It was the 7th November. Now moving into month 7 since I reported to my GP in May that my shoulder was hurty, and I was back in BRI.

On this occasion I saw a Dr Sood. This is the last of the trio of consultant haematologists, so I have now collected the set. This will, as normal, allow me to charge double rent and I have grand plans to build a number of hotels, which will allow me to supplement my income in grand style. I knew I was still waiting for the surgery and so couldn’t expect him to come up with a diagnosis, but I was hoping he would have the results of the venogram that had been done and could shed some light upon the whole shoulder pain issue.

Well, the short answer is no. Or, perhaps, both yes and no. The venogram did show some constriction of my cephalic vein, which was causing other veins to have to carry the extra flow (you can see one sticking up on my arm, lovely) but what was causing that remains a mystery. He now believes that this is, after all, related to my lymph nodes problem and that it is more than likely a lymph node which is pressing on stuff in there. Along with that, it’s probably pressing on a nerve which is causing the shoulder pain. He’s given me (yet) another type of painkiller, gabapentin, which is used to help with peripheral nerve pain[1] and this is proving reasonably effective in conjunction with the opiate based stuff, which is quite a relief. On my way out of the door, I happened in to see Dr Alan, who asked about the surgery. I was pleased to be able to tell him I was due to be admitted tomorrow[2].

Thus the following day, in accordance with the instructions from the hospital, I called the ward to see if they would have a bed for me. You have to call, in case they have been deluged with emergencies and won’t be able to admit you. I would like to believe I am next on the list after emergencies, being on the ‘fast track’ and so I was concerned to hear a lot of “we don’t know yet” and “we are very busy” types of noises. “Please call back later, or leave your number and we’ll call you.” I left my number, but also called back several times during the day, getting more and more worked up as time went on and the day slipped further and further away. It’s bad enough that one is expecting a surgery under general anaesthetic, without being kept on tenterhooks about one’s hospital admission. Finally, late afternoon, they told me they could get me in and could I turn up about 7pm.

About 7pm I arrived and was asked to sit in the day room for a while, as my bed still wasn’t ready. This room has some modern conveniences. It has a television. Of course this is the ward’s television and remains tuned into soaps, car crash tv, and the worst of daytime entertainment[3], with the remote guarded by fierce looking harpies[4] who, with minds already reduced to lime jelly, require their fix of everything that’s worst about daily televisual programming. If one sits right at the back, with one’s phone pressed against the window, however, one can just about get a signal and a data connection. I therefore passed the time trying to get facebook to work until finally, blissfully, they told me my bed was ready and took me away from Corrie hell.

It was a pleasant room, all to myself, with an ensuite and again, a spot near the window where I could just about get Internet. A TV would have been nice, but one can’t have everything. Shortly before midnight they brought me a sandwich and a scone, telling me that once I’d eaten that, I wasn’t to have anything else until after the surgery. I spent a restless night, dropping off to sleep just in time to be woken up again for blood pressure checks and so on, falling back to sleep just in time to be woken up again by Richard the Surgeon.

Richard the Surgeon informed me that they had the wrong kind of blood. Now I’ve noted this in a status update I know, but to recap – I apparently have some rare antibodies in my blood which mean that normal blood of my type[5] simply can’t be used. My surgery had a less than 1% chance of needing a transfusion, but nevertheless without the correct blood on standby, Richard didn’t want to do the surgery as it was an unecessary risk. Further blood samples where taken, in particular for sending to Seacroft Hospital which is the local centre for the bizarre random blood I apparently need.

Now, excuse me all over the damn place, but what the fuck was the point of my coming in for a pre-assessment if not to determine what fucking blood I might want. They took enough damn samples of the stuff, why do they only decide on the morning of my surgery that they’ve got the wrong gear? Someone somewhere royally fucked up and I was not happy and not impressed that all Richard the Surgeon could do was to send me home again, with a view to coming back next week when they’d have the correct blood.

And so next week arrived and again on Monday morning I began the stress of seeing if they had a bed for me. I guess I was lucky as it only took them until lunchtime to decide that I could come in at 4pm.

4pm I presented myself as instructed at the ward. Of course my bed wasn’t ready. If someone can explain why they tell me to arrive at 4pm, when I won’t have a bed until 7pm I’d be grateful. My unecessarily early arrival meant I was subjected not only to additional hours in the day room from hell, but also an extra hospital dinner I might otherwise have avoided. Nondescript chicken pie, with overcooked green beans and mass produced croquette potatoes, followed by bakewell tart with industrial strength pastry and yellow goo pretending to be custard. Yummy.

So yes, eventually I’ve got a bed, but sadly on this occasion I’ve not got a private room but am sharing with 3 other guys. There’s one chap admitted at the same time as me. He’s reading his book and keeping himself to himself. There’s old guy, who is sitting in his chair and just stares into space and there’s tube guy who has drains attached to some kind of noisy machine which buzzes and sucks and gurgles in a most disturbing way. I feel particularly sorry for tube guy, when I overhear a conversation in which he is going to be sent home, still with the drains attached.

On this occasion I have made better preparations for entertainment. I have loaded my phone with video, books and music, so I devise a method by which I can use the paper books (woodpulp is so last decade) to make a suitable stand for my phone, so that I can lie in bed watching “The Martian Chronicles” with my headphones in and thus shutting the world out. Another restless night passes in a hospital bed. You see, it’s not that they are uncomfortable, it’s just… stuff is always happening and tube guys drains keep kicking off and there’s the stress of knowing the surgery is in the morning and well, it doesn’t make for a decent night of sleep. Nevertheless I finally drop off.

I have a number of dreams, the final one of which concerns one of the cuter nurses on the ward and those activities I would[6] enjoy sharing with her. I therefore have a very difficult moment, when I open my eyes, and said nurse is but two inches from my face, her eyes gazing into mine and she says “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” At that instant, the line between dreams and reality are very blurred and it is likely only my vague dozy surprise saves me from signing the sex offenders register. Having gotten over that, it turns out I’m second on the list for surgery and need to get dressed in the usual theatre gown and the sexy support stockings designed to prevent a deep vein thrombosis.

At about 11am a butch looking lady with a trolley arrives to take me off to theatre.

So I’m now just outside the door of the operating theatre, being prepped up and getting my vein spiked by the anaesthetist (I never learned his name), whilst chatting with Richard the Surgeon about how my blood issues aren’t in his notes either. The anaesthetist tells me he’ll be giving me a series of injections and at the last one I’ll be out. He begins with some strange looking white goo…

…seconds later my head is swimming. “Whoa!” I remark. Much amusement circles the room. “That’ll have kicked in then.” Replies Richard. “Yes.” I reply. “Just leave me like this for half an hour or so…” I trail off as the next drugs are administered…

 I’m on a trolley being wheeled somewhere and I need to move my arm and can’t. It’s vitally important to move my arm, for some reason, but I just can’t seem to move it. Or speak. Someone is telling me everything has gone fine and I’m out of surgery and being taken to the recovery room. Very slowly, reality and control of my body begin to return and I can move my arm again, though can no longer remember quite why I had wanted to.

My time in the recovery room was not the best I’ve had. I started to feel very ill indeed and vaguely was able to vocalise my distress. At this point there was much running about and even another anaesthetist rushed in to check on me. Apparently I was very unwell indeed at this point, looking clammy and ill with a blood pressure of 63/30. Quite the emergency. Fortunately, my BP recovered quickly and I was past that problem only to completely lose control of my bowels with corresponding pain in my guts. Fortunately, in such a situation I am not easily embarrassed. I’ve just come out of surgery and definately need looking after, so ok, I’m sure it wasn’t the most pleasant job for the nurses, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

This incident, however, proved to be a master stroke.

If the patient is exhibiting diarrhea in the recovery room, then perhaps he has some kind of INFECTION! Now, it’s fair to say I was fine before surgery and it’s a bit of a coincidence that just after surgery I’m suddenly ill. Likely something they’ve given me, perhaps a big belt of antibiotics or something, has made me ill, but they can’t take the risk. I might have an INFECTION and I might spread that to other patients and INFECT them as well. This means that the ward has to rearrange stuff, so that instead of going back to my shared accomodation, I get sent back to a private room, this one with a fully working DVD player![7]

My advice then, to anyone who has the unavoidable necessity for surgery under general anaesthetic, is to shit yourself in the recovery room, in order to get a room upgrade. I’ve tested this and it works.

Little more to say then. I got over the anaesthetic slowly, but steadily and was up and about later the same day, getting kicked out of hospital the following afternoon. I currently have a nice looking slit along the base of my throat where they went in to do the surgery and my stitches will dissolve when they are good and ready, I guess. I am told that they got the sample they needed so I hope to have a diagnosis very soon, by which I mean next Monday when I will be visiting the haematologists at BRI again.

I will also ask them what on earth is up with my blood. I have a suspicion I may need to have this information again at some point in the future, knowing what’s going on may make things easier.

[1] Also for treating epilepsy. Not sure how I feel about that!
[2] By which I mean 8th November, the day after my BRI trip
[3] If you can call it that!
[4] aka Female patients
[5] Despite asking repeatedly, nobody at the hospital has so far been able to tell me what my blood type is, it’s not in any of the notes.
[6] Erm.. subconsciously of course *cough*
[7] And my thanks to Andy & Helen for dropping me off some DVDs to watch.