So it’s been a while since I’ve blogged. I guess we’ve had the small issue of a global pandemic to be dealing with, which took some key people by surprise. By ‘people’ I do not refer to the scientists, WHO officials and many other talented individuals who were screaming and shouting about COVID for a long, long time. I am meaning those kinda people who let Cheltenham Horse Racing happen in March.

Anyway, I hope you like me are thrilled with the scientific community for pulling their socks up and coming up with some nifty vaccines – let’s hope everyone understands the concept of herd immunity. Unfortunately experience tells me they don’t, which doesn’t matter if you’re going to have the vaccine, but kinda does if you’re going to object to it on the grounds of Bob at number 17 having a sore arm for 3 minutes post jab, an affliction which may or may not have be attributable to the vaccine.

Getting on to the matter at hand. I wanted to share with you a recent experience of mine.

In the early hours of an otherwise unnoteworthy December morning, I crawled around to the other side of the bed to tell my husband that I unfortunately needed to be taken to hospital. That niggly tummy pain I’d been having on and off for 2 years? Yeh, that had got worse over the last few days, and much as I wanted excess beans to be the causative factor, it was becoming clear that classic ‘vegetable-induced-abdominal pain’ wasn’t the likely diagnosis.

First things first, we had to sort out how I was to arrive at A&E at 4am. Calling an ambulance was a bit extreme given we have transport. But we needed someone to stay with the kids, or, ya know, that would be dangerous and illegal and stuff. So we rang my mum. The same mum that says ‘anything ever the matter call at anytime.’ So we called. And called. And called some more. Until Chris (hubby) gave up and drove to her house, and was only able to wake her by combination of a large siren and small earthquake. Anyway, mum turns up and off we trot.

Covid means that you aren’t allowed anyone with you in hospital at the moment. I’m not ashamed to admit that the image of my husband leaving hospital when I was possibly in the most pain I have ever been in, coupled with a feeling of fear as to what manner of vegetable could be the cause, made me feel more vulnerable than I ever remember being. A&E was exceptionally busy – ambulances waiting outside, patients in trolleys lining the corridors, nearly every seat taken. So there I was, in exceptional pain, scared, and in the midst of a sea of other people.

In one sense, I was fortunate that my ‘patient pathway’ from A&E was pretty straightforward. You see, pain in the right upper bit of your tummy is deemed to be of a surgical cause until proven otherwise, and so you may be lucky that the nurse who initially assesses you in the emergency department will ring up to the surgeons and palm you off onto them ASAP- and in doing so relieve A&E of another body taking up space. It also means I don’t need to sit in a corner of the emergency department waiting for some poor emergency doctor to get through their unassailable list until they finally reach me.

So I walk up to the surgical admissions unit with my allocated charming and chatty HCA. On reflection, I probably should have taken her up on the offer of a wheelchair – I stood significantly hunched over because of the pain, but, because I have some unhelpful belief that getting help means I’ve failed as a human being, I rejected the offer of an easier ride. Upon arriving at the surgical ward, I saw the registrar on call within half an hour. I’m not entirely sure what happened in that review, but I know it ended with someone decent painkillers – and I have never been more grateful for anything.

I’m not sure how long I was sitting in the surgical admissions unit, but I reckon it must have been most of that day, because dinner was being distributed around the bays when I hopped into my bed. During the day I was entertained by a number of delightful individuals (names anonymised incase the 5 people who read this may know them). Shannon was one of those who thought it was appropriate to let everyone know her medical history, and repeatedly so, through multiple telephone chats with what sounded like anyone and everyone who would like to her. Apparently, she had been ‘play fighting’ with a ‘mate’, and said she had ‘punched them in the face’ for ‘fun’, and that they had retaliated by punching her in the stomach. Despite the fact that Shannon appeared very well, and had a booked scan within hours of her admission, she felt vindicated in sharing with all how she’d inappropriately been waiting for hours, along with other delightful reviews of the service provided. Unfortunately, Shannon’s scan was at a similar time to my own, so I also had her accompany me in the waiting room for ultrasound scan. It will likely come as no surprise to you that Shannon was later discharged home.

That day I had two further reviews by more senior members of the surgical team. You know they are senior because they are followed by juniors, who are usually visibly in shock at how awful surgical on calls can be whilst they desperately sift through notes to find a blank sheet to scribble something useful on, and transcribe jobs needing doing to an endless list they carry. ‘On calls’ are what we name those shifts we do out of normal hours. So anytime you are seen during the night and weekend, it will be by the on call team. Go easy on them, that team is also looking after most of the other patients in the hospital – it’s not a huge leap of compassion to realise you are unlikely to be in most need of their help.

The second senior doctor come to review me was an exceptionally hot registrar, who, if I wasn’t fearful of my body failure, I may have assessed for suitability to one of my single friends. Things being as they were though (and recalling a doctor’s ethical code…), we instead chatted about my crappy pancreas and gall bladder, and phrases like ‘jaundice,’ and ‘need for IV fluids’ and ‘stay in hospital’ got thrown in. It appears that a stone from my gallbladder had got stuck in the duct that goes through the pancreas en route to the gut, and had thus caused inflammation of the pancreas (‘pancreatitis’).

Let’s take a time out to consider non-essential organs and the trouble they cause us. Appendix? Little bugger. Wisdom teeth? What’s the point in them. Gall bladder? Not only is the gall bladder’s sole function ‘storing bile’ (it doesn’t even produce it, that’s the liver, which, coincidentally, does a shed load of other things at the same time), but when it goes wrong it causes all sorts of problems for Mr-next-door organ minding its own business.

So I’m on my bed in the ward, nil by mouth (not allowed to eat to you and me) to give the pancreas and gall bladder a chance to rest, watching water drip into my vein. A little different to my normal pace of life, but we now thankfully have a whole life to explore on our mobiles, so I set about letting people know that I won’t be able to play tennis on the account of having pancreatitis and all. I trundle my drip stand over to the loo when needed, past the elderly lady with dementia, who shouts ‘NURSE’ every time I past in a deafening scottish boom. Later that evening, instead of once again explaining that I wasn’t a nurse but would get help, I went to fetch her the towel she requested – to which I received an ‘aye, and it’s about time too.’

The following day the lady opposite struck up a conversation – it seemed she had been admitted after a routine procedure for observation. We had several conversations around me being a possible relation to her Devon-based family doctor. I’m not, but I’m still not convinced she believed me. To be honest, the argument was so compelling, I’m not sure I believe me.

At midnight I was swept up and transferred to a different ward. The news hit a little hard, because I know the ward I was going to was what we call an ‘outlier’ ward – it’s not part of the main wards, but opened up when there are no beds, and it’s normally for people who are more able or less sick. I was, however, hugely grateful for the extra slept gained from a quieter ward that night, and it became apparent by morning that I was much improved. Unfortunately the following day brought Doris-the-human-drain to the ward. Doris who, when she wasn’t asleep snoring, was awake and sharing all that was grey in life and the world with her new found friend. The friend seemed pretty normal and chipper to be honest, I’m not sure why she was so paly with the drain. Maybe because she knew her discharge was imminent.

Consultant ward round in the morning saw consultant plus hot registrar plus junior pop round, the conclusion to which was another scan needed (to check about the pesky stone), with a plan to whip out gall bladder ASAP all being well.

The scan was an MRI of the gall bladder area. I now have sympathy with people who feel claustrophobic, or who take a dislikening to having an MRI. It is really quite an unpleasant experience – the tunnel isn’t what I’d call roomy, and the MRI machine is very loud. What made my experience slightly more odd was the story playing through the headphones (used because of how loud the machine is. It was a fictional one of how the ebola virus spread and was wiping out the world. Not the best choice for a relaxing podcast when patients are in a tight tunnel, scared for their health, well aware that half the patients in the hospital have Covid. The other odd thing was the accent of the voice played when asking you to breathe in and out (which is important to get particular images). I listened very closely to this on the 9 or 10 occasions it was said during my MRI party, and it definitely sounded like ‘brathe on, brathe out.’ What does that mean?! Anyway, it lasted 15 mins, and I departed back to the ward after giving what I felt was constructive feedback on the choice of headphone chats and clarity of instruction.

Next day, I find out I’m on the list for being under the knife. Deep brathe on.

When a surgeon tells you they are going to try to do it ASAP, you kind of don’t believe it until you’re being wheeled into theatre, because there is not an insignificant chance that a more urgent case will come in and (appropriately) jump the queue. The most odd thing I found about the whole surgery experience was my pre-operative chat with a male nurse. He was asking all the tick box questions needed for surgery, when the anaesthetic registrar came in to chat through, well, anaesthetic type stuff. I mentioned that I had my period, that I’d forgotten to mention it to the surgeon (classic patient), and asked about practicalities. The male nurse then said how he was glad I’d brought it up, it was on his checklist, and how he was intending to get one of his female colleagues to ask about my time of the month. I don’t think I’m being particularly new-age to feel that this is a question a male health care professional should feel ok about asking, and that women should feel ok about hearing from a male in this situation. This was a senior staff nurse – I wonder what had happened in his career for him to feel this way.

Round in theatre (isn’t it weird that we use this word for places where both plays and surgery happen?), I am hugely thankful to have what appears to be a highly competent anaesthetic aswell as surgical team. The consultant anaesthetist noticed I was cold, and got me a warm blanket, which I kept until discharge. I know much bigger things happened in that room, but I found it to be a very kind and observant gesture – something that did not need to be done, but that did make me feel a lot better after surgery.

And this I feeling I went home with the following day. During my 5 days inpatient stay, I had interactions with multiple staff, across multiple departments and wards. The hospital was on red alert, beds over-flowing, staff busier than they should ever be reasonably asked to be, yet there were so many acts of kindness and good willing at a time where I felt incredibly vulnerable. A registrar that saw me quickly at the end of a busy night shift so I could get pain relief; a nurse who stayed 4 hours after her shift ended because there was work still needing doing; a HCA who spent her lunch break taking me to a scan because my blood sugars had dropped; a caterer who spent an hour rummaging around the ward and A&E to find an elderly woman’s missing shoe; a registrar who came to see me after my surgery even though his shift was finished and there was no need to review me; a consultant who took the time to answer all my questions even when there were many, many more people to review. I work for the NHS, so I admit I may be bias, but I think we all too commonly forget about how absolutely bloody wonderful the NHS is. There are things that go wrong, and always things that can be improved, but by and large it’s an absolute miracle it provides the service it does. I hope one day Shannon and the drain will realise that.

Note to self: ‘Shannon and the drain’ – quite a good name for a rock band.