It was a little after midnight when we got there so A&E was filled with the standard drunken fools that had fallen over or the odd one in cuffs with a split lip from fighting, which meant that I had to wait a bit longer to be seen this time. They shoved me straight into a bed though and then I was placed in a cubicle to wait. At about 2am I sent poor shattered Sam back to the hotel to get some sleep and tried to doze myself. Of course, that's when the nurses decide that they want to attend to you, naturally.
Numerous various tests and samples later, I was given a diagnosis of gall stones. It was now past 6am and I was wheeled onto a ward where the other patients were starting to wake up ready for breakfast. I, obviously, was nil by mouth. The caterer, clearly filled with compassion, set up her station at the foot of my bed to feed the other invalids. I felt like a baby tiger looking at all the people scoffing burgers outside the enclosure whilst I sat under a sign clearly marked; DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS.
The next couple of days blend into one constant loop of having my blood pressure checked and being wheeled off for various ultra-sounds and MRI scans. Poor Sam visited me for as long as he could but they would send him away at meal times, despite me usually not being allowed to eat and again at 10pm so I could sleep. Fat chance of that. I've never had a more uncomfortable night in my life. And I've slept on a conservatory room floor.
On Monday Sam had to check out of the hotel, so he spent the day with me in the hospital whilst I pestered the doctors to sort themselves out because we needed to get home. Not that they paid any attention. Maybe the accent barrier made things more complicated. You know how a doctor uses complicated medical terms that you don't really understand and you're forced to ask them to "speak English, Doc"? Well imagine that with a thick Scottish accent on top too. Conversations were a question of endurance of your mental capacity as you tried to decipher what the fuck was truly going on.
I was tired, I was ill, I was yellow from the jaundice and I was fed up. So I had no choice but to self discharge and return home.
Again I slept most of the way home as Sam drove us home and we had a night in our own bed, knowing that nothing productive would get done at that time of the morning in the hospital. When I woke up I got dressed in jogging bottoms and slippers because they'd clearly keep me in once we explained everything to them, and we headed to the Heath.
Eight hours later, I'd been poked with fingers and needles, had multiple tests and the final outcome was... they agreed. It was definitely gallstones. Hurrah.
The Glasgow hospital was refusing to send the results of their scans over so I was sent home with a goody bag of pills and told to return the next day for yet another ultrasound...
No comments:
Post a Comment