How to get free cocaine ...
It’s easy ... have a nose job! (For the coke anyway)
I can't even fully remember why, because the anaesthetist was already in the process of setting up my knock-out drugs while the surgeon was getting my consent to the cocaine ... but it had something to do with opening the nasal passages as wide as possible with fewest side effects. Hello there informed consent, not sure that’s exactly what happened there, but never mind. Anyway, I was warned that if the surgery was very short and simple I might wake up still tripping, although it was unlikely. I didn't, but I did have a slightly peculiar buzz for the rest of the day that was probably more to do with the entire cocktail of drugs I was on. I also acted a bit irresponsibly, I must confess, and blame the buzz, but all worked out well and there was no harm done.
It was a hard day over all, and a mixed day. I was rather horrified at the set-up for day surgery in Guys. I keep reminding myself that I waited about 6 weeks for this operation, and an Irish waiting list would probably have been 6 months to a year ... but cripes, talk about a revolving door treadmill with no care or concern ethic of any sort.
The last time I had day surgery - in Ireland, I went in early in the morning, and was shown to a bed in a cubicle where I could get changed ... waited there a few hours, but it was OK, because at least I was comfortable, and had already seen the nurse, and had questions answered, and so on. Down for surgery, brief memories of the recovery room, and back to the bed where I could sleep for a few more hours and was encouraged to eat a proper meal and drink plenty of fluids and take my time coming 100% awake before anything else happened. Then the doctor came around to give me the once over and discharge me several hours after light sedation, not a full general. And they made sure I was fully clear headed before they spoke to me and sent me home.
This time, I arrived at 9 for a 9.30 appointment. Planning with public transport it was better to err on the side of caution. I was shown to a 'waiting room' which was a nasty dark room with 30 or 40 chairs and nothing else. Very bloody uncomfortable chairs. School-classroom-bucket chair shaped, but with slight noxious green padding. And just left sitting there from 9am until 12.30. By this time I was in quite intense pain. My hip bones were screaming, and my thigh mussels had gone into nasty permanent craps. Not having had anything to drink all morning I also developed a blinding thirst headache, needless to say. I spent most of the final hour there leaning against the wall swaying as I was in far to much pain with my legs to sit, and far too weak to pace which was the only thing that relieved the pain. I tried to explain the difficulty I was having to a couldn't-give-a-fuck nurse who simply replied that I was on the 'day list' and 'day list patients could get called any time between 9am and 5 pm and couldn't be given a more accurate time than that'. However, they were also running at least 2 other lists, and it was frustrating beyond all hell to see the morning and afternoon (as opposed to day list people) arrive, wait 10 minutes, get called in, and go home an hour later all smiles, while myself and 3 other 'day list' people sat. (the real difference being general versus local anaesthetic, as far as I could figure out)
At half 12 I was called in out of the outside waiting room, given a gown and those horrid pressure socks, (which I snuck into the bin when no one was looking, something discovered hours later, to the nurses extreme disgust) checked in by the nurse and shown ... to a bed, where I could get comfortable and relieve my pain, you think? No, to another identical waiting room. With an identical school-classroom chair to wait on. Where I was left, in agony at this stage, with cramps and twitches and electrical volts rippling up and down my legs from having to sit and maintain that position which I was unable to, until 3.15. From 9am. My first confession of naughtiness was that I took several drinks of water from the bathroom during this time - because if I hadn't would have blacked out. I could feel the roaring in my ears start telling me that a faint was on the way. But it was more a case of thoroughly rinsing out my mouth and spitting most of it back out again, than actually gulping. I may have been cranky and rebellious at this stage, but had no plans for suicide-by-general-anaesthetic either, so made sure it was only enough small sips to keep me from fainting. Maybe not breaking the rules and letting myself pass out instead would have been wise, in a general sense, because it would have demonstrated to the staff that there are consequences to keeping people that dehydrated for that long, something they had clearly forgotten, but for any tentative possible benefit for future patients, I bet you anything *MY* surgery would have been cancelled. I know I always go tachycardic when I faint, and the nurses were already humming and hawing about my blood 02 levels being a little low for surgery.
Anyway, at a quarter to three I was called down at long last - and totally lost it with the nurse. She did that thing that nurses in particular are so prone to. Their files are right, everything else is wrong. She totally mispronounced my name when calling me, and I didn't *exactly* correct her, I just said, 'that’s right, Ciara' (pronounced correctly) in a friendly way. She looked at her file, and in a very cranky voice then declaimed 'You are Chee- ar-ah!' Me, starting to sound cranky. 'it’s pronounced Kee-ra'. So she answered 'Chee-ar-ah, (with huge emphasis on her pronunciation) come this way' and I fecking well exploded. I can't remember everything I said, but it had a lot to do with respect, and human dignity, and looking up from the form and addressing the person, and the pain I was in from sitting for over six hours, and that a person can't be wrong about the pronunciation of their own name, whatever idiotic way the form reads - and the polish girl opposite me got in on the act. She'd been their just as long, and apparently, although I hadn't noticed, they had been mispronouncing her name all day as well even though she kept asking them not to. The nurse blanked both of us. She didn't apologise, she didn't argue back, she pretended that 2 very angry women did not exist, and that she was leading a speechless mannequin from the room, and staked, very rapidly, down the corridor. When she got to the door of the operating room she turned around and saw that I had only managed to get out of my own seat and out the door of the waiting room at this stage, and was taking my first staggering steps down the corridor, so she stalked off to get a wheelchair. Naturally I refused to sit in it. I flung my mantra at her of 'I may not be able to walk very well, but I can still walk.' Fuck, I wanted/needed that wheelchair, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face (and how appropriate that is!) but never mind, onwards and upwards. 'Slow down, slow down' she kept admonishing me as I walked, and made several movements as if to grab my arm to steady me, but wisely thought better of it before making contact.
She brought me in to where the surgeon and aneistatist waited, and introduced me as 'Chee-ar-ah', and froze, and shot me an apologetic look. At which time I totally simmered down, and started to feel a bit guilty/sorry for her. Thats all I wanted. Not for her to *actually* get my name right, if it was one that she hadn't heard before. Heaven knows, I struggle with many names, especially of my students, which are totally unfamilier to me. Just to not insist that I must go by her incorect pronunciation, or that *I* was the one who was wrong. I didn't appologise either, but I did smile at her in a friendly way and was polite from then on.
Then the anaesthetist, questioning me about my general health, wanting to know in no uncertain terms why the neurologists hadn't done a muscle biopsy - something almost every non evil-neuro doctor has wanted to know, but I had no answer. Anyway, after the warning that nothing is actually wrong if I wake tripping out of my head on cocaine, of to sleepy land I went, and woke at exactly 5 in the recovery room to the tender ministrations of a nurse who wanted to know if I would like a drink of water, or would I prefer orange squash. I was given about 10 minutes rest, got them to ring Conor as it would take an hour for him to get in, and remember asking several times how the surgery went, how long I'd been down there for and how long I'd been in the recovery room for. I don't remember getting any answer. Which isn't to say I didn't get one, but I don't remember. So I've no clue how much of that 2 hours was surgery and how much was recovery room. I'd normally take a random guess of half and half, but what I saw was that they actually only gave people about 20 minutes before shaking them awake and moving them on, so possibly the surgery was longer.
I got a bit upset at how blurred my vision was, and petulantly whined until they found my glasses, only telling me then that they put a protective coating of valaline on your eyeballs for that kind of surgery. (seriously, WTF, Vaseline, on your eyeballs?!?). And out of recovery, down to the going home waiting room I was sent. Except as soon as I stood, half my blood volume of my body decided to empty itself out my nose and through my bandages, onto the floor. 'Heavy haemorrhage here' the nurse yelled a few times, but the other nurse just yelled over that they had a crisis at the other bed too. And I was sat in a wheelchair, and with a rapidly filling bucket of blood on my knees, pushed down to the going home waiting room where Conor arrived and kept me company while I wasn't allowed home until I stopped bleeding (kind of funny in a going-home-waiting-room). I got several cups of orange squash, and a lot of nagging to eat something Hello, stomach contents entirely full to the brim with blood, which I can't even puke up thanks to the anit-emetics you &%$!ers gave me! no eating, thanks. I was still bleeding fast at this stage, but it was all flowing down my throat instead of on thier precious floors and furniture as they were making me lie back as far as I could on the reclining arm-chair. But worst of all, they told me, no coffee. I could see the tea and coffee trolley right there, and begged and pleaded, but not for me, apparently. I was only told because I asked that I was to have no warm food or drink of any sort for 2 days, only sandwiches and other cold food.
A doctor came around to talk to me about the surgery, but I took in very little of what he said other than that I was taking in fuck all of what he was saying. I had to laugh at myself at one point, because I do clearly recall he said, after some long ramble
him: 'is that clear, do you have any questions?'
me: no, no, that’s fine
him: no questions at all?
me: well, what did you *actually* say? And were you talking to me?
him: repeats lots of long talking
him: so, any questions
me: no, no, that’s fine
him: any questions at all
me: well, I suppose I'd like to know, how did the surgery go?
him: deep sigh. repeats whatever it was he was saying for third time
him; so, any questions
me: no no, that’s fine
him: no questions at all
me: No, no questions at all (because if I admitted that I'd been staring past him the entire time at the coffee trolley that was right there, trying to figure out if I could sneak one without the nurse noticing, and hadn't heard a word he'd said, he'd probably wallop me or something.
I did say to him 'I suppose you will put it all in a letter to my GP, and I'll get a copy?'
him: certainly
me: I'll probably be able to take it in at that stage
I wish I'd though to ask him to write it down right then, though
The one bit I did take in was that they did not find the level of skin or bone overgrowth they expected to find, and concluded that I'd probably just had a cold on the day of the CT scan because they couldn't find all the inflammation they saw on the test. Well, duh, of course I had a heavy cold the day of the CT scan. I'd told them that. But for the last 5 years I have not gone a day without a heavy cold - that was the POINT of it all, surely? That was the main reason I couldn't take in most of what he was saying, because I was having this crashing realisation that they didn't do as much surgery as they planned, because they couldn't find as much to fix as they expected. Hear that tiny, almost inaudible 'pfft' sound? That’s the sound of all my hopes and dreams of improved health after this going up in a tiny gasp of despair in this moment of conversation with a doctor, and I wasn't emotionally getting past that to take in anything else he was saying. But you can't ever tell a doctor that you are disappointed that they didn't find negative results, because from that moment forth you are a raging hypochondriac if you do, so I had to pretend to be pleased, and just zonned out from then on.
A doctor or pharmacist (I'm not sure) came to give me my bag of drugs. 3 painkillers, 2 nasal sprays, one anti-biotic, one nasal cream one nasal wash, one prescription for something they didn't have in stock, and a small bag of bandaged. The nurse looked at the size of the bag of bandages, the blood all over my clothes, the floor, and the basin, gave me another huge bag of bandages, I couldn't help laugh at the size. And finally, they let me go home, with the instruction that if I was still bleeding freely in half an hour when I got home to go to my local A&E. That kind of horrified me a bit. we are sending you home from our hospital with clear instructions to go to an A&E ?!???! I'd been bleeding freely for hours in their fecking hospital, did they really think I was going to stop on the journey home? problem, problem, what do we do? Move it on to someone else. Very, very NHS. Keeps THEIR targets safe.
And so, I left the hospital. That was Guys, Not just head and shoulders above Kings College Hospital, but a thousand times elevated above them in terms of patient care, respect for patients, and not having deliberately-cruel-for- the-fun-of-it nurses. Which is kind of scary, is it not, given what I have just described. But with the exception of the couldn't-give-a-fuck-what-your-name-is-I'm-calling-you-this lady most of the staff were not unkind or unsympathetic. Just working in a very unkind and unsympathetic system, which is a different thing.
and now, i was free... standing outside the hospital, blood dripping from my bandages to the ground. Where's the taxi rank? Phttt! You think I'm spending minimum 50 quid when London bridge station is RIGHT THERE? I'm pointing at it! We'll get a taxi at the other end when we arrive in Bexleyheath. That was the moment I started to tune in to a stoned giddy feeling that stayed with me the rest of the night. Cocaine + Morphine=not a very good decision maker.
I'm feeling a bit guilty today about it all though. I didn't sign myself out, after all, Conor signed a form to say he undertook to have me in his care for the next 48 hours during which time I was not to be left alone, or use public transport, or or or...
But mother son dynamics being what they are, when I said, come along, there's the train station, my kid followed. With only a joke he didn't follow through on about not letting me. And thats not his fault. but it’s not really *my* fault either, I did try hard to get someone else, predicting that the kiddo wouldn't be the best person. It’s just that there wasn't really anyone else to get. And at that moment, there is no doubt about it, I was stoned out of my brains, which really showed 10 minutes later, but we will get to that. Really *if* anyone should have behaved differently, its a much deeper question about a hospital signing out a stoned patent to her teenage son, when until recently that would have been a few days hospital stay. I realised as I was in that they were also doing tonsillectomies the same day. Seriously! Tonsillectomies. I remember well when that was a 5 day stay minimum. Now it’s a go-to-a-different-A&E,-anywhere-but-here-with-your-complications day surgery. (But, therefore these surgeries also had a much, much longer list, and I too was happy to go along with a system that got me my operation faster).
Skipping along past that point, and on to the train. This was where I realised I was stoned. I saw the train. I looked at the floor of the train. I carefully swung my crutches up and put them on the floor of the train, and stared in fascinated and amused wonder as they went right through the liquid floor. I was, of course, still having total double-vision, but not realising that was what was going on, because I was too out of it. Down, down, onto the train tracks which I could mysteriously see through the floor of the train my crutches went, and me rapidly following. Next there was a guy on either side of me, pulling me back onto the platform, and from there onto the train proper, and getting me into a seat. One at least, the one I got a good look at, was very tall, and very blond, with classic Aryan good looks, and I was wondering quite intensely why he was rescuing me from sliding under a train, when he should be saving kids from lunatic terrorist gunmen in Norway. I (think) I got just about enough self control in time not to ask. I have no idea if Conor explained anything to them, or if they had any idea why they were pulling a lunatic woman laughing about almost sliding under a train, while staggering on crutches that weren't really supporting her, and bleeding profusely all over herself and everyone else through a thick wedge of blue bandages over her nose and across her face. I hope he did, because I must have seemed truly beyond the pale at that moment.
And home at last. Taxi from the station to the house, with little drama, and in to bed. I showed Conor off to go play dungeons and dragons in his friends, preferring peace and quiet to a gaggle of teenagers making low volume noise all night that would still keep me awake. I continued to bleed buckets until well past midnight, possibly about 2am, but was quite happy with my bandages and basin, and totally forgot about the A&E. At home I had my coffee (banned), my cigarettes(banned, banned, banned) and my comfy bed (banned?). Who'd want to trade in that when they are feeling grim for some horrid hospital bucket chair?
Fortunately for me (and maybe Conor as well, it didn't go pear shaped despite my absolute stupidity, and the bleeding did eventually stop, and I got to sleep about 4. I took a double dose of morphine although I wasn't in pain, another stupidity, because I thought it would help me sleep. Normally I either conk out on opiates, or, if I can't, vomit and shake for hours as I don't react well to them when awake, but I counted on the conking out. It didn't work. I stayed utterly chilled and amused, shopping on ebay for wheelchairs and contracting someone to fit my new IKEA kitchen by email (entering any financial or other contract for 48 hours after surgery BANNED).
Well, I finally did drift off to sleep about 3 once the bleeding stopped, and woke this morning with no more bleeding but my face looks and feels like someone held a hot iron to each cheekbone. I have a burning red raised blistered rash on both sides. I'm 99% sure it’s an allergy to the tape from the bandages, but I've never had an allergy to bandages before - is it even possible? but its exactly where the sticky tape was. I've had every drug in the arsenal I was given before as well, except the opiates, and that’s why I have now fussed, and made a doctors appointment for 4.30 - no more drugs of any sort before then, just so I can reclaim my normal good sense a little and not do anything else stupid to put my health at risk. Better to be 100% sure, than just 99% and later sorry.
And, the only other newsworthy part of the day was the letter telling me I have been approved for Disability Living Allowance. High rate mobility, low rate care. 2 months money hit my bank this morning. I'm delighted, and ecstatic, and profoundly amused at the letter they sent, which is hilarious. And a little confused and sad and upset too - high rate? what do you mean high rate? Are you trying to imply that I'm actually disabled? I'm not liking this very much ... oh what complex, confused creatures we humans can be, but more about that another time.
I can't even fully remember why, because the anaesthetist was already in the process of setting up my knock-out drugs while the surgeon was getting my consent to the cocaine ... but it had something to do with opening the nasal passages as wide as possible with fewest side effects. Hello there informed consent, not sure that’s exactly what happened there, but never mind. Anyway, I was warned that if the surgery was very short and simple I might wake up still tripping, although it was unlikely. I didn't, but I did have a slightly peculiar buzz for the rest of the day that was probably more to do with the entire cocktail of drugs I was on. I also acted a bit irresponsibly, I must confess, and blame the buzz, but all worked out well and there was no harm done.
It was a hard day over all, and a mixed day. I was rather horrified at the set-up for day surgery in Guys. I keep reminding myself that I waited about 6 weeks for this operation, and an Irish waiting list would probably have been 6 months to a year ... but cripes, talk about a revolving door treadmill with no care or concern ethic of any sort.
The last time I had day surgery - in Ireland, I went in early in the morning, and was shown to a bed in a cubicle where I could get changed ... waited there a few hours, but it was OK, because at least I was comfortable, and had already seen the nurse, and had questions answered, and so on. Down for surgery, brief memories of the recovery room, and back to the bed where I could sleep for a few more hours and was encouraged to eat a proper meal and drink plenty of fluids and take my time coming 100% awake before anything else happened. Then the doctor came around to give me the once over and discharge me several hours after light sedation, not a full general. And they made sure I was fully clear headed before they spoke to me and sent me home.
This time, I arrived at 9 for a 9.30 appointment. Planning with public transport it was better to err on the side of caution. I was shown to a 'waiting room' which was a nasty dark room with 30 or 40 chairs and nothing else. Very bloody uncomfortable chairs. School-classroom-bucket chair shaped, but with slight noxious green padding. And just left sitting there from 9am until 12.30. By this time I was in quite intense pain. My hip bones were screaming, and my thigh mussels had gone into nasty permanent craps. Not having had anything to drink all morning I also developed a blinding thirst headache, needless to say. I spent most of the final hour there leaning against the wall swaying as I was in far to much pain with my legs to sit, and far too weak to pace which was the only thing that relieved the pain. I tried to explain the difficulty I was having to a couldn't-give-a-fuck nurse who simply replied that I was on the 'day list' and 'day list patients could get called any time between 9am and 5 pm and couldn't be given a more accurate time than that'. However, they were also running at least 2 other lists, and it was frustrating beyond all hell to see the morning and afternoon (as opposed to day list people) arrive, wait 10 minutes, get called in, and go home an hour later all smiles, while myself and 3 other 'day list' people sat. (the real difference being general versus local anaesthetic, as far as I could figure out)
At half 12 I was called in out of the outside waiting room, given a gown and those horrid pressure socks, (which I snuck into the bin when no one was looking, something discovered hours later, to the nurses extreme disgust) checked in by the nurse and shown ... to a bed, where I could get comfortable and relieve my pain, you think? No, to another identical waiting room. With an identical school-classroom chair to wait on. Where I was left, in agony at this stage, with cramps and twitches and electrical volts rippling up and down my legs from having to sit and maintain that position which I was unable to, until 3.15. From 9am. My first confession of naughtiness was that I took several drinks of water from the bathroom during this time - because if I hadn't would have blacked out. I could feel the roaring in my ears start telling me that a faint was on the way. But it was more a case of thoroughly rinsing out my mouth and spitting most of it back out again, than actually gulping. I may have been cranky and rebellious at this stage, but had no plans for suicide-by-general-anaesthetic either, so made sure it was only enough small sips to keep me from fainting. Maybe not breaking the rules and letting myself pass out instead would have been wise, in a general sense, because it would have demonstrated to the staff that there are consequences to keeping people that dehydrated for that long, something they had clearly forgotten, but for any tentative possible benefit for future patients, I bet you anything *MY* surgery would have been cancelled. I know I always go tachycardic when I faint, and the nurses were already humming and hawing about my blood 02 levels being a little low for surgery.
Anyway, at a quarter to three I was called down at long last - and totally lost it with the nurse. She did that thing that nurses in particular are so prone to. Their files are right, everything else is wrong. She totally mispronounced my name when calling me, and I didn't *exactly* correct her, I just said, 'that’s right, Ciara' (pronounced correctly) in a friendly way. She looked at her file, and in a very cranky voice then declaimed 'You are Chee- ar-ah!' Me, starting to sound cranky. 'it’s pronounced Kee-ra'. So she answered 'Chee-ar-ah, (with huge emphasis on her pronunciation) come this way' and I fecking well exploded. I can't remember everything I said, but it had a lot to do with respect, and human dignity, and looking up from the form and addressing the person, and the pain I was in from sitting for over six hours, and that a person can't be wrong about the pronunciation of their own name, whatever idiotic way the form reads - and the polish girl opposite me got in on the act. She'd been their just as long, and apparently, although I hadn't noticed, they had been mispronouncing her name all day as well even though she kept asking them not to. The nurse blanked both of us. She didn't apologise, she didn't argue back, she pretended that 2 very angry women did not exist, and that she was leading a speechless mannequin from the room, and staked, very rapidly, down the corridor. When she got to the door of the operating room she turned around and saw that I had only managed to get out of my own seat and out the door of the waiting room at this stage, and was taking my first staggering steps down the corridor, so she stalked off to get a wheelchair. Naturally I refused to sit in it. I flung my mantra at her of 'I may not be able to walk very well, but I can still walk.' Fuck, I wanted/needed that wheelchair, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face (and how appropriate that is!) but never mind, onwards and upwards. 'Slow down, slow down' she kept admonishing me as I walked, and made several movements as if to grab my arm to steady me, but wisely thought better of it before making contact.
She brought me in to where the surgeon and aneistatist waited, and introduced me as 'Chee-ar-ah', and froze, and shot me an apologetic look. At which time I totally simmered down, and started to feel a bit guilty/sorry for her. Thats all I wanted. Not for her to *actually* get my name right, if it was one that she hadn't heard before. Heaven knows, I struggle with many names, especially of my students, which are totally unfamilier to me. Just to not insist that I must go by her incorect pronunciation, or that *I* was the one who was wrong. I didn't appologise either, but I did smile at her in a friendly way and was polite from then on.
Then the anaesthetist, questioning me about my general health, wanting to know in no uncertain terms why the neurologists hadn't done a muscle biopsy - something almost every non evil-neuro doctor has wanted to know, but I had no answer. Anyway, after the warning that nothing is actually wrong if I wake tripping out of my head on cocaine, of to sleepy land I went, and woke at exactly 5 in the recovery room to the tender ministrations of a nurse who wanted to know if I would like a drink of water, or would I prefer orange squash. I was given about 10 minutes rest, got them to ring Conor as it would take an hour for him to get in, and remember asking several times how the surgery went, how long I'd been down there for and how long I'd been in the recovery room for. I don't remember getting any answer. Which isn't to say I didn't get one, but I don't remember. So I've no clue how much of that 2 hours was surgery and how much was recovery room. I'd normally take a random guess of half and half, but what I saw was that they actually only gave people about 20 minutes before shaking them awake and moving them on, so possibly the surgery was longer.
I got a bit upset at how blurred my vision was, and petulantly whined until they found my glasses, only telling me then that they put a protective coating of valaline on your eyeballs for that kind of surgery. (seriously, WTF, Vaseline, on your eyeballs?!?). And out of recovery, down to the going home waiting room I was sent. Except as soon as I stood, half my blood volume of my body decided to empty itself out my nose and through my bandages, onto the floor. 'Heavy haemorrhage here' the nurse yelled a few times, but the other nurse just yelled over that they had a crisis at the other bed too. And I was sat in a wheelchair, and with a rapidly filling bucket of blood on my knees, pushed down to the going home waiting room where Conor arrived and kept me company while I wasn't allowed home until I stopped bleeding (kind of funny in a going-home-waiting-room). I got several cups of orange squash, and a lot of nagging to eat something Hello, stomach contents entirely full to the brim with blood, which I can't even puke up thanks to the anit-emetics you &%$!ers gave me! no eating, thanks. I was still bleeding fast at this stage, but it was all flowing down my throat instead of on thier precious floors and furniture as they were making me lie back as far as I could on the reclining arm-chair. But worst of all, they told me, no coffee. I could see the tea and coffee trolley right there, and begged and pleaded, but not for me, apparently. I was only told because I asked that I was to have no warm food or drink of any sort for 2 days, only sandwiches and other cold food.
A doctor came around to talk to me about the surgery, but I took in very little of what he said other than that I was taking in fuck all of what he was saying. I had to laugh at myself at one point, because I do clearly recall he said, after some long ramble
him: 'is that clear, do you have any questions?'
me: no, no, that’s fine
him: no questions at all?
me: well, what did you *actually* say? And were you talking to me?
him: repeats lots of long talking
him: so, any questions
me: no, no, that’s fine
him: any questions at all
me: well, I suppose I'd like to know, how did the surgery go?
him: deep sigh. repeats whatever it was he was saying for third time
him; so, any questions
me: no no, that’s fine
him: no questions at all
me: No, no questions at all (because if I admitted that I'd been staring past him the entire time at the coffee trolley that was right there, trying to figure out if I could sneak one without the nurse noticing, and hadn't heard a word he'd said, he'd probably wallop me or something.
I did say to him 'I suppose you will put it all in a letter to my GP, and I'll get a copy?'
him: certainly
me: I'll probably be able to take it in at that stage
I wish I'd though to ask him to write it down right then, though
The one bit I did take in was that they did not find the level of skin or bone overgrowth they expected to find, and concluded that I'd probably just had a cold on the day of the CT scan because they couldn't find all the inflammation they saw on the test. Well, duh, of course I had a heavy cold the day of the CT scan. I'd told them that. But for the last 5 years I have not gone a day without a heavy cold - that was the POINT of it all, surely? That was the main reason I couldn't take in most of what he was saying, because I was having this crashing realisation that they didn't do as much surgery as they planned, because they couldn't find as much to fix as they expected. Hear that tiny, almost inaudible 'pfft' sound? That’s the sound of all my hopes and dreams of improved health after this going up in a tiny gasp of despair in this moment of conversation with a doctor, and I wasn't emotionally getting past that to take in anything else he was saying. But you can't ever tell a doctor that you are disappointed that they didn't find negative results, because from that moment forth you are a raging hypochondriac if you do, so I had to pretend to be pleased, and just zonned out from then on.
A doctor or pharmacist (I'm not sure) came to give me my bag of drugs. 3 painkillers, 2 nasal sprays, one anti-biotic, one nasal cream one nasal wash, one prescription for something they didn't have in stock, and a small bag of bandaged. The nurse looked at the size of the bag of bandages, the blood all over my clothes, the floor, and the basin, gave me another huge bag of bandages, I couldn't help laugh at the size. And finally, they let me go home, with the instruction that if I was still bleeding freely in half an hour when I got home to go to my local A&E. That kind of horrified me a bit. we are sending you home from our hospital with clear instructions to go to an A&E ?!???! I'd been bleeding freely for hours in their fecking hospital, did they really think I was going to stop on the journey home? problem, problem, what do we do? Move it on to someone else. Very, very NHS. Keeps THEIR targets safe.
And so, I left the hospital. That was Guys, Not just head and shoulders above Kings College Hospital, but a thousand times elevated above them in terms of patient care, respect for patients, and not having deliberately-cruel-for- the-fun-of-it nurses. Which is kind of scary, is it not, given what I have just described. But with the exception of the couldn't-give-a-fuck-what-your-name-is-I'm-calling-you-this lady most of the staff were not unkind or unsympathetic. Just working in a very unkind and unsympathetic system, which is a different thing.
and now, i was free... standing outside the hospital, blood dripping from my bandages to the ground. Where's the taxi rank? Phttt! You think I'm spending minimum 50 quid when London bridge station is RIGHT THERE? I'm pointing at it! We'll get a taxi at the other end when we arrive in Bexleyheath. That was the moment I started to tune in to a stoned giddy feeling that stayed with me the rest of the night. Cocaine + Morphine=not a very good decision maker.
I'm feeling a bit guilty today about it all though. I didn't sign myself out, after all, Conor signed a form to say he undertook to have me in his care for the next 48 hours during which time I was not to be left alone, or use public transport, or or or...
But mother son dynamics being what they are, when I said, come along, there's the train station, my kid followed. With only a joke he didn't follow through on about not letting me. And thats not his fault. but it’s not really *my* fault either, I did try hard to get someone else, predicting that the kiddo wouldn't be the best person. It’s just that there wasn't really anyone else to get. And at that moment, there is no doubt about it, I was stoned out of my brains, which really showed 10 minutes later, but we will get to that. Really *if* anyone should have behaved differently, its a much deeper question about a hospital signing out a stoned patent to her teenage son, when until recently that would have been a few days hospital stay. I realised as I was in that they were also doing tonsillectomies the same day. Seriously! Tonsillectomies. I remember well when that was a 5 day stay minimum. Now it’s a go-to-a-different-A&E,-anywhere-but-here-with-your-complications day surgery. (But, therefore these surgeries also had a much, much longer list, and I too was happy to go along with a system that got me my operation faster).
Skipping along past that point, and on to the train. This was where I realised I was stoned. I saw the train. I looked at the floor of the train. I carefully swung my crutches up and put them on the floor of the train, and stared in fascinated and amused wonder as they went right through the liquid floor. I was, of course, still having total double-vision, but not realising that was what was going on, because I was too out of it. Down, down, onto the train tracks which I could mysteriously see through the floor of the train my crutches went, and me rapidly following. Next there was a guy on either side of me, pulling me back onto the platform, and from there onto the train proper, and getting me into a seat. One at least, the one I got a good look at, was very tall, and very blond, with classic Aryan good looks, and I was wondering quite intensely why he was rescuing me from sliding under a train, when he should be saving kids from lunatic terrorist gunmen in Norway. I (think) I got just about enough self control in time not to ask. I have no idea if Conor explained anything to them, or if they had any idea why they were pulling a lunatic woman laughing about almost sliding under a train, while staggering on crutches that weren't really supporting her, and bleeding profusely all over herself and everyone else through a thick wedge of blue bandages over her nose and across her face. I hope he did, because I must have seemed truly beyond the pale at that moment.
And home at last. Taxi from the station to the house, with little drama, and in to bed. I showed Conor off to go play dungeons and dragons in his friends, preferring peace and quiet to a gaggle of teenagers making low volume noise all night that would still keep me awake. I continued to bleed buckets until well past midnight, possibly about 2am, but was quite happy with my bandages and basin, and totally forgot about the A&E. At home I had my coffee (banned), my cigarettes(banned, banned, banned) and my comfy bed (banned?). Who'd want to trade in that when they are feeling grim for some horrid hospital bucket chair?
Fortunately for me (and maybe Conor as well, it didn't go pear shaped despite my absolute stupidity, and the bleeding did eventually stop, and I got to sleep about 4. I took a double dose of morphine although I wasn't in pain, another stupidity, because I thought it would help me sleep. Normally I either conk out on opiates, or, if I can't, vomit and shake for hours as I don't react well to them when awake, but I counted on the conking out. It didn't work. I stayed utterly chilled and amused, shopping on ebay for wheelchairs and contracting someone to fit my new IKEA kitchen by email (entering any financial or other contract for 48 hours after surgery BANNED).
Well, I finally did drift off to sleep about 3 once the bleeding stopped, and woke this morning with no more bleeding but my face looks and feels like someone held a hot iron to each cheekbone. I have a burning red raised blistered rash on both sides. I'm 99% sure it’s an allergy to the tape from the bandages, but I've never had an allergy to bandages before - is it even possible? but its exactly where the sticky tape was. I've had every drug in the arsenal I was given before as well, except the opiates, and that’s why I have now fussed, and made a doctors appointment for 4.30 - no more drugs of any sort before then, just so I can reclaim my normal good sense a little and not do anything else stupid to put my health at risk. Better to be 100% sure, than just 99% and later sorry.
And, the only other newsworthy part of the day was the letter telling me I have been approved for Disability Living Allowance. High rate mobility, low rate care. 2 months money hit my bank this morning. I'm delighted, and ecstatic, and profoundly amused at the letter they sent, which is hilarious. And a little confused and sad and upset too - high rate? what do you mean high rate? Are you trying to imply that I'm actually disabled? I'm not liking this very much ... oh what complex, confused creatures we humans can be, but more about that another time.