A probing enquiry
Sep. 1st, 2009 06:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stephbgWe left the scene at the 3:30AM second dose of PicoPrep. For obvious reasons I didn't go straight back to bed, but after surprisingly minimal action I got some more sleep before the 6:30AM official start to the day.
Glengarry Hospital is only a 10 minute drive from the house, but it's on the other side of the freeway and I'd expected a lot more traffic at certain intersections. Fortunately my insides were quite settled by this point and the drive in held none of the feared emergencies. I was far more concerned about this part than anything else.
Due to the early hour we actually got a park in the hospital's legendarily small carpark. I've been down that way a few times for tests at nearby medical suites, and the local streets and verges are always overflowing.
On the way to the front door I saw the palliative care unit where BB was going to go. He was actually due to be shifted on the day he passed away, which was one of the reasons I'd ummed and ahhhed a bit about going to see him that morning at Charlies. If the schedule had been different I would have been there in time to be with him at the end. Such is life.
On into the hospital reception area which was exactly like a small four star hotel. I was directed to the Day Surgery area around the corner where things started to look a bit more clinical, although there were still hints of comfort in some of the furnishings. Fortunately they knew who I was and why I was there. Just as well, as I'd forgotten to write NOT THIS LEG on the relevant limbs.
Day Surgery is a sausage factory. Someone else had my experience 15 minutes before me, and someone else followed in my footsteps 15 minutes behind. First you wait in the outer waiting room. Then you go to a small locker room to strip (although I was allowed to keep my warm happy socks) and dress in one of those comedy hospital gowns with plenty of rear "access". Fortunately they also supplied a substantial bathrobe, but I'm a fan of underwear and missed mine. That's one wardrobe mistake I'm unlikely to make before leaving the house.
Next: wait.
Next: onto the ward itself. It was surprisingly large: about 20 beds perhaps. There were surprisingly few toilets considering the circumstances. Once settled on the amazingly uncomfortable bed I went through a bunch o' paperwork. As expected the "allergies" section caused a few problems, but we got there in the end with a few orange stickers on my file. My definition of "allergy" is rather more extreme than theirs. When I described my reaction to a certain anti-nausea drug (muscle spasms) I happened to hear a nearby nurse mention for another patient I got raised eyebrows, a fresh sticker, and a mild scolding. "We don't what that to happen, do we?"
Um... no?
Next: wait for the anaesthetist to have the usual Little Chat. Little Chat had, with much less fuss than on previous occasions now I've had my heart checked out. No more "just in case" shots of penicillin for me!
Next: wait for the scheduled 45 minute until my turn. Listen to the middle aged man in the next cubicle go slightly spare at the delay. Listen to the man next door go *very* spare in general fear. Listen to the man next door be utterly uncomforted by the nurse's efforts to soothe. I thought he was going to bolt.
I was directly opposite the nurses' station so I got to listen in on the cross-talk. There'd been an emergency of some sort so the whole list was pushed back by over an hour. Nurses bustled about looking for someone's blood. "Where's the blood?" "I put it here." "Well it's not here now. Where did it go?" Perhaps it wandered off. Ambulance staff arrived to take the person away to a Better Place and the proper routine of the place seemed to re-establish itself.
Although the pace had picked up by this point I was very glad to note that this place felt nothing like a cancer ward. There were a few beeps, but nothing compared to a roomful of IVs. No gory biological sound effects or smells. No visitors, TVs or radios.
Eventually I was rolled over and wheeled into the treatment room/theatre. I didn't get a good look around but it seemed to have the expected array of machines, lights, cameras and action. The anaesthetist complained about the veins in my hand but managed to insert a canula into an odd spot on my wrist at the base of my thumb. I had to bite on a mouth guard designed, I was informed, to protect the equiment from my teeth rather than vice versa. Then they started to inject a milky white fluid.
The next thing I knew someone was calling my name and I was back in the ward. Simple as that: no transition, no awareness of the nasty bits, no memory at all. I imagine many people would find this unsettling, but I set about waking up one twitch at a time. At some point I stuck my tongue out and left it there--now there's a look for Spring 2009, ladies--perhaps because it felt gluey and swollen. And for some reason I've never understood I often find it much easier to wake one eye at a time, so my right eye was reasonably alert and looking about while my left remained glued shut and uninterested in coming out to play. I must have looked like some kind of petulant pirate.
I came out of it a bit more and was a bit surprised to be offered only the choice of apple or orange juice, not water. I suppose they wanted to squeeze some sugar into patients ASAP, but even as the lesser of two evils this apple juice had preservatives in it :-( I had alse prepared myself for a tray of assorted mystery hospital sandwiches, but my beige request was handled appropriately and I was given a special plate of plain chicken sandwiches on white bread. Mmmmm. Sustenance.
Next: wait until the nurse deemed me unlinkely to fall off the twig, then be moved to the transit lounge area.
Next: wait.
Next: wait until the nurse told me I "may as well get dressed" (underwear! woohoo!) then back to the transit lounge.
Next: wait until the nurse told me the doctor and reports were on their way, then move to a different waiting area.
Next: wait until the nurse told me the doctor and reports were *nearly* there, then move to a consulting room.
Next: wait inside the consulting room for the doctor, and some actual information. Of which there was little, so that clears a few major nasties. I won't mention here what they did find (nothing startling), and there's pathology yet to come. For that, I must wait :-)
Next: released into the main waiting room... to wait for Husband, whom they'd sent away.
I felt wobbly, but otherwise fine. Home to sleep it off. A few aches and niggles have emerged now the sedative has worn off, but I'm confident that nothing's seriously awry. The tummy has enjoyed a warm bowl of porridge and lots of water and is looking forward to more. MORE.
Specialist appointment and complete results next week.
Glengarry Hospital is only a 10 minute drive from the house, but it's on the other side of the freeway and I'd expected a lot more traffic at certain intersections. Fortunately my insides were quite settled by this point and the drive in held none of the feared emergencies. I was far more concerned about this part than anything else.
Due to the early hour we actually got a park in the hospital's legendarily small carpark. I've been down that way a few times for tests at nearby medical suites, and the local streets and verges are always overflowing.
On the way to the front door I saw the palliative care unit where BB was going to go. He was actually due to be shifted on the day he passed away, which was one of the reasons I'd ummed and ahhhed a bit about going to see him that morning at Charlies. If the schedule had been different I would have been there in time to be with him at the end. Such is life.
On into the hospital reception area which was exactly like a small four star hotel. I was directed to the Day Surgery area around the corner where things started to look a bit more clinical, although there were still hints of comfort in some of the furnishings. Fortunately they knew who I was and why I was there. Just as well, as I'd forgotten to write NOT THIS LEG on the relevant limbs.
Day Surgery is a sausage factory. Someone else had my experience 15 minutes before me, and someone else followed in my footsteps 15 minutes behind. First you wait in the outer waiting room. Then you go to a small locker room to strip (although I was allowed to keep my warm happy socks) and dress in one of those comedy hospital gowns with plenty of rear "access". Fortunately they also supplied a substantial bathrobe, but I'm a fan of underwear and missed mine. That's one wardrobe mistake I'm unlikely to make before leaving the house.
Next: wait.
Next: onto the ward itself. It was surprisingly large: about 20 beds perhaps. There were surprisingly few toilets considering the circumstances. Once settled on the amazingly uncomfortable bed I went through a bunch o' paperwork. As expected the "allergies" section caused a few problems, but we got there in the end with a few orange stickers on my file. My definition of "allergy" is rather more extreme than theirs. When I described my reaction to a certain anti-nausea drug (muscle spasms) I happened to hear a nearby nurse mention for another patient I got raised eyebrows, a fresh sticker, and a mild scolding. "We don't what that to happen, do we?"
Um... no?
Next: wait for the anaesthetist to have the usual Little Chat. Little Chat had, with much less fuss than on previous occasions now I've had my heart checked out. No more "just in case" shots of penicillin for me!
Next: wait for the scheduled 45 minute until my turn. Listen to the middle aged man in the next cubicle go slightly spare at the delay. Listen to the man next door go *very* spare in general fear. Listen to the man next door be utterly uncomforted by the nurse's efforts to soothe. I thought he was going to bolt.
I was directly opposite the nurses' station so I got to listen in on the cross-talk. There'd been an emergency of some sort so the whole list was pushed back by over an hour. Nurses bustled about looking for someone's blood. "Where's the blood?" "I put it here." "Well it's not here now. Where did it go?" Perhaps it wandered off. Ambulance staff arrived to take the person away to a Better Place and the proper routine of the place seemed to re-establish itself.
Although the pace had picked up by this point I was very glad to note that this place felt nothing like a cancer ward. There were a few beeps, but nothing compared to a roomful of IVs. No gory biological sound effects or smells. No visitors, TVs or radios.
Eventually I was rolled over and wheeled into the treatment room/theatre. I didn't get a good look around but it seemed to have the expected array of machines, lights, cameras and action. The anaesthetist complained about the veins in my hand but managed to insert a canula into an odd spot on my wrist at the base of my thumb. I had to bite on a mouth guard designed, I was informed, to protect the equiment from my teeth rather than vice versa. Then they started to inject a milky white fluid.
The next thing I knew someone was calling my name and I was back in the ward. Simple as that: no transition, no awareness of the nasty bits, no memory at all. I imagine many people would find this unsettling, but I set about waking up one twitch at a time. At some point I stuck my tongue out and left it there--now there's a look for Spring 2009, ladies--perhaps because it felt gluey and swollen. And for some reason I've never understood I often find it much easier to wake one eye at a time, so my right eye was reasonably alert and looking about while my left remained glued shut and uninterested in coming out to play. I must have looked like some kind of petulant pirate.
I came out of it a bit more and was a bit surprised to be offered only the choice of apple or orange juice, not water. I suppose they wanted to squeeze some sugar into patients ASAP, but even as the lesser of two evils this apple juice had preservatives in it :-( I had alse prepared myself for a tray of assorted mystery hospital sandwiches, but my beige request was handled appropriately and I was given a special plate of plain chicken sandwiches on white bread. Mmmmm. Sustenance.
Next: wait until the nurse deemed me unlinkely to fall off the twig, then be moved to the transit lounge area.
Next: wait.
Next: wait until the nurse told me I "may as well get dressed" (underwear! woohoo!) then back to the transit lounge.
Next: wait until the nurse told me the doctor and reports were on their way, then move to a different waiting area.
Next: wait until the nurse told me the doctor and reports were *nearly* there, then move to a consulting room.
Next: wait inside the consulting room for the doctor, and some actual information. Of which there was little, so that clears a few major nasties. I won't mention here what they did find (nothing startling), and there's pathology yet to come. For that, I must wait :-)
Next: released into the main waiting room... to wait for Husband, whom they'd sent away.
I felt wobbly, but otherwise fine. Home to sleep it off. A few aches and niggles have emerged now the sedative has worn off, but I'm confident that nothing's seriously awry. The tummy has enjoyed a warm bowl of porridge and lots of water and is looking forward to more. MORE.
Specialist appointment and complete results next week.
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no subject
Date: 2009-09-01 10:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-01 11:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-01 11:22 am (UTC)The Vampyrs of Glengarry!
Glad you're ok.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-01 02:29 pm (UTC)Sounds like a great title for a book.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 01:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-01 02:11 pm (UTC)I actually woke up while my first procedure was still underway, somewhat to the surprise of the specialist. Little did he know I've got the pharmaceutical imperviousness of a bull elephant. I didn't mind, actually, as I was still quite floaty and not in any pain, and the view on the monitor was captivating, to say the least. To quote Grant, it was like watching the intro "down the tunnel" credits from Tom Baker era Doctor Who.
When I went back for round two, via the front door this time, they hammered my neurons good and proper and I didn't wake up until back in recovery, much to my relief - I don't think that would have been much of an experience to wake up in the middle of. And I agree, the suddenness of the pre- to post-op scene wipe is quite something.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-01 10:33 pm (UTC)