HOSPITAL STORY (PART 3)

The porters arrived and pushed me through the hospital corridors like pallbearers at a funeral march. For some inexplicable reason, all I could think about at this time was the fact I had forgot to call work that morning even though I had called them the day before. I was getting really worried about that rather than the impending slicing open of my dying lower body. This worry soon went once I entered the pre-operating room, which felt like the size of a small cupboard but somehow managed to fit me and five other people in it. I honestly expected the doors to fling open to reveal a huge fire ready to cremate me alive. They put an oxygen mask on me and asked me to relax. I was about as relaxed as a blender. The last thing I remember is one of the surgeons asking me to try and keep my eyes open, then I was gone – off to slumberland to dream about rainbows and ponies while some bloke cut me up like a dead cow.

The next thing I remember is falling in and out of sleep back in the hospital ward. I always wondered if it was true how movies often depict someone waking up from an operation or something – all those blurry lights and muffled sounds and figures moving in slow motion in the distance. Turns out it is. A nurse then removed my oxygen mask and, bizarrely, the first thing I did was pick up my phone and call work. I was clearly clinically “not right” at that point. I don't remember the conversation but my boss would later inform that I said I would be back in work next week, raring to go as if the only thing they had done to me was give me a light massage.

I gradually came round, as did the pain. It was difficult to decipher what the pain was at that point; was it from the operation or did the stomach cramps still remain? After all, it wasn't definite that I had appendicitis. What if it wasn't? What if they had to operate again?? What if I had to live in the hospital FOREVER??? AAAAHHHHHH!!! (Just to confirm, this hysterical outburst was all in my mind as I couldn't even sit up, let alone run around the place screaming my head off.) It soon became clear that the cramps had gone and that it was post-operation pain. Praise the lord.

Apparently the operation lasted barely an hour but by the time I had properly come round it was about 5 in the evening. Like I said – black hole. Unfortunately I still wasn't allowed to eat but, to be honest, from over-hearing what was on offer in the hospital, I'd kind of lost my appetite (hospital chicken tikka masala anyone?). So I wasn't able to move, eat or drink but, thankfully, just as I was about to plan another escape, Amy arrived with fresh clothes and magazines and conversation to keep me sane.

The following morning, after some absolutely mental dreams (more on them later), I had the usual wake up call from a group of doctors and I got to see the wound for the first time. It rather took me by surprise. Rather than the keyhole surgery I, and the surgeons, had anticipated, it looked more like someone had been at me with a machete. Ok, I exaggerate, but it's a pretty decent sized incision. Turns out I did have appendicitis. Yay! Also turns out that my appendix was a bit of a bastard and that the operation was more complex than expected, hence the axe wound across my stomach. The doctor told me all about what happened but all I can remember are the words “a bit tricky” and “complicated.” Bastard appendix! This would result in me having to stay in the hospital for longer than I wanted (originally I had wanted to stay for no more than 5 minutes at the most) and becoming the most ill I have ever been.

Over the next 5 days or so, nurses, doctors and visitors came and went, my temperature went crazy, my blood pressure and pulse were regularly checked by about 500 different nurses, litres of blood were taken from my arms and sold to zombies outside (possibly), I had various disgusting soups (DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT EVER CHOOSE THE BROCCOLI AND ASPARAGUS SOUP. IT”S BASICALLY MUCUS) and sandwiches (after being correctly advised by Amy not to go for the hot foods), I changed wards, I took about a thousand different types of drugs, I had the most insane dreams I have ever had (involving Hitler moustaches, the Russian president and the BBC newsreader Nicholas Witchell) and my beard grew out of control.

I also had a lot of time to think. It's no lie that I didn't enjoy my time in hospital. I don't think anyone does. It was smelly and there was nothing to do and night times were often unbearable. But I realised how sort of incredible it was at the same time. I am not in any position to give a credible critique on the NHS and explore all that may be right or wrong with it. My experiences are minimal. I can only speak as a patient who had a crappy appendix and therefore had to go to hospital in order to survive. Despite the unpleasantness of my stay, despite the immense pain I was in, despite the fact I found it odd and frustrating how much paperwork was involved and how it seemed to disrupt the “getting better” process, and despite the fact that I found some of the staff to be very unhelpful and sometimes, dare I say it, uncaring - despite all this, I was grateful to be there. Why? Not only because a bunch of blokes with knives got rid of a pointless organ that could have killed me, but because of this: my job involves sitting in an office, working on a computer and sometimes answering the phone. I get to make tea whenever I want, I can chat to my work colleagues and I can go for a stroll at lunch. Healthcare professionals in a hospital clear up blood, vomit, shit and piss on a daily basis. They have to deal with people such as needy demented old men who think it's 1942, drunk buffoons suffering a broken bottle to the face, and big woosies who are scared of needles (yes, me). They work long days, they work nights, they work at Christmas for God's sake. And the paperwork isn't their fault. I'm sure any nurse, policeman or teacher would be able to talk at length about how much it interferes with proper work, so I won't.

I'm not sure what the point of this story is but I think I just needed to write about it in a cathartic sense and I just wanted to confirm that I would be a terrible, terrible nurse.

R.I.P. Appendix

HOSPITAL STORY (PART 2)

And so it was. After a surprisingly good nights sleep I woke up feeling exactly the same. And this is where the involuntary hunger strike began. Amy correctly advised me that I shouldn't eat a thing in case they operate on me. At the most I should have a few sips of water. Left to my own devices I would have started that day with a massive bowl of Coco Pops, some toast and a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit. The problem is that on a normal day I am constantly eating (mostly rubbish) so the next week or so would be a bloody nightmare (in more ways than one). Off I went back to my favourite place in the world and sat in the waiting room in exactly the same seat. It was real life deja vu but this time I was not to be sent home but to get my very own hospital bed. Um... exciting.

I'm not sure if I've ever been so confused or scared in my entire life. Up to this point, in terms of my health, I had had it pretty easy. The only other times I had been in hospital were to visit other people. I sat on the bed surrounded by healthcare professionals, futuristic machines and people that generally looked a bit yellow. I thought this was the end. I started to panic and worry that I wouldn't get to do all the things I wanted to do before I die (skydive from a jumbo jet, travel the world on a moped, watch the whole of The Wire in just one sitting). When Amy had to go as visiting hours were over, I immediately began to conjure up an escape plan. Then I remembered I couldn't walk anywhere and so gave up.

Whilst waiting to be seen by the surgeon I observed the strange world I had travelled to. Nurses, doctors, healthcare assistants and cleaners (or “hostesses” as Amy informed me) in variously coloured uniforms were the cogs in the machine; tending to everyones needs, ensuring everything goes to plan, while the patients sat there generally moaning and being rubbish. Quite often a nurse would close the curtain around a certain patient and all I could hear were strange gurgling noises and all I could think about was poo. A surgeon then arrived to prod me a bit and again looked bemused at the fact I wasn't really ill. But he decided that it couldn't really be anything else and said they would try and operate tomorrow. I was as relieved as I was terrified. I didn't want to be cut open. I don't think anyone does? At this point my iPhone came into it's own. I believe Steve Jobs purpose-built it for hospitals; to distract people from imminent removal of organs. Without anyone to speak to I Tweeted, Facebooked, Guardianed and played Need For Speed. I was in my own little virtual world where my virtual body would remain unharmed.

My first night in hospital is difficult to describe. Suffice to say it bought to mind The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Hostel and the Vietnam war - the sounds, the darkness, THE HORROR, THE HORROR. Alongside this I couldn't help but feel immensely sorry for the nurses working the night shift. It was at this point I realised exactly what nursing involved, and it was quite humbling.

The next morning I woke up with my usual craving for chocolate cereal but had to make do with some more sips of water. I hadn't eaten for over 24 hours. I felt like Michael Fassbender in Hunger. Another important thing I wasn't allowed to do was wear any clothes apart from a hospital gown, which I didn't know how to do up properly, probably resulting in many people getting more than they bargained for at breakfast time. At this point I was still in a lot of pain but it was being overshadowed by the fear of someone going at me with a knife. Another surgeon came and poked me in the stomach and laughed (probably not the latter) and said they hoped to operate by lunch-time. But I had completely lost track of time so this meant nothing. Staying in hospital was a bit like walking into a black hole. Time didn't seem to exist.

Before I was sent down to the operating theatre, approximately 20 doctors barged into my personal hospital space with clipboards, led by a large scary man who was clearly very important. A prod in the stomach by him felt like a punch in the gut. After doing this a few times he asked the other doctors questions about my shit body. They looked more terrified than me. Before I could ask exactly what they were going to do to me they had disappeared in a puff of smoke. It signalled that the time had come to take me away (which turned out to be more brunch time than lunch time, but hey, I wasn't going to be eating either of those)...

(to be continued)

HOSPITAL STORY (PART 1)

So there I was, last Saturday, quietly enjoying the leftover remnants of a rather wonderful Chinese takeaway from the night before – one of those jobs where you shove it all into an extremely hot pan then straight into a bowl so that it looks like some kind of weird solid chinese soup but tastes delicious. But as I reached the end of this mushy feast I started to feel a little, er, odd. My stomach felt like it was struggling to deal with chinese food again so soon after its last intake of pork ribs and egg fried rice. I knew that my girlfriend, Amy, had cooked the food for long enough because she doesn't mess about when it comes to food or the re-heating of food (I often have to be reminded of the importance of re-heating rice, something which I had previously thought to be a non-issue. Idiot.) I tried to forget about it and get on with making my way to my hometown for the annual HALLOWEEN PARTY EXTRAVAGANZA IN..... Orpington (dressed as Hans Gruber from Die Hard (don't ask)).

The party was ace, I got pretty drunk, we listened to 90s RnB, all was good. Except, it wasn't really. The copious amounts of beer had only helped me to forget about my odd stomach pains, not to get rid of them (obviously). So on Sunday I woke up feeling dodgy again and thought that something definitely was not right inside of my rubbish body. Not to worry though, probably just a mixture of too much chinese food, beer and bad music over the last couple of days. The reason I wasn't too worried at that time is because the pain wasn't really that bad. In fact, it wasn't really pain – it was more stomach cramps, but quite small ones. It was only when I got home and (tried to) walk up the road with Amy to get some food and medicine that I realised this was no hangover. My hangovers normally involve a splitting headache and a craving for corn on the cob. I definitely didn't want corn on the cob at this moment. Halfway up the road and I gradually started to become Quasimodo; hunched over and spewing out incomprehensible nonsense - “The bowels! The bowels!” I bought some super duper bastard strong painkillers, that turned out to do nothing whatsoever, then crawled home and rolled up into a ball on the sofa.

Ridiculously, I went to work the next morning. The thing is, I had been sleeping ok, so, of course, it meant I would be able to operate properly during the day. (No, I've never thought about becoming a doctor). At work I went through various stages of nearly passing out, hobbling to the toilet and whining at my desk. So, the usual then. I decided to call it a day about late afternoon and, on advice from Amy (ever saving my life), phoned the doctor and booked a late appointment. From then on things went a bit mental and some of it is a bit of a blur (or I've deliberately tried to block certain events out due to how unpleasant they were). Also, I've probably got the timeline confused as hospital, I learnt, has no time.

The doctor said I should go to A&E immediately as he thought I had appendicitis. This kind of took me by surprise (I don't know why, it's not as if I just had a 'dicky tummy'). So I booked a cab straight from the surgery after having a mild panic about not having my man bag with me (which normally goes everywhere with me and contains important objects such as my 'Ideas Book', a pack of kleenex and an unopened pack of Wrigley's Extra (I never eat chewing gum so I have no idea why it's in there)). It didn't help that the cab driver was, for want of a better word, a mentalist. He kept on trying to spark up conversation every 3 seconds about traffic and the general crapness of the world, despite it being very obvious that I was about as much up for conversation as I was for break dancing. He also kept calling me 'Robert', which on a normal day winds me up, and so at this particular time really wasn't making me feel any better. I think he might have been both blind and deaf, and therefore really shouldn't be driving ill people to hospital. And there I sat for what seemed liked an eternity - in the A&E waiting room. I was sure I was in purgatory; that my wanker of an appendix had eaten the rest of my insides and I was dead. A&E was in fact God's waiting room and it was taking him hours to complete the paperwork that would confirm my entrance to either heaven or hell. Thankfully, Amy arrived around the time I thought I was gonna pass out and we sat there together laughing at the token drunk guy roaming around the place, which was a nice distraction from the ever-worsening abdominal cramps that at times made me worry that the most famous scene from Alien was going to be recreated at Sussex County Hospital.

I'm not too sure, but I think I saw about 87 nurses/doctors/surgeons that evening, each asking me the same questions and writing down the same answers. I found it all a bit bizarre and pointless. Apparently they were having “the worse Monday night ever.” Surely if they didn't keep repeating themselves then things would be getting done a lot quicker? This would be a recurring theme in my time at the hospital. After doing some necessary but rather horrible things to me, (things I don't wish to mention but included many failed attempts to take blood from both my arms resulting in me nearly crying like a baby and looking like the girl who falls into the syringe pit in Saw 2), they, er, sent me home. They clearly didn't want to but they had no beds and the only options were to sleep on a hospital trolley for the night or go home. Unsurprisingly, I opted for the latter. The surgeon said there was a definite possibility I had appendicitis but that he wasn't 100% sure as I wasn't puking up everywhere (apparently a key symptom). I did, in fact, feel pretty good asides from the crippling stomach pain but considered shoving my finger down my throat just to satisfy the surgeon. Then I remembered my phobia of vomit and so headed home. If I felt the same tomorrow morning, the surgeon said, then I should come back. It needn't have been said. I knew I would be getting on the hospital bus when I wake up...

(to be continued)