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.