That which does not kill me...
Okies, the day of no fun.
Awake at six'ish but hit the snooze button til ten past seven. Showered and scrubbed, no breakfast, into a taxi and up to the hozzy. Arrived on the button, gown on, blood taken for analysis, booked in and processed - is this where I get my cup of tea and biscuit and you send me home? No? Damn! Lots of slightly forced humour from your correspondent who's been shitting bricks about this for a bit. I don't like hospitals, they're full of ill people. A wait for the blood tests; should have had them done yesterday but I missed the bit on the paperwork that said that, so I wait til last. No biggy there, I've brought a couple of hefty magazines and a novel to read, along with the ipod; in what seems like no time at all the nurses are back for me; time for you to send me home with a clean bill of health? No? Instead it's time to meet a bloke who's got an operating theatre of his own. Arse. Not looking forward to this at all, boys and girls. There's a very small but definately existing risk of heart attack, stroke or important damage attached to this procedure. OK, I'm a drama queen but I've got a couple of letters written in my day bag just in case. Enjoyed throwing them away later, if nothing else the handwriting was rubbish.
And as you can clearly see I'm not dead, so all's well that ends well. As it turns out it's a good job the medico's finally beat down my objections and made me have this thing done. The pump's not all it should be at the mo, the flow of important stuff isn't going where it should, some bits that should be flowing freely aren't. So further tweaking will be necessary. Not sure at the moment, on a scale of one to ten just how buggered I am, but it's interesting to know that I've been carrying this for a few years now and when I went up Mount Stol in Slov, I was doing it with a defective heart. Get a few things sorted out; next summer I'm going back up that big lump of rock in a much better condition.
Positive thoughts eh. Who are you and what have you done with the real Mike? No, it's just the only way to think about this. If I stopped and thought about the ups and the downs of this, I'd go mad. So I'll stick with the ups. We'll see what the quack says next week about work, and what I can do. If I have to go onto light duties, it might be the end of the road as far as this work is concerned, it could be all change. Would that be so bad? Change is good, right? Anyhoooo.... as I had nobody at home in case the op' wound popped in the night (wouldn't have been good in any way); a night in a hozzy bed was the order of the day, or rather the evening and night. That's ok... in defiance of a generation of monobrowed thugs "doo yer like 'ospital food", actually I do. It's nutritious, tastes alright, has the right number of healthy things in it and most importantly it's free and I don't have to cook it. OK, might not look great, but you'll never find me joining the blokes who bitch about it. SO, onto the ward I go, or as someone coming out says as I'm coming in, "welcome to the madhouse". A couple of old boys, some noisy bloke with a beard; and a bloke opposite me who appears to be attempting to eject his lungs through his mouth. Personally I prefer to stick the Ipod on Shuffle and turn it up rather than hearing that.
Come the following morning, after not a brilliant night's sleep - takes me a while to adjust to these places - and the 0930 discharge time promised by the surgical people came and went. And began to vanish into the middle distance. Eventually collared a staff nursey type to see what was going on; turned out that in the medical notes between units and wards, the surgical types had cunningly forgotten to write the words "and then discharge" after saying I was just in for a nights observation. Without these magical words, or somebody of at least doctor level, I've as much chance of getting out as Ronnie Biggs. So, the day dragged. Ran out of reading material, was so bored that I actually bought the local paper, and thanks here to friends up and down the country who txt'd me to keep the spirits up; thank you guys. Watched the rugby in the somewhat bizarre circumstances of a hospital ward rather than the far more normal setting of a pub full of rowdy people cheering.... you have to be careful of roaring "get IN there"as some Australian goes down in a heap of legs and teeth, and folks, it was a close run thing a few times! And what a result. Finally managed to frogmarch some registrar chappy up to the ward at about six, and got let out around half six. So much for nine thirty. And back home in time to watch the All Blacks get knocked out by the French; there's something nobody saw coming.
So upwards and onwards, a suprisingly upbeat position to be in but at least we know. A chat with the quack next week about this business and what to do now. The first thing I want is to be back at the gym, and I need to tell them just what I can do and what I can't. Back at the pool as well, haven't swum in yonks, not that I'm an expert. And diet. All this layoff has made me a lardy wee porker of late. And then, as soon as my 72 hours of medically enforced easyness is up, I've got things to do here. I feel suprisingly motivated. Ain't that odd.
Awake at six'ish but hit the snooze button til ten past seven. Showered and scrubbed, no breakfast, into a taxi and up to the hozzy. Arrived on the button, gown on, blood taken for analysis, booked in and processed - is this where I get my cup of tea and biscuit and you send me home? No? Damn! Lots of slightly forced humour from your correspondent who's been shitting bricks about this for a bit. I don't like hospitals, they're full of ill people. A wait for the blood tests; should have had them done yesterday but I missed the bit on the paperwork that said that, so I wait til last. No biggy there, I've brought a couple of hefty magazines and a novel to read, along with the ipod; in what seems like no time at all the nurses are back for me; time for you to send me home with a clean bill of health? No? Instead it's time to meet a bloke who's got an operating theatre of his own. Arse. Not looking forward to this at all, boys and girls. There's a very small but definately existing risk of heart attack, stroke or important damage attached to this procedure. OK, I'm a drama queen but I've got a couple of letters written in my day bag just in case. Enjoyed throwing them away later, if nothing else the handwriting was rubbish.
And as you can clearly see I'm not dead, so all's well that ends well. As it turns out it's a good job the medico's finally beat down my objections and made me have this thing done. The pump's not all it should be at the mo, the flow of important stuff isn't going where it should, some bits that should be flowing freely aren't. So further tweaking will be necessary. Not sure at the moment, on a scale of one to ten just how buggered I am, but it's interesting to know that I've been carrying this for a few years now and when I went up Mount Stol in Slov, I was doing it with a defective heart. Get a few things sorted out; next summer I'm going back up that big lump of rock in a much better condition.
Positive thoughts eh. Who are you and what have you done with the real Mike? No, it's just the only way to think about this. If I stopped and thought about the ups and the downs of this, I'd go mad. So I'll stick with the ups. We'll see what the quack says next week about work, and what I can do. If I have to go onto light duties, it might be the end of the road as far as this work is concerned, it could be all change. Would that be so bad? Change is good, right? Anyhoooo.... as I had nobody at home in case the op' wound popped in the night (wouldn't have been good in any way); a night in a hozzy bed was the order of the day, or rather the evening and night. That's ok... in defiance of a generation of monobrowed thugs "doo yer like 'ospital food", actually I do. It's nutritious, tastes alright, has the right number of healthy things in it and most importantly it's free and I don't have to cook it. OK, might not look great, but you'll never find me joining the blokes who bitch about it. SO, onto the ward I go, or as someone coming out says as I'm coming in, "welcome to the madhouse". A couple of old boys, some noisy bloke with a beard; and a bloke opposite me who appears to be attempting to eject his lungs through his mouth. Personally I prefer to stick the Ipod on Shuffle and turn it up rather than hearing that.
Come the following morning, after not a brilliant night's sleep - takes me a while to adjust to these places - and the 0930 discharge time promised by the surgical people came and went. And began to vanish into the middle distance. Eventually collared a staff nursey type to see what was going on; turned out that in the medical notes between units and wards, the surgical types had cunningly forgotten to write the words "and then discharge" after saying I was just in for a nights observation. Without these magical words, or somebody of at least doctor level, I've as much chance of getting out as Ronnie Biggs. So, the day dragged. Ran out of reading material, was so bored that I actually bought the local paper, and thanks here to friends up and down the country who txt'd me to keep the spirits up; thank you guys. Watched the rugby in the somewhat bizarre circumstances of a hospital ward rather than the far more normal setting of a pub full of rowdy people cheering.... you have to be careful of roaring "get IN there"as some Australian goes down in a heap of legs and teeth, and folks, it was a close run thing a few times! And what a result. Finally managed to frogmarch some registrar chappy up to the ward at about six, and got let out around half six. So much for nine thirty. And back home in time to watch the All Blacks get knocked out by the French; there's something nobody saw coming.
So upwards and onwards, a suprisingly upbeat position to be in but at least we know. A chat with the quack next week about this business and what to do now. The first thing I want is to be back at the gym, and I need to tell them just what I can do and what I can't. Back at the pool as well, haven't swum in yonks, not that I'm an expert. And diet. All this layoff has made me a lardy wee porker of late. And then, as soon as my 72 hours of medically enforced easyness is up, I've got things to do here. I feel suprisingly motivated. Ain't that odd.
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 12:12 am
1 Comments:
Still reckon they chipped you in there extra serotonin but great to have you back in grumpy land.
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