I’m sorry this note has been a while coming, however I felt I needed to spend a few days getting over the awfulness of it all before I could write anything that might be worth reading. So anyway, here follows a story of the spine chilling horror that was my hospital trip to the Endoscopic Ultrasound unit, last Tuesday (being 27th September).
First of all I had my letter, detailing for me all the things I was expected to pack and bring to the hospital. These included basic toiletries, towel, dressing gown and a change of nightwear. All this I presume just in case they had to keep me in overnight. This was a slight issue for me, as it is my custom to sleep in the buff[1]. I find nightclothes get caught up in places clothes shouldn’t get caught and are generally uncomfortable so to be avoided under all normal circumstances. No way was I going out to the shops to buy a pair of dodgy pyjamas for this event, so I figured they’d have to put up with the vague possibility of seeing me in a pair of boxers first thing in the morning. The letter assured me that although it was a mixed sex ward, there were cubicles separating men and women to avoid embarrassment.
The letter also told me that I would need supervision for 24 hours following the procedure as I would be a danger to myself. I was not to operate machinery (or even a kettle) so would need someone to look after me. I gave Andy a ring on this subject and would like to very much thank both him and Helen for looking after me and letting me stay over with them on the night in question. I feel that without their support, there may well have been some kind of terrible and bizarre tea-making accident which I am happy to have avoided.
So the night before I prepared. I did this in two ways:
- I packed a bag with all the relevant stuff. Also a couple of books.
- Stayed up stupidly late playing games, by which I mean about 4am. This was part of my plan to be so tired at hospital the next day that I would do little more than doze the day away and it would all pass so much more quickly.
In the morning, having dragged myself out of bed without anywhere near enough sleep I prepared for the day ahead. My letter had been very specific and stated that I should take only a light breakfast of tea and toast. Heeding this advice I commenced to prepare breakfast and after grilling of few slices of bread, muffins, some crumpets, bagels and a couple of scones, washed down with a gallon of tea[2] I felt suitably fortified to face the day. I’d ordered a taxi the previous night and it arrived on time (Smack Taxis FTW![3]) and took me to the hospital.
I had been instructed to arrive for a 10am appointment and was in the ward 5 (which has no cubicles and is completely open) around 0945. This seemed to confuse the receptionist, who instead of being at the reception desk, was sitting in an armchair having breakfast. I waved my appointment letter at her and over a mouthful of cornflakes she mumbled something about going to the nurses station. I tried very hard indeed not to roll my eyes and proceeded onwards. When I reached the nurses station, as I’m sure you’ll have guessed, there were no nurses. There were two doctors, talking important doctor stuff, with notes in front of them and stethoscopes about their doctory necks. I think having a patient arrive caught them off guard and out of their comfort zone, as they looked shifty and sort of embarrassed, before one of them muttered something about finding a nurse and fled. The nurse soon arrived and pointed me at bed number 1. I would like to believe this is because I am important and a number one kind of guy, but the fact is that aside from the tumbleweed rolling down the aisle and some barely awake staff, the ward was basically empty. Nevertheless, I texted Andy that I had arrived and the ward I was in. I spent a little time rating the nurses in order of hottest to nottest[4], then settled back in the provided armchair for my snooze.
There were a number of issues with my snooze. Firstly, the chair wasn’t really very comfortable. Secondly, was that the bed, which I had hoped I might lay upon whilst snoozing was little more than a trolley and I very much feared to lay upon it for fear of rolling over and crashing onto the floor. Thirdly, bed number one sits next to a sink, where nurses come to wash up and squirt alcohol based disinfectant stuff on their hands, so trying to get 40 undisturbed winks was really quite the challenge. Nevertheless, I can assure you all that I made a herculean effort and finally managed to slip away into the land of…
“Are you tired Mr Morrell?” Said hot nurse #1.
“Fuck off bitch and let me sleep!” Is what I wanted to say, but instead I grunted something vaguely affirmative as she started getting pointy things out of a little cart.
A lot of fannying around now commenced with the desired result being a cannula into a vein in the back of my hand, so they could inject stuff into me later. This turned into quite a performance as she managed to get me spurting blood all over. On the plus side, that then gave her the bright idea of using the end (where a drip might be attached, I think) to draw all the blood she wanted for testing, instead of yet another needle. By the time she had finished, however, I was dripping blood and she had to remove all the sticky dressings which hold the cannula in place. A few tense seconds followed where we both prayed the damn thing didn’t come out, as the area was cleansed and a new set of stickies put in to hold it into position. Job done, they could now drug me up with relative ease. I sat back and resumed my master plan of dozing the day away.
My reverie was again interrupted, this time by hot nurse #3 (I never got to spend any time with #2), who had all my paperwork to deal with. She wanted to know if I had any of the following conditions, heart problems, diabetes, blah blah…
“Hypertension?”
“Yes.”
“Are you on medication?”
“Yes.”
And continued. Was I on any drugs (other than for the hypertension). I told her yes and pulled out the half dozen boxes so she could write it all into a box not big enough for them. She then took my blood pressure and was surprised to find it remarkably normal.
“I thought you had high blood pressure?”
Now. The observant of you will have noted that I had already told her I was on medication. The thing about having high blood pressure, but taking medicine, is that the medicine works to make it be not high. This, to me, is immediately obvious and logical, so I was surprised by her surprise. Nevertheless, with paperwork completed a more senior nurse (hottie #3 was only a trainee, in fairness) checked it and had me sign the consent form. A little while later, I am asked to change into the inevitable operation gown. I really don’t know why, being as I’m swallowing a camera, but whatever makes them happy I spose.
My snoozing was next interrupted for more blood. Apparently they needed more samples as the earlier ones had shown up some rare antibodies and they needed to take more for cross matching purposes, just in case something went badly wrong and they had to do some kind of emergency surgery. This was properly irritating, as the nurse (well not even a nurse, a health care assistant) was apparently unable to get blood out of the veins in my elbow. I have bloody good veins, I know. I know this because I’ve had so many blood tests just recently, and the trained phlebotomists are in with the needle and out with the blood before you can say ‘vaccule'[5]. She simply couldn’t get blood out and when she did, it was all clotted up and horrible. She twisted the needle this way and that, causing me much pain and failing, failing to get what she needed. Finally, she called a real qualified nurse to assist. Of course, the vein in that arm was now ruined (I still sported the bruising up until yesterday) and the vein in my hand had the cannula in, so it meant starting on the other arm. That of course is the one with the stupid circulation problems. In the end, the nurse slipped a needle into a vein in my hand and got the blood out, in a quicksmart manner, but I was feeling pretty abused by this point.
To add to my discomfort, whilst all this mess with needles is going on, the porter arrives to whisk me away to my inevitable fate, but the bloods aren’t done, so I can’t go. I am now quite worried that they will cancel my procedure and I’ve wasted a day when I could have been elsewhere not being repeatedly stabbed. I voice these concerns but am told not to worry, it’ll happen. This is confirmed when ten minutes or so later, the porter returns having been instructed by a Dr Jowett[6] to “bring him down anyway”. Apparently she doesn’t wish to wait for 2 hours for the blood tests. I get onto the trolley and he wheels me off.
It turns out that this procedure happens in a special room in the depths of the imaging dungeons. I’ve discussed the ultrasound suite in a previous posting and the endoscopic ultrasound (EUS) is in there, in an even darker room. It’s also (despite the protests of the nurses who are “don’t you think it’s hot in here?”) bloody cold. Perhaps if I was wearing a nurses uniform I would be warmer, but I’m in a gown and freezing. The nurses are quite jolly and try to engage me in conversation. One of them asks what I do for a living and I tell her I work with computers. She happily explains to me that she has no idea at all about computers, then goes on to ask me what it is I do with computers. I pause for a moment, preparing to explain the intricacies of outsourced IT, DNS management and SMTP email delivery, before remembering that she has no idea about computers, so I am wondering what the point of any explanation might be. The conversation sort of goes downhill from there. This creates an awkward silence, as the doctor who had been so keen to get me into the EUS suite, now keeps us waiting for a good 20 minutes before putting in an appearance.
The conversation goes even further downhill when they start messing with the inside of my mouth. First comes the throat spray. This is some kind of alcohol based thing they spray right into the back of your mouth. It’s utterly disgusting and tastes of low grade vodka with chemical banana flavouring. Apparently some people report that it tastes like whisky. I can only view that sentiment with pity and hope that those people get to taste real whisky at some point in their lives. In any event, the back of my throat is now completely numb.
Now comes the terror and the horror. I’m on my side with oxygen up my nose to help me breathe and they are strapping some kind of gimp mask onto my face, to hold my teeth open so I can’t (I presume) bite through the camera/doctor’s fingers. Apparently they are sedating me, but I really don’t notice as the tube is inserted down my throat and the chocking and retching and gagging begins, with the panic mounting and mounting inside me. I struggle to maintain a sense of calm, wishing that the fucking sedation was in some way effective and hating each and every second jointly and severally. I know I try to write these notes in a light hearted manner, but seriously, I cannot find anything funny at all in my description of this procedure, which is one of the most grim experiences of my life. According to the literature, the ‘sedation’ may make you forget ever even having it. I assure you all I will never ever forget those terrible, nightmarish few minutes with a foot of tubing down inside me. The only saving grace is that they were, thankfully, able to get hold of a sample, using the fine needle aspiration.
After it was over and done with and much shaken up, I was wheeled back upstairs to the ward, where I remained in the bed for an hour or so, again trying to get a bit of kip. Despite this alleged sedation, I felt it hard to nod off and watched the clock until they came to feed me a sandwich and a cup of tea. Shortly afterward I got up, called Andy to pick me up and got dressed before meeting him at the front door, to be whisked away from all this awfulness.
I will be seeing Dr Adrian (not Alan, sorry) and/or Dr Lisa on Monday afternoon to (I presume) get some results.
Meantime, this whole business has been shown to have nothing whatever to do with the pain in my shoulder which started this roller coaster. I am therefore scheduled to appear in the ultrasound suite (“Hi, it’s me again!”) Wednesday week for a doppler scan of the blood vessels in my arm. A venogram has also been requested, but I have no appointment for that as yet.
[1] This may be too much information for some, but really I don’t care.
[2] The amount of tea and toasted bread products may have been exaggerated for comedic/dramatic effect.[7]
[3] Well, Royal & Great Horton actually, but there was that rumour some years ago about the heroin dealing …
[4] There were only really 3 entrants. The remainder were too fat, too ugly or too male.
[5] I realise many of you are less familiar with blood tests than me, so a vaccule is the little tube they use to keep the samples in.
[6] That’s another sticker for my Doctors of Bradford Hospitals, a new collection from Panini.
[7] And is dedicated to the talkie toaster. Yes, I would like some toast.