugs that nearly brought the whole thing down on the guy and his bed but there was a huge gap in my direction, so there was little or no dignity for him or me, but I suppose it didn’t matter; we were strangers in a weirdly anonymous but not private situation.
The mad professor was the cardiology registrar I found out due to the Q&A going on next door and was the guy standing with his rotund figure was an experienced and world-weary fellow — who knew his beans. But as for the lack of intimacy in the dialogue I was hearing I didn’t understand a word of what he was saying anyway.
I looked away and stared out the window and imagined the hand of my Darling in mine as a tear slipped down my unshaven face; I had no toiletries, no change of clothes, no slippers, nor the hand that soothed me. I wasn’t happy also miles and miles away from her and that hurt.
I needed to put my big by pants on but I didn’t have then with me.
I was on my own, really on my own, with the old boys who seemed to be aware of their surroundings but not of me. But I was glad to be anonymous for the moment. I didn’t want to stay and get to know anyone — least of all because I could barely understand word they babbled to each other in their northern dialects.
The mad professor disappeared after pulling the curtain back to the wall where it limply remained.
But later he came back and this time pulled a curtain around me…
Is it me, or is it possible that people can hear you through the blue folded curtains? They may as well stay open, in my view.
Anyway, he had had a brief from the younger, mad professor-to-be, and not only asked me new and even more searching questions, but poked his stethoscope all around my chestibox.
He swept professionally from the front of my chest but soon started making positive grunts and noises around my back as if he’d found the faulty part of me and was happy to tell me in these weird grunts while I was left staring in front of me where the blue curtain was going out of focus in this mad process.
In the end, he sat on the bed along side me and said he had discovered that I had experienced an attack on the heart, had water in the bottom of my lungs and needed to have a new echocardiogram to assess the rate at which the heart is pumping, and then I could be given the right and new medication ease the pressure on my poorly heart. Yes it was an attack of the heart, he paused,
“a heart attack”, “do you understand”.
I said that I did but I didn’t say that I dearly wanted my Darlings hand. I wanted it sooooo much.
Whilst he was ending the summary, to my detriment, he opened the curtain as he was reiterating and reinforcing the point about having a new echocardiogram, to which the guy in the next bed, who had had the mad professor earlier, fired a few quick one-liners at him like,
“When will we get the scans done? I need one too.”
This was met by the professors experienced and vague patter, explaining that “the list the radiologists had would have both your names on it”. “But it could be done tomorrow”, “Goodbye”.
“Could?” I shouted inside. You have got to be kidding.
The prof disappeared in a flash of smoke and the background music to this horror show continued to play on, and my mind was a wreck.
Could be tomorrow, I re-imagined. I don’t know if I can wait that long…
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In between actions, nurses, tea urns and crazy profs, I had now contacted my Darling, whom I dreaded calling, but she was soooooo tired that I had no real worries about me over that fact that she had had no sleep and was worried sick and wanted to be by my side, holding my hand.
The simple fact was that she wasn’t well enough to think these facts through, and she was at work in her A&E fretting.
So I asked her a few things that might help me out of this hole I was in. To ask her local A&E doctors to give me some of the data about my own hearts echo’ I had last year to give to the mad professor and speed up the process to the medication process — avoiding a long wait this week for a new echo’.
This my Darling reluctantly said she’d do, but would it be enough?
In the end what she got was wonderful (to me) and I thought it would move forward the cogs of this infuriating and slow mornings admin.
The fact that this health centre’s ability to see my health authority’s info about me was so frustrating. I lived “out-of-county” and my records “out of reach”.
Why can’t all health districts talk and digitally share all data on all patients throughout the country? That would certainly get them up to speed in seconds, whether at A&E or on the wards for a better service, in particular for me today, with my heart and cancer diagnosis?
It’s annoying to say the least!
So my Darling sent the data to me,
I sent the data to the nurse on AMU,
She printed out the pages,
The nurse gave the pages to the doctor, then he read them.
Simple!
By then it was 2pm and my eldest son and his wife, who still looked like death warmed up, sadly arrived to hear the bad news. The printed pages were not new enough. I had to have a new echo’.
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But I had a cunning plan, which was that I would discharge myself if things got bad…
Which they did.
Things were getting worse and time was marching on!
I would miss my lift (of, the bus of old — and this blogs title) I would miss the buss.
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Later…
I discharged myself and escaped with a goodwill discharge note with all the relevant data and of course the direction the cardiologists were going down the road of — plus the blood tests printed too, as a personal favour to me.
This allowed me to send all that data to my GP, cardiologist and oncologist overnight, ready for Monday morning’s review advice and possibly appointments too.
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I slept like a log all night — I was astonished when I realised I had.
After breakfast with my friends who were taking me home, and the hosts who made my life so easy this weekend, we set off back south, the 400-odd miles, and said good-bye, initially with many happy and but later sad tears in our eyes. This time I was not the only one to cry.
We got home to my Darling and Mr Vicious at 18:30 and were all tired.
My Darling’s arms were waiting and the warm hands held me tight.
We said goodbye our friends who had brought me all the way home, they had another 15 miles to go till they could get home and put the kettle on, and put their feet up.
What a day.
————
There was a reply from all three health departments en-route South.
The GP will have all the discharge info sent to her directly
I will try and get a very quick appointment to see my new best Dr at the surgery, so that I can continue to get to know her — she is a good egg. She will hopefully understand what’s what and get me seen soon by cardiology.
The oncologist wasn’t worried as it was not in her field of expertise, but asked me to get a blood test appointment ASAP, which I did, for Wednesday in two days, and I already have the blood sheets (via email) to print and take to the appointment Wednesday.
But as for the cardiologists, they said, “As you were removed from our books three weeks ago, you will have to go through your GP for a new referral and start all over again.”
Sweeeeeet!
Make your own judgements about the crap we have to put up with as patients in an overrun NHS. I can’t sometimes believe what we are hear from these over-burdened experts.
But hey-ho.
What a day.
Other things happened, but let’s be honest, you know I will indulge in those at a later date.
So for now, good night.
Take care.
