Bulletin 11: Monday 3rd May 2010
Fantastic – cable free, I am able to visit the shower room to wash and shave, though it's too painful and tiring to take a shower yet. A departure tomorrow is looking likely.
Visiting time starts at 2.15pm. Nightmare. Why can't the great British public read and comply with the straightforward requests: two adults and no young ones? Ted at one stage had four adults and a two year-old crawling around (the two year-old was doing the crawling, not the adults, who were cooing with the child-worship all too prevalent these days.); he looked totally knackered once they had all departed. Perhaps they all want rid of him. Walking patients hoping to by-pass the chaos and escape to haven of the Day Room are foiled: it's full of kids running riot - kids who've been dumped there by their parents and told to be quiet. The Bass bed was the only compliant one during the whole of my stay. My favourite nurse, Sylvia, tells me that this is the norm, and that it's not been unknown for visitors even to change a baby's nappy on a patient's bed.
I am visited by Tracey, of the Wound Surveillance Team (I kid you not). She surveys my wounds, pronounces all well, and moves on. Another box ticked in my 'Clinical Pathway' documentation, which is not unlike a scheme of work, mapping out what has to be done when.
Tuesday 4th May
Actually showered and shaved myself this morning. Slow and tiring but a great sense of achievement when done. My last set of x-rays and blood tests have come back OK. The lovely Namita from Physiotherapy takes me on a gentle walk and explains what I have to do over the weeks ahead. She shows me how to walk up and down stairs, which I find I am able to cope with quite well.
After lunch I'm given a briefing by Sylvia, some paperwork and a month's supply of drugs. I'm wheeled out about 4.00pm and en route thank George for his cabaret during the course of my stay. We manage to drop in on Keith, who's got Heather with him. He's delighted that I'm out before him, but is bitterly disappointed still to be in. I hope we'll keep in touch.
What a very educational experience it's all been. The highlight of it all was the amazing staff and teamwork, from my consultant down through the lovely nurses to the John Barnes-lookalike cleaner who cleaned through the Bay several times daily. Many of them had been on the staff for more than five years, and some more than twenty, citing the usual reason: it's a nice place to work. I take my hat off to them all, but at the same time will be very happy not to have to see the inside of a hospital ever again.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Bay Watch 10
Bulletin 10: Saturday 1st May 2010
It is 7.40am, and all is calm. A nurse is doing something with my left arm, and I am about to witness something straight out of 'Casualty'.
A nurse, who has obviously been monitoring a bank of screens just down the corridor, rushes in, points at the monitor above George's bed, and screams 'George!' Audio alarms start sounding, and I swear that within ten seconds ten nurses and one doctor have appeared out of the woodwork. Curtains are hurriedly drawn, and I can see tears in two of the nurses' eyes. A green-uniformed doctor takes command and barks orders, and another doctor arrives with a defibrillator. Five seconds later a robotic American accent commands 'please stand clear of the apparatus'. The doctor simply says, 'stand clear.' A few seconds' pause. 'He's back,' says the doctor. Sighs of relief all round, and the nurses disperse, less than 50 seconds after the drama started, leaving the doctor to spend a good ten minutes filling in the appropriate paperwork. As George receives treatment during the rest of the day each nurse says, 'You gave us a bit of a fright this morning, George. You won't do it again, will you?' George replies like a naughty schoolboy, 'I'll try not to. I didn't mean to.' I reflect on the great sense of reassurance I'm experiencing after watching this amazingly brief scene of professionalism, teamwork and discipline. George is to have a defibrillator implanted into his left shoulder on Friday.
Being wired up is cramping my style. This is the first time I've experienced a catheter. I can imagine that it is a useful device, especially if you're out on a pub crawl, since you have absolutely no sensation of passing fluid.
John's amoebic intellectual level was confirmed today. When George asked us – bless him – whether he had disgraced himself during the night, John replied, 'No problem, mate. We just got worried every half hour or so when you kept shouting 'It's your turn on top again.'' Peasant.
Management brings me some sobering news from those who operated on me. They've now had a chance to look at the three arteries they've by-passed. I've been walking on a time-bomb for the last decade. One artery was 50% blocked, and the other two were 95% blocked. Lots of 'what ifs..' spring to mind. I hope the world is prepared for me when the effects of the operation wear off and my motor's fuel-injection system improves from 5% to something much closer to 100%. My God, I'll be running weekly marathons if I'm not careful.
Sunday 2nd May
I've now been taken off monitoring and my catheter has been removed. Freedom at last. Another patient arrives to fill the fifth bed on the other side of George. An old peasant who looks like a weasel and deserves the company of Ted and John. My guess is that he is a pimp. He looks decidedly shifty; I wouldn't trust him any farther than I can throw David Howard.
It is 7.40am, and all is calm. A nurse is doing something with my left arm, and I am about to witness something straight out of 'Casualty'.
A nurse, who has obviously been monitoring a bank of screens just down the corridor, rushes in, points at the monitor above George's bed, and screams 'George!' Audio alarms start sounding, and I swear that within ten seconds ten nurses and one doctor have appeared out of the woodwork. Curtains are hurriedly drawn, and I can see tears in two of the nurses' eyes. A green-uniformed doctor takes command and barks orders, and another doctor arrives with a defibrillator. Five seconds later a robotic American accent commands 'please stand clear of the apparatus'. The doctor simply says, 'stand clear.' A few seconds' pause. 'He's back,' says the doctor. Sighs of relief all round, and the nurses disperse, less than 50 seconds after the drama started, leaving the doctor to spend a good ten minutes filling in the appropriate paperwork. As George receives treatment during the rest of the day each nurse says, 'You gave us a bit of a fright this morning, George. You won't do it again, will you?' George replies like a naughty schoolboy, 'I'll try not to. I didn't mean to.' I reflect on the great sense of reassurance I'm experiencing after watching this amazingly brief scene of professionalism, teamwork and discipline. George is to have a defibrillator implanted into his left shoulder on Friday.
Being wired up is cramping my style. This is the first time I've experienced a catheter. I can imagine that it is a useful device, especially if you're out on a pub crawl, since you have absolutely no sensation of passing fluid.
John's amoebic intellectual level was confirmed today. When George asked us – bless him – whether he had disgraced himself during the night, John replied, 'No problem, mate. We just got worried every half hour or so when you kept shouting 'It's your turn on top again.'' Peasant.
Management brings me some sobering news from those who operated on me. They've now had a chance to look at the three arteries they've by-passed. I've been walking on a time-bomb for the last decade. One artery was 50% blocked, and the other two were 95% blocked. Lots of 'what ifs..' spring to mind. I hope the world is prepared for me when the effects of the operation wear off and my motor's fuel-injection system improves from 5% to something much closer to 100%. My God, I'll be running weekly marathons if I'm not careful.
Sunday 2nd May
I've now been taken off monitoring and my catheter has been removed. Freedom at last. Another patient arrives to fill the fifth bed on the other side of George. An old peasant who looks like a weasel and deserves the company of Ted and John. My guess is that he is a pimp. He looks decidedly shifty; I wouldn't trust him any farther than I can throw David Howard.
Bay Watch 9
Bulletin 9: Friday 30th April 2010
It's 07.30am, and I have woken up in the Critical Care area after being blissfully unaware of anything for more than 19 hours. I wonder if I'll ever get to see and thank Sheila, the nurse who tended me alone over that period? Management and Food Police tell me that she was lovely and that they managed a good chinwag. I'm dosed up with painkillers, but even swallowing my own saliva is painful, and when I'm transferred to a wheelchair I feel like I've been kicked in the leg and chest by a donkey. Out I am wheeled to pastures new.
Bay G on Mallard Ward is a five-bedded room, with only four occupants at present. Things are looking up immediately: I notice with glee that the absence of any TV makes this a TFZ (Titchmarsh-free zone). I resemble a walking advertisement for the plugs, sockets, leads and adaptors section of Currys Digital. I have an Offa's Dyke running from my neck to my navel, and a minor Rift Valley from my left heel to my left groin – that's where they lifted the replacement artery grafts from. I feel great relief not so much at the success of the operation, but that it has actually been performed at last.
I'm at least 12 years younger than the other three inmates: I make a mental note of the dates of birth they have to confirm each time they are given drugs. They all have other things wrong with them already, so their bodies have to cope with those as well as the additional cardiac problems. I can see why I'm referred to as 'young.' A nurse tells me that the average age of a Papworth patient is 80.
George on my left is a nice old toff. In his 80s, he speaks weakly but articulately in a plummy accent and enjoys great banter with the nurses, who are clearly fond of him. He's just bought a farm house in Stamford but hasn't been able to enjoy it following his recent heart problems. He must be ex-forces. Opposite George (in all senses) is Ted, a bald over-weight ex-bricklayer from King's Lynn who thoroughly enjoys ill-health. There is lots wrong with him – he takes more than 25 sorts of pills per day. His stockpile of drugs is such that the bedside drugs cabinet isn't big enough to cope, and he has a special system stored at the Nurses Station. When the nurse at every drugs round looks in puzzlement at his empty cabinet he takes great delight in informing them about this special arrangement. I suggest that a post-it note on the cabinet door would save me and others from suicide. This policy is adopted, but to vain effect: it doesn't shut Ted up.
To Ted's right is an oik named John. His plebeian accent locates him to within a hundred yards of the terminal building at Luton Airport. He has an enviable view over the lake, its flora and fauna. It's touching to listen in on learned naturalists' conversation:
John: Christ, there are lots of birds down there, ain't there?
Ted: Yeah, there are one or two Canada geese, I think.
John: They're the ones that shit all over the place, ain't they?
Ted: Yeah. Nature's a bastard.
Because I'm fresh from Critical Care I am given a wash in bed by two lovely nurses, one of whom shaves my face better than I do, according to Management.
It's 07.30am, and I have woken up in the Critical Care area after being blissfully unaware of anything for more than 19 hours. I wonder if I'll ever get to see and thank Sheila, the nurse who tended me alone over that period? Management and Food Police tell me that she was lovely and that they managed a good chinwag. I'm dosed up with painkillers, but even swallowing my own saliva is painful, and when I'm transferred to a wheelchair I feel like I've been kicked in the leg and chest by a donkey. Out I am wheeled to pastures new.
Bay G on Mallard Ward is a five-bedded room, with only four occupants at present. Things are looking up immediately: I notice with glee that the absence of any TV makes this a TFZ (Titchmarsh-free zone). I resemble a walking advertisement for the plugs, sockets, leads and adaptors section of Currys Digital. I have an Offa's Dyke running from my neck to my navel, and a minor Rift Valley from my left heel to my left groin – that's where they lifted the replacement artery grafts from. I feel great relief not so much at the success of the operation, but that it has actually been performed at last.
I'm at least 12 years younger than the other three inmates: I make a mental note of the dates of birth they have to confirm each time they are given drugs. They all have other things wrong with them already, so their bodies have to cope with those as well as the additional cardiac problems. I can see why I'm referred to as 'young.' A nurse tells me that the average age of a Papworth patient is 80.
George on my left is a nice old toff. In his 80s, he speaks weakly but articulately in a plummy accent and enjoys great banter with the nurses, who are clearly fond of him. He's just bought a farm house in Stamford but hasn't been able to enjoy it following his recent heart problems. He must be ex-forces. Opposite George (in all senses) is Ted, a bald over-weight ex-bricklayer from King's Lynn who thoroughly enjoys ill-health. There is lots wrong with him – he takes more than 25 sorts of pills per day. His stockpile of drugs is such that the bedside drugs cabinet isn't big enough to cope, and he has a special system stored at the Nurses Station. When the nurse at every drugs round looks in puzzlement at his empty cabinet he takes great delight in informing them about this special arrangement. I suggest that a post-it note on the cabinet door would save me and others from suicide. This policy is adopted, but to vain effect: it doesn't shut Ted up.
To Ted's right is an oik named John. His plebeian accent locates him to within a hundred yards of the terminal building at Luton Airport. He has an enviable view over the lake, its flora and fauna. It's touching to listen in on learned naturalists' conversation:
John: Christ, there are lots of birds down there, ain't there?
Ted: Yeah, there are one or two Canada geese, I think.
John: They're the ones that shit all over the place, ain't they?
Ted: Yeah. Nature's a bastard.
Because I'm fresh from Critical Care I am given a wash in bed by two lovely nurses, one of whom shaves my face better than I do, according to Management.
Bay Watch 8
Bulletin 8: Wednesday 28th April 2010
I must apologise for the slight hiatus in the appearance of this final batch of Bay Watch bulletins. One of the side-effects of my procedure is impaired vision, so I've been unable to do as much on-screen work or reading as I should have liked, which has been very frustrating.
Things are looking good. On check-in we spot that my name appears on the whiteboard at the Nurses* Station, so at least I'm expected. We are then escorted to the cosy two-bedded Room 2 of Higginson Ward, one bed of which is conveniently available. The other inmate is a very pleasant and cheerful chap of about my age, named Keith. My amazing powers of deduction lead me to the conclusion that he is in because of a spot of leg trouble: his left leg is artificial from mid-thigh downwards. You can't fool me.
There's more to it that that, we learn. His life has been well and truly buggered up over the past two years after a mis-diagnosis. He reported a lump behind his left knee and was told that this was something called a Baker's cyst. He was asked to come back in nine months' time if he was still in pain. He did, to be told that the growth was cancerous and that it should have been treated months ago. His leg was amputated, but by then cancers had spread to his lungs and the rest of his body. He had lost his job – a porter at a Cambridge college – and the accommodation which went with it. He was having some lung treatment and was hoping to be out the next day. There's always someone worse off, isn't there? We met his lovely wife Heather during evening visiting time: she and Management had a great time chin-wagging and we're hoping to stay in touch over the months to come, since they occasionally take their grandchildren on day trips from Cambridge to Felixstowe.
There is a modestly-sized flat-screen TV on the wall. The volume is on low, and snooker is being shown. Very calming, and Titchmarsh-free.
Thursday 29th April
In the words of Ben Hur, 'Today is the day.' Management and Food Police have special dispensation to come in early to say good luck before I'm carted off at about 9.30am. I remember confirming my signature on a consent form, and being in a holding area outside a suite of operating theatres, with other punters all no doubt waiting to be wheeled in for their 10.00am procedures. I overhear some gossip among annoyed staff about a patient witholding their consent at this late stage for the second occasion. I don't even remember making it in to theatre. That's all I remember about 29th April.
*I'm henceforth following the NHS convention of ignoring the correct usage of the apostrophe. This also applies, for example, to 'childrens wards' and 'patients privacy.'
I must apologise for the slight hiatus in the appearance of this final batch of Bay Watch bulletins. One of the side-effects of my procedure is impaired vision, so I've been unable to do as much on-screen work or reading as I should have liked, which has been very frustrating.
Things are looking good. On check-in we spot that my name appears on the whiteboard at the Nurses* Station, so at least I'm expected. We are then escorted to the cosy two-bedded Room 2 of Higginson Ward, one bed of which is conveniently available. The other inmate is a very pleasant and cheerful chap of about my age, named Keith. My amazing powers of deduction lead me to the conclusion that he is in because of a spot of leg trouble: his left leg is artificial from mid-thigh downwards. You can't fool me.
There's more to it that that, we learn. His life has been well and truly buggered up over the past two years after a mis-diagnosis. He reported a lump behind his left knee and was told that this was something called a Baker's cyst. He was asked to come back in nine months' time if he was still in pain. He did, to be told that the growth was cancerous and that it should have been treated months ago. His leg was amputated, but by then cancers had spread to his lungs and the rest of his body. He had lost his job – a porter at a Cambridge college – and the accommodation which went with it. He was having some lung treatment and was hoping to be out the next day. There's always someone worse off, isn't there? We met his lovely wife Heather during evening visiting time: she and Management had a great time chin-wagging and we're hoping to stay in touch over the months to come, since they occasionally take their grandchildren on day trips from Cambridge to Felixstowe.
There is a modestly-sized flat-screen TV on the wall. The volume is on low, and snooker is being shown. Very calming, and Titchmarsh-free.
Thursday 29th April
In the words of Ben Hur, 'Today is the day.' Management and Food Police have special dispensation to come in early to say good luck before I'm carted off at about 9.30am. I remember confirming my signature on a consent form, and being in a holding area outside a suite of operating theatres, with other punters all no doubt waiting to be wheeled in for their 10.00am procedures. I overhear some gossip among annoyed staff about a patient witholding their consent at this late stage for the second occasion. I don't even remember making it in to theatre. That's all I remember about 29th April.
*I'm henceforth following the NHS convention of ignoring the correct usage of the apostrophe. This also applies, for example, to 'childrens wards' and 'patients privacy.'
Bay Watch 7
Bulletin 7: Friday 12th March 2010
So, the big day dawns. I'm given some pills and water at 5.45am, but am not allowed breakfast of course. From my bedside telephone, using a swipe card costing £3.00, I contact Management and ask for my spectacles case to be brought in. I'll need my glasses to confirm my signature on the consent form as I'm being wheeled in, before they get thrown into a bag of personal possessions which will accompany me back to wherever I end up post-op. I swipe my card again to get a balance, and manage to work out that the 'from 10p' publicity doesn't include the small print which should say that calls out to mobiles appear to cost 50p a minute.The chap in the next bed, just back from surgery, has been desperate since yesterday for his bag of possessions to be returned to him: he wants to read and is going slowly mad, especially since Essex man asks for the TV to be put on at 7.50am.
More reading, then the lovely Indian nurse Suja takes me away and shaves my chest, arms, legs, and other more intimate areas so as to minimise pain when plasters eventually have to be torn off. I'm given a plastic bottle of pink disinfectant and told to shower and then dress in a gown which has ties at the back. It takes a certain amount of manual dexterity to do this in such a way as not to inflict visual pollution on anyone following behind me, but I manage eventually. I return to my bed and await a final visit by Management and Food Police. They arrive at 11.00am and we are sent to the Day Room by Suja, who says she will come to collect me when it's time for my pre-op jab in the backside.
The Day Room has a TV, but mercifully it's not on. Instead we have to endure a family looking at and discussing their holiday snaps on a digital camera. 'Lovely hotel room. We got an upgrade you know…' Noon comes and goes. So does 1.00pm. There must be complications with the previous patient. At 1.40pm Suja enters, accompanied by a doe-eyed lady doctor. This is it, we thought, but the doctor says 'You won't be glad to see me.' She's right. There's not enough post-op beds in Critical Care, so we have to go home and wait for the Booking Office to make contact again. It's no good shooting the messengers; they were clearly embarrassed at having to break the news to us. Some remote Bed Manager sitting in an office somewhere is the one to blame.
So it's back to the ward to pack my belongings and leave. Luckily Essex man had nothing to say, or he would have received a verbal barrage of choice Anglo-Saxon in reply. Back at the local accommodation, Management and Food Police have to re-pack their cars and we return to the Council Houses in record time. To keep spirits up Food Police agrees to relent for one evening, so we adjourn to Nando's. Management is more adventurous than usual and experiments with some spicy sauces. I go in for some chicken wraps, my first chips for months, and two bottles of Superbock Portuguese beer. Next morning, despite this unaccustomed intake, the scales say that I have lost a further two pounds, so every cloud…..
So, the big day dawns. I'm given some pills and water at 5.45am, but am not allowed breakfast of course. From my bedside telephone, using a swipe card costing £3.00, I contact Management and ask for my spectacles case to be brought in. I'll need my glasses to confirm my signature on the consent form as I'm being wheeled in, before they get thrown into a bag of personal possessions which will accompany me back to wherever I end up post-op. I swipe my card again to get a balance, and manage to work out that the 'from 10p' publicity doesn't include the small print which should say that calls out to mobiles appear to cost 50p a minute.The chap in the next bed, just back from surgery, has been desperate since yesterday for his bag of possessions to be returned to him: he wants to read and is going slowly mad, especially since Essex man asks for the TV to be put on at 7.50am.
More reading, then the lovely Indian nurse Suja takes me away and shaves my chest, arms, legs, and other more intimate areas so as to minimise pain when plasters eventually have to be torn off. I'm given a plastic bottle of pink disinfectant and told to shower and then dress in a gown which has ties at the back. It takes a certain amount of manual dexterity to do this in such a way as not to inflict visual pollution on anyone following behind me, but I manage eventually. I return to my bed and await a final visit by Management and Food Police. They arrive at 11.00am and we are sent to the Day Room by Suja, who says she will come to collect me when it's time for my pre-op jab in the backside.
The Day Room has a TV, but mercifully it's not on. Instead we have to endure a family looking at and discussing their holiday snaps on a digital camera. 'Lovely hotel room. We got an upgrade you know…' Noon comes and goes. So does 1.00pm. There must be complications with the previous patient. At 1.40pm Suja enters, accompanied by a doe-eyed lady doctor. This is it, we thought, but the doctor says 'You won't be glad to see me.' She's right. There's not enough post-op beds in Critical Care, so we have to go home and wait for the Booking Office to make contact again. It's no good shooting the messengers; they were clearly embarrassed at having to break the news to us. Some remote Bed Manager sitting in an office somewhere is the one to blame.
So it's back to the ward to pack my belongings and leave. Luckily Essex man had nothing to say, or he would have received a verbal barrage of choice Anglo-Saxon in reply. Back at the local accommodation, Management and Food Police have to re-pack their cars and we return to the Council Houses in record time. To keep spirits up Food Police agrees to relent for one evening, so we adjourn to Nando's. Management is more adventurous than usual and experiments with some spicy sauces. I go in for some chicken wraps, my first chips for months, and two bottles of Superbock Portuguese beer. Next morning, despite this unaccustomed intake, the scales say that I have lost a further two pounds, so every cloud…..
Bay Watch 6
Bulletin 6: Thursday 11th March 2010
Bay 6 of the Higginson Ward at Papworth Hospital is not dissimilar in atmosphere to the Black Hole of Calcutta. It is long and rectangular, the entrance being halfway along one of the longer sides. Six beds are crammed in. Luckily my bed is in the left-hand corner adjacent to the fire escape, which means that my territorial demarcation lines, as established by the curtains on their runners, afford me a greater than average square-footage. I am one of four beds along the longer wall; the other two beds, one at each end, are at right angles to the others.
It's funny how you can take an instant dislike to some people. At the far end of the Bay sits a character I've come to refer to as 'Essex boy.' He spends most of his time sitting in his bedside chair, staring down the length of the Bay, clocking whatever's going on and making loud comments on it to no-one in particular. He's silver-haired, aged about 70, has patterned tattoos down the outside of either arm, and speaks in a plebeian mock-Cockney accent, with which he addresses his male interlocutors as mate and his female ones as darlin'. He is, without doubt, an oik. Luckily I've managed to avoid any sort of interchange with him.
On the wall just inside the entrance on the left, installed earlier today apparently, is a new flat-screen TV, which attracts the oohs and aahs of cleaners, caterers and nurses as they pass by. This leads to a classic case of what a former colleague has referred to (apologies to the sensitive) as DAS – Dog's Arse Syndrome. DAS takes its name from a dog's ability to lick its own backside, and in essence means that simply because one has the facility to do something, actually doing it is not necessarily pleasant, desirable or obligatory. In the current context this means that because a TV is available, it has to be switched on permanently. This interferes with my enjoyment of some light reading – a P. D. James Inspector Dalgliesh novel – but, far more seriously, exposes me to "The Alan Titchmarsh Show". I can't stand Alan Effing Titchmarsh. But there's worse to come. Someone up there has got it in for me: an extended item on the local news is concerned with Alan Effing Titchmarsh, referred to by the moronic presenter as 'multi-talented', officially opening some garden shed near Chelmsford, lecturing – giant scissors in hand – to a crowd of about ten adoring middle-aged housewives how gardening will solve the country's law and order, health and education problems. Prat.
Dinner consists of a plain omelette and water, the water being removed at 6.00pm, after which I'm allowed nothing until after I awake from the operation tomorrow. Management and the Food Police, who have booked accommodation in the next village, depart, having confirmed with the Ward Sister that they will be phoned as soon as I am wheeled out of theatre into Critical Care, and having made a special arrangement to visit me tomorrow morning (outside official visiting hours), prior to my op at high noon.
Television is finally turned off at 10.40pm. Bliss.
Bay 6 of the Higginson Ward at Papworth Hospital is not dissimilar in atmosphere to the Black Hole of Calcutta. It is long and rectangular, the entrance being halfway along one of the longer sides. Six beds are crammed in. Luckily my bed is in the left-hand corner adjacent to the fire escape, which means that my territorial demarcation lines, as established by the curtains on their runners, afford me a greater than average square-footage. I am one of four beds along the longer wall; the other two beds, one at each end, are at right angles to the others.
It's funny how you can take an instant dislike to some people. At the far end of the Bay sits a character I've come to refer to as 'Essex boy.' He spends most of his time sitting in his bedside chair, staring down the length of the Bay, clocking whatever's going on and making loud comments on it to no-one in particular. He's silver-haired, aged about 70, has patterned tattoos down the outside of either arm, and speaks in a plebeian mock-Cockney accent, with which he addresses his male interlocutors as mate and his female ones as darlin'. He is, without doubt, an oik. Luckily I've managed to avoid any sort of interchange with him.
On the wall just inside the entrance on the left, installed earlier today apparently, is a new flat-screen TV, which attracts the oohs and aahs of cleaners, caterers and nurses as they pass by. This leads to a classic case of what a former colleague has referred to (apologies to the sensitive) as DAS – Dog's Arse Syndrome. DAS takes its name from a dog's ability to lick its own backside, and in essence means that simply because one has the facility to do something, actually doing it is not necessarily pleasant, desirable or obligatory. In the current context this means that because a TV is available, it has to be switched on permanently. This interferes with my enjoyment of some light reading – a P. D. James Inspector Dalgliesh novel – but, far more seriously, exposes me to "The Alan Titchmarsh Show". I can't stand Alan Effing Titchmarsh. But there's worse to come. Someone up there has got it in for me: an extended item on the local news is concerned with Alan Effing Titchmarsh, referred to by the moronic presenter as 'multi-talented', officially opening some garden shed near Chelmsford, lecturing – giant scissors in hand – to a crowd of about ten adoring middle-aged housewives how gardening will solve the country's law and order, health and education problems. Prat.
Dinner consists of a plain omelette and water, the water being removed at 6.00pm, after which I'm allowed nothing until after I awake from the operation tomorrow. Management and the Food Police, who have booked accommodation in the next village, depart, having confirmed with the Ward Sister that they will be phoned as soon as I am wheeled out of theatre into Critical Care, and having made a special arrangement to visit me tomorrow morning (outside official visiting hours), prior to my op at high noon.
Television is finally turned off at 10.40pm. Bliss.
Bay Watch 5
Bulletin 5: Wednesday 27th January 2010
Fred and Edna are no more. No, they're not dead – but I'm unaware of their personal outcomes now that I'm back ensconced in the Council Houses. 'Council House Watch' doesn't quite have the same resonance as 'Bay Watch', so I hope you won't mind the continuation of the slightly fraudulent title. It will soon be valid again – I'm expecting to be carted into Papworth in about a fortnight's time for a re-wiring job.
By the way, I've had no successful claimants yet for the mega-Mars Bar literary challenge issued in Bulletin 3.
I came back from Papworth last Thursday, with a polythene bag so full of various pills that I could easily re-stock Sainsbury's pharmacy. If you've heard of it, I'm taking it. Since then I've been getting twelve hours sleep each night, which I could easily get used to.
I made a bad strategic move by not scoffing all the chocolate goodies I got for Christmas between Christmas and mid-January. These have now been confiscated by Management and secreted somewhere within the premises. My diet is strictly controlled, also by Management, but if I comply with requirements my daily evening reward is... no, not 20-minutes' worth of exertion, but a single square of Cadbury's milk chocolate Turkish delight. Yes, just a solitary square. The longevity of this particular block of Turkish delight is, at the current rate, likely to break all Council House records.
I'm required to get some mild exertion rather than just blobbing out all day, which is probably a good idea, though I get tired out rather easily. On Saturday I was walked around the assault course, on Sunday around the astroturf, and on Monday around the astroturf and past the Headmaster's house. Today's highlight was a trip to the barber's, and yesterday I was taken to see Avatar (brilliant: visually stunning with lots of symbolism and allegory – see it if you can). It was my first 3D film experience. This evening's attraction is the Man U v. Man City fixture on the box, and a square of chocolate washed down with a glass of medicinal red wine.
I'm off to Papworth on Monday for pre-op testing, which means that the op itself is only 10-14 days away. The sooner the better. On reflection my trek through icy Nacton did me a favour in bringing my plumbing problems to light and enabling a long-term solution to be found.
Many thanks again for your cards, e-mails and best wishes. I'm now allowed to climb the stairs and to reply to e-mails – I think I managed to get up to date with these this afternoon. Do feel free to pop in for a visit if you have a spare slot – but afternoons only, please! Best wishes to all, and have a great long weekend!
Fred and Edna are no more. No, they're not dead – but I'm unaware of their personal outcomes now that I'm back ensconced in the Council Houses. 'Council House Watch' doesn't quite have the same resonance as 'Bay Watch', so I hope you won't mind the continuation of the slightly fraudulent title. It will soon be valid again – I'm expecting to be carted into Papworth in about a fortnight's time for a re-wiring job.
By the way, I've had no successful claimants yet for the mega-Mars Bar literary challenge issued in Bulletin 3.
I came back from Papworth last Thursday, with a polythene bag so full of various pills that I could easily re-stock Sainsbury's pharmacy. If you've heard of it, I'm taking it. Since then I've been getting twelve hours sleep each night, which I could easily get used to.
I made a bad strategic move by not scoffing all the chocolate goodies I got for Christmas between Christmas and mid-January. These have now been confiscated by Management and secreted somewhere within the premises. My diet is strictly controlled, also by Management, but if I comply with requirements my daily evening reward is... no, not 20-minutes' worth of exertion, but a single square of Cadbury's milk chocolate Turkish delight. Yes, just a solitary square. The longevity of this particular block of Turkish delight is, at the current rate, likely to break all Council House records.
I'm required to get some mild exertion rather than just blobbing out all day, which is probably a good idea, though I get tired out rather easily. On Saturday I was walked around the assault course, on Sunday around the astroturf, and on Monday around the astroturf and past the Headmaster's house. Today's highlight was a trip to the barber's, and yesterday I was taken to see Avatar (brilliant: visually stunning with lots of symbolism and allegory – see it if you can). It was my first 3D film experience. This evening's attraction is the Man U v. Man City fixture on the box, and a square of chocolate washed down with a glass of medicinal red wine.
I'm off to Papworth on Monday for pre-op testing, which means that the op itself is only 10-14 days away. The sooner the better. On reflection my trek through icy Nacton did me a favour in bringing my plumbing problems to light and enabling a long-term solution to be found.
Many thanks again for your cards, e-mails and best wishes. I'm now allowed to climb the stairs and to reply to e-mails – I think I managed to get up to date with these this afternoon. Do feel free to pop in for a visit if you have a spare slot – but afternoons only, please! Best wishes to all, and have a great long weekend!
Bay Watch 4
Bulletin 4: Thursday 21st January 2010
Nick Matthews clearly had no part in the designing of the new building here at Papworth. The width of the corridors means that trolleys can't pass each other in opposite directions (or in the same direction, I suppose, if you're having, or trying to have, a Ben Hur-style trolley race). Why such obvious functional requirements weren't part of the design brief eludes me. Sainsbury's don’t have this problem. Alimentary.
Slept through until 07.45 this morning - the best night's sleep in a while. My breakfast tray arrived at 08.00 and included a china pot of tea. None of your stainless steel rubbish.
Two delightful nurses are looking after me this morning, Liby (sic) and Emma. Emma's a babe. I was thinking of inviting her to assist me for 20 minutes at some stage during my rehabilitation process, but then thought better of it as (a) Celia might not approve, and (b) it might lead to another heart attack. Note my order of priority here.
I was taken to a dark room this morning where young Amy rubbed gel on my front and then started 'probing' me. Can't take much more excitement. Funny pictures appeared on the screen, accompanied by the sound of a strong, rhythmic heart beat. I think I'm pregnant, but they're keeping it quiet.
A large "female" sign has been outside my room since my arrival, and has occasioned the odd comment from visiting family. It seems likely that I'll be moving home this afternoon, but this hasn’t stopped sister from changing the sign to "male", at last.
They've kicked me out. I write this from the Council Houses, so Bay Watch may be nearing its conclusion. But fear not, faithful Bay Watch followers, they're pulling me back in again soon, so there will no doubt be the opportunity of providing further instalments.
Many thanks for your e-mails and good wishes, and for passing on the greetings of some of the children - one of whom expressed the hope that I had had a good holiday. I have smuggled out some 'badges of honour' and teaching resources which I expect to make use of in the classroom in due course. The most precious of these is, of course, a 'bottle'.
Nick Matthews clearly had no part in the designing of the new building here at Papworth. The width of the corridors means that trolleys can't pass each other in opposite directions (or in the same direction, I suppose, if you're having, or trying to have, a Ben Hur-style trolley race). Why such obvious functional requirements weren't part of the design brief eludes me. Sainsbury's don’t have this problem. Alimentary.
Slept through until 07.45 this morning - the best night's sleep in a while. My breakfast tray arrived at 08.00 and included a china pot of tea. None of your stainless steel rubbish.
Two delightful nurses are looking after me this morning, Liby (sic) and Emma. Emma's a babe. I was thinking of inviting her to assist me for 20 minutes at some stage during my rehabilitation process, but then thought better of it as (a) Celia might not approve, and (b) it might lead to another heart attack. Note my order of priority here.
I was taken to a dark room this morning where young Amy rubbed gel on my front and then started 'probing' me. Can't take much more excitement. Funny pictures appeared on the screen, accompanied by the sound of a strong, rhythmic heart beat. I think I'm pregnant, but they're keeping it quiet.
A large "female" sign has been outside my room since my arrival, and has occasioned the odd comment from visiting family. It seems likely that I'll be moving home this afternoon, but this hasn’t stopped sister from changing the sign to "male", at last.
They've kicked me out. I write this from the Council Houses, so Bay Watch may be nearing its conclusion. But fear not, faithful Bay Watch followers, they're pulling me back in again soon, so there will no doubt be the opportunity of providing further instalments.
Many thanks for your e-mails and good wishes, and for passing on the greetings of some of the children - one of whom expressed the hope that I had had a good holiday. I have smuggled out some 'badges of honour' and teaching resources which I expect to make use of in the classroom in due course. The most precious of these is, of course, a 'bottle'.
Bay Watch 3
Bulletin 3: Wednesday 20th January 2010
Joe has gone, in mysterious circumstances, to be replaced by a youthful-looking 51 year-old who keeps fit and jogs three times a week. Fool. He's asking for a heart attack.
I've conducted a survey of the literacy interests of those in the Bay, based on the evidence of the past two days. I claim responsibility for five of the eight items listed randomly below. You'll never be able to guess which are mine:
The text of Lucan, a later Latin epic poet.
The News of the World.
'Rail' magazine.
Women's Own.
Andrew Motion's biography of Keats.
The Sun.
Private Eye.
A Guide to Digital Railway Photography.
A mega-Mars Bar awaits the sender of the first e-mail to list all five items correctly.
High drama: now that I am no longer on 24hr monitoring I have been moved to Bay H. It has a great view of the staff car park, which is an improvement on the landscape afforded by Bay D. There are six beds in the Bay. Good news: the Bay is further away from the staff work-station, so I'm spared staff chit-chat about who's working which shift. Bad news: Bert has followed me. He shoots me occasional glances from diagonally across the Bay, as if to say, "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" I think I'll offer to buy him a one-way ticket to Switzerland on my credit card. I know just the place.
At least Edna's oral effusions are a thing of the past, though judging by the variety of noisy guttural eruptions emanating from the elderly male Bay inmates I may be troubled by repulsive sounds of vehement expectoration tonight.
Survived - just.
I could easily get used to Papworth: private room, en-suite, TV, no Ednas or Berts on the radar. According to the guide the pond is deep and the swans are aggressive, so I'll steer clear. I've just ticked various boxes to order my supper tonight and breakfast tomorrow - I see that a morning fry-up is not on the menu. There's a surprise.
I have a hi-tech bed whose movements I control via a handset. There is a separate handset for staff, but when they use it an intermittent tone sounds. I keep waiting for a robotic voice to say "attention, this bed is reversing", but it never happens.
Joe has gone, in mysterious circumstances, to be replaced by a youthful-looking 51 year-old who keeps fit and jogs three times a week. Fool. He's asking for a heart attack.
I've conducted a survey of the literacy interests of those in the Bay, based on the evidence of the past two days. I claim responsibility for five of the eight items listed randomly below. You'll never be able to guess which are mine:
The text of Lucan, a later Latin epic poet.
The News of the World.
'Rail' magazine.
Women's Own.
Andrew Motion's biography of Keats.
The Sun.
Private Eye.
A Guide to Digital Railway Photography.
A mega-Mars Bar awaits the sender of the first e-mail to list all five items correctly.
High drama: now that I am no longer on 24hr monitoring I have been moved to Bay H. It has a great view of the staff car park, which is an improvement on the landscape afforded by Bay D. There are six beds in the Bay. Good news: the Bay is further away from the staff work-station, so I'm spared staff chit-chat about who's working which shift. Bad news: Bert has followed me. He shoots me occasional glances from diagonally across the Bay, as if to say, "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" I think I'll offer to buy him a one-way ticket to Switzerland on my credit card. I know just the place.
At least Edna's oral effusions are a thing of the past, though judging by the variety of noisy guttural eruptions emanating from the elderly male Bay inmates I may be troubled by repulsive sounds of vehement expectoration tonight.
Survived - just.
I could easily get used to Papworth: private room, en-suite, TV, no Ednas or Berts on the radar. According to the guide the pond is deep and the swans are aggressive, so I'll steer clear. I've just ticked various boxes to order my supper tonight and breakfast tomorrow - I see that a morning fry-up is not on the menu. There's a surprise.
I have a hi-tech bed whose movements I control via a handset. There is a separate handset for staff, but when they use it an intermittent tone sounds. I keep waiting for a robotic voice to say "attention, this bed is reversing", but it never happens.
Bay Watch 2
Bulletin 2: Tuesday 19th January, 2010
Bert and Joe are supine: they are either asleep, or staring at the ceiling, or dead. Doris has been 'disappeared': she was wheeled out last night and replaced by Edna. Edna disturbs the peace of the Bay by incessant talking and whinging whenever a member of staff is present. She's waiting for a pace-maker to be fitted. Gentle suffocation would do the trick.
I have been visited by Dervogilla Howard: do not be alarmed, my condition remains stable. A young man with an ear-ring mops the floor. Edna complains to him that she is feeling dizzy. Like me, he shows little interest.
Great progress: I have been disconnected from my cable and can wander around my bed, but no further. As a treat I can travel to the loo by wheelchair. This will be far preferable to urinating into a recycled egg box, euphemistically referred to as a 'bottle', but vulgarly termed a 'piss pot', I believe. I look forward to seeing how Edna will cope with one of these.
I'm not pleased with Joe. He woke me at 5.20, activating his buzzer to request a 'bottle'. Sounds similar to those of a gently babbling brook broke the nocturnal silence shortly thereafter. I hope, for the sake of the staff, that his penile dexterity has improved. Talking of which, I've just overheard the male nurse - a bit of an Essex boy - asking colleagues how to spell 'penile'. He must be writing up his notes on Joe, or possibly Edna, who has now been sick over her bedclothes. Bert is now upright. I think he's staring across at me, but I can't be sure.
The DVD, watched in the company of Celia and Helen, tells me that eventually I must exert myself for 20 minutes three times a week. Sex counts as exertion. "Too much information", my daughter opined. Anyway, I'm open to reasonable offers, preferably from females and preferably pretty ones. An Irish visitor expressed a preference between sex and driving fast cars, but since I'm not sure whether what I've already written in this paragraph will make it through the censors, I'll not tempt fate further. Didn’t the Irishman say to the chiropodist, "My fate is in your hands"?
Since this is my second cardiac vacation (my first was in February 1999) I'm being taken to Papworth tomorrow in the hope that the experts can sort out once and for all what my pump problem is. I won't be sorry to see the last of Edna and Bert in particular.
Bert and Joe are supine: they are either asleep, or staring at the ceiling, or dead. Doris has been 'disappeared': she was wheeled out last night and replaced by Edna. Edna disturbs the peace of the Bay by incessant talking and whinging whenever a member of staff is present. She's waiting for a pace-maker to be fitted. Gentle suffocation would do the trick.
I have been visited by Dervogilla Howard: do not be alarmed, my condition remains stable. A young man with an ear-ring mops the floor. Edna complains to him that she is feeling dizzy. Like me, he shows little interest.
Great progress: I have been disconnected from my cable and can wander around my bed, but no further. As a treat I can travel to the loo by wheelchair. This will be far preferable to urinating into a recycled egg box, euphemistically referred to as a 'bottle', but vulgarly termed a 'piss pot', I believe. I look forward to seeing how Edna will cope with one of these.
I'm not pleased with Joe. He woke me at 5.20, activating his buzzer to request a 'bottle'. Sounds similar to those of a gently babbling brook broke the nocturnal silence shortly thereafter. I hope, for the sake of the staff, that his penile dexterity has improved. Talking of which, I've just overheard the male nurse - a bit of an Essex boy - asking colleagues how to spell 'penile'. He must be writing up his notes on Joe, or possibly Edna, who has now been sick over her bedclothes. Bert is now upright. I think he's staring across at me, but I can't be sure.
The DVD, watched in the company of Celia and Helen, tells me that eventually I must exert myself for 20 minutes three times a week. Sex counts as exertion. "Too much information", my daughter opined. Anyway, I'm open to reasonable offers, preferably from females and preferably pretty ones. An Irish visitor expressed a preference between sex and driving fast cars, but since I'm not sure whether what I've already written in this paragraph will make it through the censors, I'll not tempt fate further. Didn’t the Irishman say to the chiropodist, "My fate is in your hands"?
Since this is my second cardiac vacation (my first was in February 1999) I'm being taken to Papworth tomorrow in the hope that the experts can sort out once and for all what my pump problem is. I won't be sorry to see the last of Edna and Bert in particular.
Bay Watch 1
The first seven months or so of 2010 were dominated for me and my close family by my second heart attack, the diagnosis of its underlying causes, and the twice-postponed triple by-pass operation performed at Papworth Hospital. As therapy during my stay in hospital I wrote a series of Bulletins describing my experiences and observations. These were posted on the staff notice board of my school, Orwell Park. Several colleagues remarked on their hilarious nature, so I've posted them here.
Bulletin 1: Monday 19th January 2010
Bay D of Claydon Ward is part of the hospital's CMU: Cardiac Monitoring Unit (an abbreviation, not an acronym). It is an interesting world, with four inhabitants. In the inside left position is your Senior Master, easily the most junior of the quartet. To my left is the lady I'll refer to as 'Doris'. She has a pacemaker, does not move or talk much, and looks decidedly unwell. Opposite Doris and diagonally left from me is 'Joe', who is hard of hearing. He over-uses his call-button and because of a hip replacement has trouble maintaining the accuracy of his urinary ejections. On Joe's left and directly opposite me is 'Bert', who spends much of the day staring blankly into space. He expels air volubly and randomly from either major corporeal extremity without warning. I've heard the word 'Papworth' mentioned so I think he's in a serious way, too. He is certainly older than Hunt.
I am writing at the beginning of Day Two, and no words have been exchanged between the quartet thus far. This suits me fine: I have plenty to read (more of this anon, no doubt).
Breakfast. The lady with the breakfast trolley asks Joe whether he would like sugar on his cornflakes. He replies, "Toast". Her assistant enters with a wasted bowl of cereal: a half-wit in a neighbouring Bay has poured orange juice over his cornflakes. "I thought it was milk", he allegedly said. I thought these fluids were colour-coded.
It is easy to see how insanity can set in. I'm wired to a screen via a three-metre cable, and this determines my bounds of exploration. Most dogs have greater freedom of movement. It is especially annoying since I feel perfectly fine. Yesterday I was forced to watch a DVD on heart attacks: quite literally, compulsive viewing. It listed all the causes, but didn’t say that walking through an icy Nacton on Wednesday could lead to trouble on Saturday. Do I have a legal case here?
Less than an hour to afternoon visiting time, a highlight of the day. I don’t have the technology to transfer this text electronically, so I'll ask our daughter Helen to type it up and post it in the Staff Room. Further postings will, I hope, follow, but will depend on the availability of typists and their leisure time!
I send everyone best wishes and sincere apologies for the cover-duties you will very likely be clobbered for over the next few days. I'm sorry I'll miss MFL day - but as you know, most of these tongues are just bad Latin, anyway.
Bulletin 1: Monday 19th January 2010
Bay D of Claydon Ward is part of the hospital's CMU: Cardiac Monitoring Unit (an abbreviation, not an acronym). It is an interesting world, with four inhabitants. In the inside left position is your Senior Master, easily the most junior of the quartet. To my left is the lady I'll refer to as 'Doris'. She has a pacemaker, does not move or talk much, and looks decidedly unwell. Opposite Doris and diagonally left from me is 'Joe', who is hard of hearing. He over-uses his call-button and because of a hip replacement has trouble maintaining the accuracy of his urinary ejections. On Joe's left and directly opposite me is 'Bert', who spends much of the day staring blankly into space. He expels air volubly and randomly from either major corporeal extremity without warning. I've heard the word 'Papworth' mentioned so I think he's in a serious way, too. He is certainly older than Hunt.
I am writing at the beginning of Day Two, and no words have been exchanged between the quartet thus far. This suits me fine: I have plenty to read (more of this anon, no doubt).
Breakfast. The lady with the breakfast trolley asks Joe whether he would like sugar on his cornflakes. He replies, "Toast". Her assistant enters with a wasted bowl of cereal: a half-wit in a neighbouring Bay has poured orange juice over his cornflakes. "I thought it was milk", he allegedly said. I thought these fluids were colour-coded.
It is easy to see how insanity can set in. I'm wired to a screen via a three-metre cable, and this determines my bounds of exploration. Most dogs have greater freedom of movement. It is especially annoying since I feel perfectly fine. Yesterday I was forced to watch a DVD on heart attacks: quite literally, compulsive viewing. It listed all the causes, but didn’t say that walking through an icy Nacton on Wednesday could lead to trouble on Saturday. Do I have a legal case here?
Less than an hour to afternoon visiting time, a highlight of the day. I don’t have the technology to transfer this text electronically, so I'll ask our daughter Helen to type it up and post it in the Staff Room. Further postings will, I hope, follow, but will depend on the availability of typists and their leisure time!
I send everyone best wishes and sincere apologies for the cover-duties you will very likely be clobbered for over the next few days. I'm sorry I'll miss MFL day - but as you know, most of these tongues are just bad Latin, anyway.
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