Horrible Hospitals

30 Nov

It’s difficult to describe the feeling you get when you are really poorly, sick enough to not notice the amount of time passing or the room moving around you. It feels like everyone is on fast forward, and no matter how much you try, you can’t move any faster to catch them up. It’s disconcerting, and yet you are too sick to really care.

That’s how I found myself a couple of weeks ago, after a big weekend. It turns out the big weekend had nothing to do with the hospital visit, and all it did was manage to suppress the symptoms, as I put it down to too much fun, and too much wine.

On the Monday morning, I realised all wasn’t well when my vision started to blur, and my heart literally felt like it was going to pack in. I don’t know how else to describe it, other than terrible. I thought I was dying, but rationalised this to be my ever so slight drama queen tendencies, and tiredness from the weekend. But as it got worse, I decided to get someone to take me to the hospital. I arrived; they gave me a gown and rigged me up to a drip, with the nurse commenting that I would be admitted for a few days. Clearly have nothing else to do, I thought. Bit over the top!! But as I drifted in and out of what, upon reflection can only be described as consciousness, I gave up caring how much they prodded and poked me, took blood and generally added to my negative thoughts of hospitals.

My first beef with these places are the hospital gowns. What’s the deal with them? Years of progression in the fashion industry has given us poppers, buttons and zips, yet in the medieval hospital systems, they still thing a tie is a good idea. My mum still tells everyone the story of when I was taken into hospital as a child, and wandered off to x-ray with my gown open and my pants on full view, thanks to the ineffectiveness of the tie. Luckily this time I had my mother on hand to protect my modesty, as I was really ill to care about who saw my choice of knickers. I regularly argue with the Geordie about knickers, my point being that you should never wear granny pants in case you have an accident and they have to cut your clothes off and see your embarrassing pants, her point being that there is nowt more comfortable than a pair of enormous granny pants that you can pull over your head. So my point was proven, much to my mother’s amusement, when on her arrival I turned to her, with a horrified face and revealed that, after a busy weekend, I only had granny pants (the ONLY PAIR I OWN!) left that morning, and nowlookwhatshappened!

So, mortified, I decided I needed the toilet. I thought this would be as easy as them rigging me up to one of those old people poles so I could potter off for a pee. Ah no. The nurse turned up with, shudder, a commode. I have never been so mortified in my life. It followed with some blasphemy, my mum nearly wetting herself at my reaction and the nurse finding my horror amusing. No way. I wasn’t doing that. There were people less than half a metre away from me, separated by A CURTAIN! I very politely said thank you, but I could hold on, for the nurse to inform me that if I needed to wee in the next 7 hours, I would be brought the commode. Stage fright is not the word for it. It didn’t help that my mother and the nurse were cackling outside like a coven of witches, and I could hear the entire conversation of the family next door.

Horrors over, I was moved to a ward. I hadn’t actually cried till this point, too ill/heart of stone preventing me from doing so, but when they wheeled me onto what can only be described as an OAP ward, my mother gave me the I-know-she’s-going-to-kick-off face, but my normal reaction was suppressed my tiredness. This was the point where I lost the will to live.

After demanding a sleeping pill like a child demanding sweets, I fell into a drug induced sleep, interrupted only by the senile old lady who kept trying to get in bed with me, and the bleeping and buzzing of all the machines.

And this leads me to my point. I was discharged and I’m much better now, but I put my speedy recovery down to my amazing friends. It’s not often I take the time to say thank you to them for just being, but to my lovely favourites who brought me flowers, sent me messages and called to check how I was doing, you helped to make it a little more amusing and stop me from dwelling in my own ill. And especially thank you to Emma, for her regular visits, gifts of food and amusing comments “oh…. I should have brought you some chocolate. Oh no, wait”, and to my sister, for dropping everything, taking time off work and just sitting with me while I slept, or more often, whinged. I love you all.

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