If you read my last blog, you’ll be dying o know where the salt was stashed…
It was on the tea tray. Well of course it was. That’s a life-hack you’ll need if you’re in that Ward.
It became very clear that they wanted rid of me asap. I suppose this was the human face of bed-blocking. What seemed to be causing the bed-blocking was my intestines. Having some blockage of their own. This was question number One from the massive team of consultants doctors students et al who were all on a “need to know” basis. The very stern consultant was unimpressed at my lack of bowel movement and not only prescribed all sorts of remedies.
“You MUST have bowel movement before you can go home!” He thundered at me. “Have you had suppositories?” “Yes” I replied. “But to be honest, for all the good they did I might as well have shoved them up my arse!”
A couple of the students tittered. But from God, nothing. He just walked away.
Now, the priority given to everyone knowing when I pooed seemed to overtake everything else. Suffice it to say all administerings had no effect. For the whole day I was literally bored shitless. And I did wonder if this was really more important than finding out, for example, what I was going home to. Which was no-one. That didn’t appear to be on anyone’s radar.
Next morning at 7:30 the entourage appeared again. Nothing else mattered than was the opening a success. “No progress yet” said I: “Even God’s thunderous words didn’t scare the shit out of me!” God almost smiled. And then pronounced “You can now go home!”. Perhaps he didn’t appreciate my humour. Still no-one asked what I was going home to. That’s what the fear of bed-blocking produces.
So a car was arranged and turned up at 9. Which meant I couldn’t get any medicine to take home with me. They needed 8 hours notice…… The thought of no Tramadol was not something I looked forward to on the two-hour journey back. Thank goodness for my ex wife Val who saved the day by getting me some from the surgery.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m very pleased the cancer was removed. But I can’t say the urge for efficiency has made the whole “hospital experience” any more pleasant.
And next time I’ll tell you about some of the things I should have asked but didn’t, the catheter removal, and the next cystoscopy. And what life after a nerve-sparing radical prostatectomy has been like for me…so far.
