Adventures in medicine land Part 5: Nurses

They sent a dietician to see me on account of my Incredible Bulk impersonation.  She recommended meal replacement shakes which she assured me tasted quite nice.  If she is wrong, I am going to throw it over her.  The mixed liquid, not just the packets.  Now, if she is using them, then they work.  Not that I want to look exactly like her.  That will involve lots of expensive surgery.  Starting with shortening my legs by 20 cm.

If the slow transformation doesn’t work, then something more drastic will be called for.  Liposuction.  The medical aid will not pay for it; therefore, I will have to make candles and soap from the fat to finance the procedure.  Marketing these might be tricky.  But people are very into authenticity.  Purity of source.  Terroir, if you will.  Let’s try then.

“Wash yourself with a soap made only of the purest arse fat mixed with ash from last Thursday’s braai.” I could brand it as Ash and Arse.  Maybe I can work in that the fat was made mostly from fast foods, thereby giving low-paying jobs to many.  And now, in a way, those dead-end jobs are cleaning you.  Giving them further purpose.

“Woo your partner by the romantic light given off by candles made from a single source of abdominal fat.”

“Live dangerously by the light of dangerous fat.”

Having previously extolled the virtues of nurses, they do have one irritating habit.  Waking you up.  To quote Col Potter from M*A*S*H “It is 5 o’clock in the blessed am!”.  Nothing good has ever happened to me at 5 in the morning.  They wake you up, switch on bright lights, give meds, measure your vitals and then you wait.  Bright eyed waiting for the doctors.  For breakfast.  But it is not even 6!  Breakfast comes around at 8 and the doctors between 7 and 9.  So why 5 am?  Is it some leftover from pre-electric lighting times when the early risers (even then undeservedly) occupied the moral high ground?  I’m sure even Nurse A’s normally soft-focus, slow-motion features will be over exposed, harshly lit and coming at you at double speed that early in the morning.

But the waking up is not limited to 05h00.  There are the night wakes.  The excuse this time is blood samples.  Intellectually I understand that to have results in the morning the sample must be taken pre-morning.  And that being awakened before having a needle stuck in you is preferable to the needle doing the waking work.  But dammit!  I was sleeping.  Maybe I should be thankful it was only blood samples.  Imagine being woken at 3 in the morning to produce a stool sample.

 

Further Adventures in Medical world Part 4: Support network

Remember how this series started? “Mistake will be reported until lesson learned.” And the lesson was “You can’t do it alone”. We are expanding on that today.  

“You don’t have to do it alone”

As soon as I let people know I was in hospital, the offers of help started.  The visits started.  The gifts started.  My work husband/wife (we are not sure who is who) brought soft food. He brought yoghurt (eating), yoghurt (drinking) and purity. Namesake brought chocolates which I gave to half the Angels.  The other half got biltong and droëwors.  Water and books were other thoughtful, practical gifts.  Most people asked what they could bring or do. I mostly said, “no, I’m fine”.  Then TireMan asked if there was stuff that needed to go in the bin at the flat.

I’ve known TireMan since long before he became TireMan.  I got in early.  Like the people who knew a young Bruce Wayne. As he asked, I realised there is a black bag with Chicken Licken bones on the kitchen floor that it would be better to get out.  But I also realised the flat is a disaster zone.  Nevertheless, I gave him the keys. And my friend of over 30 years cleaned the flat properly without being asked, took clothes to the laundry and was just a wonderful man.  And he still talks to me.

Namesake came often.  And I stayed with him and his lovey wife after getting out of hospital.  I was scared of being on my own after everything that happened, and they provided support, even organising someone to be there during the day, when they were working.  Those few days meant my recovery started off well.  Then they had to go on holiday and they arranged a few days in the light care unit of an old age home. 

In 1996 I stayed next to the inappropriately named Jeugland Ouetehuis.  Not quite Autumn House or Last Chance Old Age Home, but still.  I remember complaining that their 16:30 dinner bell disturbed my weekend afternoon naps. So here was an opportunity for a joke I could not pass on.  Plus, some medical care.

Turns out more lessons were waiting.

Once again high praise for the staff who were nothing but kind, considerate and professional.  Checking in I got asked questions about medical aid, funeral service provider, mobility and was it my own teeth.  A reality check on many levels. 

At breakfast everyone had their designated spot.  Now it makes it easier to distribute the pills, but these people who have lived long lives were sitting like primary school children in a class.  I would want to be able to sit where I want to and have breakfast with different people. And be with my friends. Not forced together with strangers by circumstances. 

 “Where were you before this?”, my elderly neighbour asked after introductions.  The implication of that question rocked me.  This is not where you start. This is way down the track. only a few stops left. In the end what was supposed to be a chance for a joke 28 years in the making, turned out to be a reminder to enjoy your mobility, your friends and your own teeth while they were there.

To everyone who called, texted, visited, brought stuff or offered to help at the time or after, my sincere and utter thanks. I hope that I have now learned that complete self-reliance is not the ultimate state.  Because, dammit, I don’t want to learn this way again.

 

Further Adventures in Medical Land. Part 3: What is dignity?

 

What is the correct response to receiving a suppository as a 50 year old? Thank you? Do you turn to the nurse before saying it? Do you wait until she has removed the gloves? Or do you keep your head buried in the pillow and imagine she was wearing a normal glove and not the one vets use to deliver cows?

If this bit triggered a gag reflex, maybe give this post a skip.  It only gets worse.

In the beginning I got help showering by some young medical assistants. Undressing in front of a stranger now seems normal. For their sake I hope athletes come in some times.  Give them something good looking to wash.  The assistants were all very good.  Not once a remark about the vast expanse to be washed.  They were immune. My nakedness didn’t phase them. It shouldn’t phase me.  Relax, I am not going to become a nudist now.  It is just a lesson I needed.

It seems excretions after operations are important.  In ICU they measure every fluid in and out. Only after several times of using it, did I realise the blue pee bottle had ml markings on it.  Therefore, I could leave it in the toilet and just give them the number, not walk out into the ward with it so they can do a magic thing. At some stage they worried about my kidney output.  The wee was not enough and not light enough.  Burnt Sienna is what I described it as in a moment of pomposity. And so, I found out Nurse A paints.  I was referring to the book by David Morrell.  He of First Blood fame. Only reason I knew of the colour. Anyhow, our heroine solved the quantity issue by noting the significant amount of sweat I produced.

Going accompanied to the toilet was somewhat weird.  Arse hanging out of the too small gown (or too big body) and the staff trying to cover it.  Not that I cared.  But, one has to consider that some people might have eaten. Once inside they retreat.  Own sanity probably.  And then you don’t flush, cause how it looks is important.  And you are not trained in the stool scale so your descriptors are invalid.

In the general ward I had some trouble producing meaningful solid output.  Or any. Hence the suppository.  And then a slight misunderstanding.  A product was left, which I think was meant to be used in a very low dosage to help things along.  But the syrup was designed to clean out the entire system.  And I got two doses. 

At first I wanted to share the output quite proudly, like a two year old.  “Look nurse. Me made poopoo”.  But it continued.  And the warning I got each time, become less and less.  Until one time I was too late.  There I stood next to a toilet, my traveling path marked by my own poo that was also on myself.  This is when I had to ask for help to clean my own backside.  The upside of this was I could tell the Doc it wasn’t diarrhea, because it didn’t splatter and run away when it hit the floor.

Having shat myself and ask for help was probably the lowest point in my life. Yet the staff handled it professionally and made nothing of it.  Lesson learned. Your dignity or self-worth is not linked to having to ask for help even on bodily functions. And you can help others with theirs by just helping and not making a fuss.

Further adventures in medical land Part 2: ICU

As fantasies go, getting stripped by a group of nurses is not original.  And yet, there I was, living my fantasy.  I wish I could report smouldering looks.  Lingering touches. Stirring etc. But no.  Very functional.  They have done and seen everything before.  And skilled in talking to distract you from what is going on.  Also, I didn’t care who did or saw what.  Pain meds not quite kicked in yet. 

Here I have to insert a disclaimer that my recollection of events from here on might be heavily influenced by pain medication. 

 After making the obligatory “extra money for you if you wake me up” joke to the anesthetist, I was out.  Slightly worried, because the hospital scale couldn’t weigh me (zoo still 80km away).

 It is important not to slap the staff of ICU on their backs.  You might damage their wings.  Not sure where they hide them.  And this is not only my opinion.  The Pastor, who has spent a lot of time in such units for his cancer, back and heart problems, and let’s face it, is trained in divinity, concurs with my assessment.  It is not that the general ward is not like that. But I guess the higher-grade angels gets promoted to ICU.

The morning after the operation a physio arrives.  A slender woman insisting I get up.  I just had an organ removed, lady! I wanted to scream.  But apparently, I could get up.  With the physio clutching my arm, giving her early warning of a fall and thus able to get out of the way in time, we set off for the end of the unit.  In front of me is Nurse A (For Angel) as a target.

“Look up. Relax your shoulders.” She reminded me throughout.  This would play in my head whenever I walked after that.  She was my nurse for the day and at that stage I saw her with a light behind her framing her face.  Later she explained that I got it wrong.  The light behind angel motif is used by a different branch of the angels.  From then on, and when replaying the scene in my mind, she walks in slow motion, hair blowing, soft lighting.  I think it was during that first walk that I used the corny phrase “You know you are pretty.  Of course you do.  You have a mirror.”

Through the days we had interesting conversations, starting with one about separating the person and their good and bad actions.  Oscar Pretorius. Bill Cosby and the one that started the whole thing, Florence Nightingale. I really enjoyed the chats.

People came to visit.  Sent messages. But no postcards. Offers of help from all over. Astonishing support.  Lesson was not be astonished by this.

And then on Saturday a patient needing resuscitation came in.  It was like the movies.  Whole team jumping in.  Each doing their part.  And more nurses and doctors came.  I couldn’t see because they drew the curtains, but I could hear.  This was a team giving it’s all to save a man they didn’t even know.  I don’t know how long it took.  And I missed The Call by being in the bathroom.  Nurse A thought I had run away to avoid it.  That, in retrospect, would have been the smarter choice.  As they emerged from behind the curtains the team had the same look as a losing professional sports team.  Stoical and deeply disappointed. And then the family came.  Wife. Teenage daughters. Parents. Their grief tearing through the curtains to serve me another lesson.  

I was lucky.

Further adventures in medical land. Part 1.

 

“Mistake will be repeated until lesson learned”, Tall Boss used to preach to us.  And so it came to pass that I needed to learn again.  The hard way.

Picture this.  Wednesday evening.  Indigestion.  Fairly bad. A bit of pain.  I’m ignoring it.  Very Hemingway. I also did something you shouldn’t do.  I Googled symptoms of inflamed appendix, because of a pain lower right.   Turns out according to the web, I had such a thing.  No worries, we all know you shouldn’t Google symptoms.   Else we will always have every disease on earth.  But my gut told me (and as it is quite substantial, I normally listen, Or at least give it a hearing.) don’t eat or drink anything.  Because of the operation. For the thing I probably don’t have.

I dressed for work, drinking some stomach cramp pills to help.  Pills didn’t last long inside.  Called in to work to say I might not make it.  As I lay in bed again, checking more boxes of the symptoms, I wondered which is best local hospital?  Phoned a colleague.  And also, by the way, what is the ambulance’s number?

“Should I come and get you?” 

No, No.  If it gets worse, I’ll call.  Turns out a few voices in heads at office prevailed and I get a call.

 “I’m coming to get you.”, Millwright-Engineer says. 

By now even I realise this is the better option. Thinking myself very smart I pack a powerbank, phone charger and bizarrely one extra pair of underwear.  I am hospital ready.

So we hang around at casualty for a while. Blood tests, urine tests, discuss symptoms, get asked about pain.  (Shouldn’t we discuss the scale first?, the scientist in me ask) Anyhow, I’m OK.  Don’t need pain meds.  Still staying off the water.  Just in cases.

“You need a scan.” 

Desperately I hope I fit into the human machine.  Because the one for rhinos is at the zoo and 80km away.  Luckily I fitted.  So now we can only wait for the results of the scan and those blood tests. The urine test revealed nothing.

Enter stage right a very young doctor.  Surgeon it says on his shirt.  So maybe just good looking and not so young. 

“What are you here for?” 

We agreed it is my appendix. Which has started to “leak”.  The interweb was right! I start looking for the nurse who made the painkiller offer.  Offer still valid?  Poor Millwright-Engineer, having stayed all the time, got my credit card, paid for a few admin things, earphones and filled in forms. He stuck around until I got taken to ICU for operation prep. Left his number. He was now my next of kin.  By now, in what will become a theme, the first of many nurses was trying to get a drip in me, struggling with veins hidden beneath the fat.

Part 1 ends with me hunch backing my way to ICU clutching an IV drip stand.

Lessons up to this point. You can’t do it on your own.  People are good. Fat doesn’t help.