Tag Archives: Dying

YOU’RE DAMNED IF YOU DO AND YOU’LL DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH IF YOU DON’T

 

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Not a fun squeaky dog toy

A recent viral infection took me to A&E (I said I’d walk but it insisted on driving). It’s been quite some time since I was last admitted, and I was reminded of how scary hospitals must be to the uninitiated and previously well. That said, is anyone really ever well? Or are we all just in a blissfully unsuspecting stasis of pre-diagnosis? In my occasional moments of ‘why me’ melancholy – “why did I have terrible acne, why did I get sick, why do I have to put my plate in the dishwasher?” – I can draw cheer from looking at the general public as I pass them in the street and with a wry nod and a smile, know that thanks to the ‘big 5’, around 0.3% of them will die from a horrible illness. And whilst that doesn’t sound like a lot, its approximately 200,000 of you, or about 199,999 more people than read this blog. If you’re the judicious number ‘1’, then get yourself checked out immediately; should something nasty be ‘caught’ early and successfully treated, then at least reading this drivel will have had a positive outcome. And as for the other 199,999 of you, well it serves you all right.

Should you be diagnosed with one of the ‘big 5’, you can lighten the mood in the consulting room by comparing your illness to one of the similarly categorised ‘Big 5’ Game animals, sometimes seen majestically striding the Savannah or heroically displayed on the wall of a Dentist’s waiting room. Of course, instead of catching a Lion, Leopard, Rhinoceros, Elephant or Cape Buffalo on your camera and taking home precious Safari memories, you’re having a Stroke, or you’ve ‘caught’ Heart Disease, Cancer, Lung Disease or Liver Disease and you’ll be taking home an A5 leaflet called ‘Coping with Illness’ written in comic sans, a big green bag of drugs and an all-encompassing feeling of doom.

And whilst you’re probably taking comfort from thinking you can’t actually catch any of these, I’d like to add a little extra seed of concern to your list of daily worries about missing the bus, downloading malware and that spreading damp patch on the bedroom ceiling; you can become medically obese from catching the ADV36 cold virus, there IS a bacterial infection that can cause diabetes and there are ongoing studies into the probable link between specific viruses and their triggering of cancers. Suddenly that damp patch isn’t worrying you anymore? Well it should because the moulds associated with damp conditions produce irritants and toxic allergens, that can cause respiratory complications and Asthma, a condition effecting over 5 million people in the UK and causing over 1000 deaths annually. You can put that on your list too.

Now get out there and enjoy yourselves, whilst you still can.

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I’M RUNNING OUT OF PATIENTS

 

Hospitals would be shit without patients and not just because doctors and nurses would be left shuffling along the corridors, bumping into things, bumming (does that still mean what it used to mean?) endless cigarettes off each other and wondering what on earth they could strike about now…’We’re working too many hours!’ Well piss off home, I keep telling you there’s nobody else here.

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‘I’m sorry to say, it’s a little worse than we first thought’

On a high dependency ward, other patients offer so much entertainment to distract you from the unspeakable horrors of hospital, like the person in the bed next to you dying in the night and the next morning the person sitting in the chair visiting the corpse – still undiagnosed as dead – also dying. Irish Keith, still tragically alive and well, was in the bed opposite and offered a wide-range of inappropriate comments to anyone close enough to hear them through his never ending rasping death rattle. ‘Ooh, she was dying to get out of here’ and ‘I told you the food was bad’, followed by ‘She bloody deserved it!’ and ‘Makes you think doesn’t it’, the last of which was by far the most offensive.

Irish Keith (there was another Keith but he was just ‘Keith’) was desperately unwell and his prognosis was poor; the doctors had implied he would be ‘leaving’ any day now. But sadly, that day kept not coming. One ward round, I’m pretty sure I heard the exasperated consultant quietly ask the nurse ‘when’s he going to die?’ but let’s give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he actually asked ‘when’s he growing two pies?’, a common question in hospital after all.

In my more-accepting, less-disgusted-by-everybody-else moments (occasionally  experienced after 30 mg of Temazepam, when I momentarily forget where and who I am) I felt sorry for Irish Keith. Thanks to his offensive opinions, nobody ever came to see him and nobody stopped to chat as they shuffled quickly past, heading towards the thoroughly appalling Day Room, tugging their wheeled posts of dangling, bulging bags of piss behind them; lots of urine at least meant their kidney was making the stuff, it’s the patients slumped in the corner, with split, brittle bags now home to a family of lovable Dormice that you need to worry about, although those patients are long dead so you may as well find something else to worry about. Worry about the Dormice for Christ’s sake, that’s no kind of place to raise children.

For the week I was on that ward, Irish Keith remained jolly in his obnoxious trying to engage with people way; calling out, waving, beckoning, gesticulating, he seemed oblivious to the fact that nobody wanted anything to do with him and he happily carried on insulting everybody. My turn came following a worryingly elevated potassium result and an erratic heart-rate, which resulted in my bed and me being wheeled rapidly away in case I needed a spin on the defibrillator – I didn’t mind, there wasn’t much on TV.  Upon my return, Irish Keith piped up.
‘You’re still alive then? Shame. I wanted your bed by the window. Bastard’.
‘Ah, thanks Keith, that’s makes all the difference’
‘Fuck off, you’ll die before me, even if I have to put a pillow over your face in the night. You bastard”.

It was an idle threat, he was too sick to get out of bed unaided and I was pretty sure that even the grumpy nurse wouldn’t have helped him asphyxiate me in my sleep but I did wonder whether with his last dying breath he’d give it a go.

As it happens, he did nothing as energetic as getting out of bed with his final inhalation. Two days later, with a rattling coughing fit that sounded a lot like ‘you wanker’, he was dead.

Irish Keith died as he lived; offensively.

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GOWN & OUT AGAIN

The NHS is broken. Snapped. Crushed. Mangled. It’s so broken, that if it were a patient in A&E, it would be fast tracked onto a gurney, rolled down the Intensive Care corridor, out the double doors and into that sink hole that’s opened up in the car park; another free bed and another target met. Personally, I would also choose the sink hole over waiting 4 hours to be seen by a doctor, sitting next to a potty-mouthed bleach blond reeking of cider, bellowing at the top of her voice and demanding surgery for a wrist she sprained punching her son in the face. You’re a class act mum.

The NHS spends around 300 million pounds every day. That’s a lot of money but I simply can’t believe all that just goes on replacing the soap, surgical gloves and pillows I steal? And although I know that those Surgical Theater Lamps are very expensive, if they could just see how great it looks in my sitting room, illuminating my Cole & Son accent wall and highlighting my pointless collection of sticks in a jar…well, I’m pretty sure they’d think it was money well spent. Not to mention (although I am about to) that as surgery costs about £15 a minute and 25% of that time is spent adjusting the lights, by stealing their lamp I’ve saved them the £225 they would have spent fiddling around with it during a 60 minute operation and freed them up to get on with losing the patient. How do I know these fascinating hospital facts? Well, I spend a lot of time on Google and even more time stealing study reports from my doctor’s desk, although that is of course another saving – with the extra time he’s saved by not being able to read them, he can now concentrate on getting his nose hair to rapidly appear and then disappear, with every derisory snort.

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‘Do you really need to take them both?’ ‘I have two sitting rooms, don’t I?’

So with an estimated shortfall of £22 billion over the next 4 years, what can be done to cut some of these spiraling costs? Obviously, I could stop nicking stuff but that’s just not feasible; it’s an illness dammit. And one that if only the NHS recognised as such, they could treat me and I’d stop pilfering their supplies. It’s complicated I know, a sort of chicken and egg thing. Much like the sandwich I stole from the café.

Instead, I implore the NHS to stop investing any more money and time into the grotesque chimera that is the ‘Pyjown’. As if patients’ lives are not miserable enough, the proposal to replace existing bedwear with this abhorrent monstrosity is terrifying; malformed spawn of hideous green pyjamas and shrunken back-less gown that had dirty, misshapen sex in the store room, the brilliantly named Pyjown is a pathetic combination of the two, although based on the name, it could also be created from a Pygmy and a Jewish Clown. In fact, I’d be a lot happier wearing that, along with a nightcap made from a placenta.

This ‘revolutionary’ garment, placed over the patient from the front and tied with cords around the neck, reassuringly resembles the peeled skin of another patient – yes, you can put other people’s organs inside me, but I will NOT ever wear their skin and most certainly not their gloves.

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‘We’re just going to peel you now Mr. Johnson’

And revolutionary as it is, the Pyjown is basically a short sleeve shirt that has been miss-sewn by hopeless children in Asia and has a back opening, as well as one at the front. Offensively, it’s also the most beige I’ve ever seen in one place and although I’d like to say I wouldn’t be caught dead in one, such opinion can so often prove ironic for a hospital patient. Although, with my last gasping breath for life, my priority would certainly be to have a good go at wriggling out of it.

Thankfully, although being rolled out soon for trials in some UK hospitals, mine isn’t one of them. So I may still get lucky and die in existing misshapen NHS nylons after all.

And please, if that is the case, I’d like my epitaph to read ‘He died as he lived, in a backless gown, two sizes too small’.

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