On Monday I attended St James’ Hospital in Leeds, for a pre-assessment for my upcoming surgery. You may recall that after fannying about with various procedures the local medical fraternity have still completely failed to get any kind of lymph node sample and so they are now going to do what they should have done in the first place, which is cut me open, dive in and get some. This can only happen at Leeds, as they don’t do chest cutting in Bradford (for some unknown reason).
So, I duly arrived at St James. Well, I say I arrived. The day had started badly. I had downloaded a new alarm clock app which I had tested and then set to get me up in due time, booked a taxi to the station and knew the train times for Leeds. I had decided not to drive for various reasons, mainly not knowing the way or the state of the parking when I got there. The day promised to be a big arse stress without the additional headache of cocking about with the car. Unfortunately, overnight the alarm had decided that randomly flashing my screen on and off without making any noise would be a good way to get me out of bed, so by the time I woke up in a general state of panic, the booked taxi had long since given up and gone – and my train would be pulling out of the station. So, given limited time, I dragged myself out of bed and called a taxi, paying the price for my lack of decent alarm clock as he drove me all the way to Leeds.
On the way, I deleted the new alarm clock app.
Now, St James is big, really big, so I was glad that there were signs enabling my driver and I to navigate across the campus to the correct wing where I was dropped off. Inside it was all new and modern and terribly smart and I was easily able to get directions to where I needed to wait. A fun little note was on the wall talking about hygiene. It explained that all the nurses would be wearing short sleeves and the doctors would be similarly dressed, or with rolled up sleeves and no ties or jackets, this wasn’t because they were scruffy, it said, but rather to avoid the spread of infection. I wandered to the reception desk and asked for directions, being pointed to another reception desk further in the building who would direct me to to see the surgeon (or a member of his team).
I suppose I should have realised by the presence of a dog-collared hospital chaplain leaning on the second reception desk that things were about to go wrong. Clearly he was there to provide moral and spiritual support for the poor patients condemned to this part of the hospital. This is the point where things started to go seriously bad. The building was new, the paintwork was in a very modern shade of institution green, but there was something vitally important missing.
Mobile coverage.
I was in a black spot. Forget data, I couldn’t even send a text. I was cut off from civilisation and thrust back into the dark ages. At any moment vikings would be attacking, pillaging my valuables (not my phone, obviously, what with the lack of connection) and kidnapping the nurses. To add to my pain, there wasn’t even a TV. Or rather, there was, but all it did was show a slide show of advertisements. I suppose the posters of clichéd and twee poetry around the walls was supposed to somehow calm my disposition, but it was a nightmare. The walls began to close in as the net withdrawal began to set in fully. I needed a cup of tea and quickly, looking around desperately for some kind of kettle or vending machine.
There was none. A jug of water, the style one normally sees next to each bed in a ward was on a tray, with a little sign offering that patients should help themselves. If only there had been cups, some trauma might have been avoided, but no, even this was denied me. My mood, already dark on account of having to rush out of the house with no caffeine began to blacken further.
It is perhaps, for the best that I didn’t have too long to wait before the registrar (a scruffy chap in rolled up sleeves with no tie) called me into his office to discuss the upcoming procedure. He was also able to show me the CT scan from last August and point out the different bits and pieces. Here are lungs, here is the heart, and here is the…
…and it was at this point that I actually shut the fuck up. That lymph node is properly massive…
…It’s down in the middle between my lungs being all much bigger than it should be and stuff. I am very much torn, I have to say. Whilst I find these images of my insides generally fascinating from a scientific and anatomical viewpoint I really don’t know if I really wanted to know how big that lymph node actually is. The term ‘enlarged’ that they have been using does not do it justice, although I suppose ‘ginormous’ is not a term in general use by the medical profession. It’s pretty bloody big. I am pleased to state that on my paperwork, I could see “fast-track” stickers all over it. Knowing now how big it is, I’ll be very pleased to move as quickly as possible.
The operation then, which is to be performed under a general anaesthetic will involve keyhole surgery to send a camera down to locate the node internally, followed up by taking a good size sample suitable for testing. I signed the consent form (receiving the pink copy for my own records) and he wandered off to speak to the surgeon about fitting me in. This took some time, as the surgeon was also seeing patients. This wasted time, as I sat in the registrar’s office staring at a lymph node the size of a small astronomical body would be the cause of further difficulties, as I shall shortly relate. Eventually and, in fairness, apologetically, the registrar returned to inform me that he would get me in for a procedure on the 9th. I need to arrive on the 8th and will probably be released on the 10th. In the meantime, they’d very much like to get a fresh CT scan.
So, the next stage in processing involves a small hike. One is provided with an envelope stuffed with paperwork. I notice they had sealed it tightly, and scrawled on the seals so it would be more obvious if I opened it and read it all. I actually feel a bit aggrieved by this, it’s my notes, why shouldn’t I read them on the way? In any event, there were 15 lines of directions to get me from this department to the surgery pre-assessment department, which I gather is where ALL the pre-assessments are done.
After some muddling along with what turned out to be “almost correct but just wrong/inexact enough to create difficulties” directions I found myself at the windowed reception for preassessment. The delay at the registrar meant I had arrived just in time for them to shut for lunch and could I come back around 2pm? I looked at the time, around 12:15. I’m in Leeds, with nothing to do for the next 2 hours and I can’t even go to the boozer as beer will affect the pile of tests I’m about to endure. I express at some length to the receptionist my disatisfaction with this state of affairs. She puts on her best “you have my sympathies, but there’s fuck all I can do about it” face and gives me some directions which will lead to a Costa Coffee, nearby in the hospital. Thus resigned to being at Jimmy’s all bastard day I trudge down the stairs and along the corridors and arrive, not at the Costa Coffee. No mere coffee shop this, instead, these directions have led me, inexorably towards the…
**** St James’ Hospital Retail Therapy Experience ****
It is, perhaps, ironic that given all the recent articles about the potential health risks of infection from fish pedicures[1], that there is, within the actual hospital building itself, a beauty salon offering just exactly that service. There are shops, there is a hairdressers. There are restaurants and pie shops and yes, way over in the back there is a Costa Coffee. I stand, seriously in utter bewilderment watching people scurrying about, eating, buying, having their feet eaten. It is at this point that my phone rings. Oh bliss, delicious, wonderful connectivity, how I love thee. I stagger outside, retail confusion warring with restored connection, blinking in the sunlight to take a call from the office.
By the time I’m done, my mental state has been restored somewhat and it being lunchtime, and there being numerous food outlets, I go back inside and avail myself of the pie shop for a couple of pasties and a coffee, whilst considering my next move, there being much time remaining before I could get assessed. I guess I was lucky, as it was a wonderful sunny and warm autumn day and so I was able to sit outside and read my book. Well, I say book, obviously I mean my emergency e-book on my phone. I should state that I’ve given up reading Jules Verne for reasons I’ve given at much length in the past and am instead reading Harry Harrison’s Stainless Steel Rat series, which are much more fun, amusing and easy to read, which is sort of what one needs when being stressed at a hospital.
Around 1:30pm I decide to chance my arm and hope they are back early, wandering upstairs to pre-assessment. As it turns out I’m in luck and they are recommencing the processing of patients. A nurse “as soon as possible” is promised.
Pre assessment appears to be in a much older part of the hospital, in soothing instution blue. It has two very important things which were lacking elsewhere. A television which displays television programmes (BBC News channel on this occasion, very grown up!) and mobile coverage. I have to say however, I didn’t get much chance to enjoy either, as they are pretty bloody efficient in there as you are processed, conveyor belt style from one nurse to the next. A nurse for MRSA tests, another for the questionnaire. Amusingly enough I had the campest nurse in West Yorkshire performing my ECG which overall made the performance of failing to get any of the sticky pads to stick quite entertaining as he fought in excellently camp and flambouyant style to get the pads situated, electrodes attached and the infernal ECG machine to accept it had the correct connections to take the readings – stereotype and proud of it, I found this particular nurse’s efforts to be one of the highlights of an otherwise dull day. Finally the ward sister took all the blood tests and I was told I could go home.
Which I did, essentially uneventfully.
I am now awaiting an appointment for this next CT, which will likely be at Leeds again, as the Leeds doctors can’t order up scans in Bradford, but he said he would write to BRI and try to get the referring doctor there to order me up one closer to home. They will need to get on with it, mind, as there are now only 8 working days until I’m due to be hacked into.[2]
My next known appointment will be on the 7th when I am due to see my haematologist, who will hopefully be able to do something more about this shoulder pain we are also looking at, following on from the earlier venogram.
Now – I want to say something in all seriousness. Codeine is horrible. I have spent the past two-three weeks getting myself off this quite insidious drug, in a process of weaning down under my GP’s supervision. I had been taking the strong dose pills constantly for several months and realised I’d become completely dependant upon this drug, which many people don’t realise is actually an opiate. And so I went to my GP. Coming off codeine is horrible. I had physical and mental withdrawal symptoms, physically being sick and flu-like, mentally with anxiety and paranoia, by which I mean severe anxiety and severe paranoia. I say this, so that if anyone reading this ends up, like I currently am, with chronic pain, they will know to avoid an extended stay with the codeine. There are other options and I heartily recommend you discuss those with your GP. Codeine will seriously mess you up. After a brief (and futile) flirtation with various NSAID type drugs, all as effective as tap water, I’m now taking Tramadol as and when I need it and I’ve been given a week’s worth of uber strength sleeping pills to get my head down and past the lingering anxiety issues as I am now utterly exhausted. Tramadol is another drug in the opiate family (though artificial, unlike codeine which is present in raw opium). It’s stronger than codeine, but at least for me (based on previous experience with a shattered elbow, inserted metalwork and extended rehabilitation) it’s not so addictive. So please all of you who read this, really take care with pain medication. Codeine pills are available over the counter in pharmacies, when they say don’t take for more than three days, they mean it. Go and see your GP, there may well be something outside the opium family which will work for you. Sadly, it appears, not for me, not this time.
I now have another new alarm app. It works. For those of you wondering why I’m not simply using the default alarm clock on my phone, the answer is simply that I can’t abide all the beepy buzzy alarm noises that it offers and need something a bit less like being smacked in the face with a brick, when being woken up.
[1] I had at this point intended to do some gag about the fish from the fish pedicure ending up in the restaurant, but that utter bastard Danny Baker did the whole whitebait thing on ‘Have I Got News For You’ over the weekend, which sort of spoiled it for me and indeed for my overseas readers, who do not get HIGNFY on their primitive television networks.
[2] In retrospect, I realise this is a pretty poor pun for an IT person to write, but as I didn’t notice it at first and it wasn’t deliberate, you can all suffer.