~o~
Friday 14th. Returned to base. [Home]
Tuesday morning, at 2am: I woke with agonizing pain across my upper chest. After a while I decided to call an ambulance as instructed. After hasty collection of clothes [and my mobile phone] into a handy shopping bag. I was whipped away to a first hospital 40km away. Blue lights flashing all the way. With sirens as needed. I had completely forgotten any of my multiple pairs of supermarket bought glasses. Which made life unnecessarily difficult in the coming days!
Shortly after being assessed by two gorgeous, young lady doctors. Does morphine usually have this effect? I was sent onto the main hospital in the city. Where I had been given the initial examination on Monday. More hurtling along the motorway with blue flashing lights and sirens. Meanwhile I was being topped up with more morphine for the intense pain.
The first evening there was punctuated by vomiting. I couldn't keep anything down. No water, tablets or food. This dangerous situation was overcome by simple, white poly bags. Attached to white, plastic trumpet flares. These saved me from liberally decorating the scenery. Which would have been unforgivable. As they were all taking such good care of me. I did not want to add to their labours.
Next morning, Wednesday, I was in much better shape. I had some tasty porridge oats in milk and black coffee. I was tested repeatedly for assorted signs of life. Meanwhile multiple electrodes attached to my chest had six [?] cables leading to a data box in a bag. This was provided with a loop of ribbon for easier carrying around the wards and corridors. Plus the inevitable visits to the toilet. Sometimes the spring clips on the electrical leads fell off the contacts. A staff member would magically appear and replace them.
I should warn you that time runs at half speed in hospitals. Which gives one plenty of time for observation. My blood pressure was taken with an arm sleeve and a machine on a pole with castors, Wheeled by a young lady attendant. Likewise with my blood tests at more irregular intervals. The nurses voluntarily attempted to speak English with varying success. Often improving rapidly with the slightest practice. I always praised their efforts and was always generous in my praise and thanks. They must not apologize for their limited mastery of a second language and they might use Danish if they preferred. None did. Which was very sweet of them. If only to avoid them having to suffer my pidgin Danish!
It was decided that I should be "repaired" that afternoon. I had two badly occluded arteries. One was actually completely blocked. These were supposed to be feeding vital blood to my heart. To stop it and me from dying. I was still in severe pain over my heart and my back on the same, left side. I was wheeled to the operating theater expecting to be put to sleep. It was not to be. They needed feedback and signs of life.
After a brief, verbal recording of the coming procedures. By the strikingly attractive, lady surgeon. It all began. The surgeons decided to go in simultaneously via my wrist and groin. Local anesthetics protected me completely from the coming mechanical operations. Insertion tools for the catheters were inserted into suitable arteries. For the long trip up to my shoulder and across to my heart. Substantial blocks were inserted. The block in my groin would take a couple of months to eventually dissolve.
I was liberally covered in plastic sheets and presumably extra radiation protection. The least of my worries at that particular point. My view of the surgeons was largely blocked by a special, semi-transparent screen. I was aware only of two dark shapes moving about. It was impossible to identify whom they might be. They conversed quietly in Danish at intervals.
A large TV screen showed my heart and all its plumbing but needed my neck twisted. As a large x-ray head moved back and forth and rotated around my center of gravity. So-called, contrast fluid being injected as needed. The operating table moved, often jerkily, at infrequent intervals. Perhaps to centre the view. Or to provide another viewing angle. There was no obvious pain, at all, from all of their highly skilled efforts on my behalf. Only some sense of physical movement within my upper arm.
This went on for three, whole hours. As they fought to open the blocked arteries with ever larger, sausage balloons. At least this was my impression from the ever increasing sizes being quoted in the background. The intense pain in my chest persisted. With what felt like my left shoulder blade hurting even more! As I desperately tried to writhe without making the slightest, physical movement. In a vain attempt to reduce my horrible. I was offered and accepted pain killing injections but they had no discernible effect on my shoulder pain.
Then my left cheek suddenly started to tickle from the cooling breeze of the passing, x-ray head. So I began to concentrate on the tickle. Too afraid to move in case I spoilt their work. On occasion I was asked, in English, how I was doing. To which I answered "I am still here." The male surgeon responded with an amusing "so are we!"
A lady surgeon came around the operating table to check on me now and then. Which was comforting. I hadn't seen a face in what seemed like hours. As the support staff had largely retreated to the far edges of the room. Presumably to avoid radiation overdoses. My view of the room was very restricted and I was afraid to move a muscle. Having been told to keep as still as possible.
Inevitably it all, finally, came to an end. I was generous in my bilingual gratitude to all involved. Their level of skill leaves me without adequate words. It was reported that they had used 15 balloons and inserted four stents. [The latter a sort of coil spring to hold the artery open] This involved a lot of what sounded like mechanical ratcheting and sudden loud bangs. As the high inflation pressures were let off. I am largely guessing here. The nearest I could imagine was an industrial stapler or pop-riveter on steroids. I never saw the actual equipment involved. Having been too afraid to watch any YT videos of this part of the operation before the event.
Then I was wheeled back to my large, solo room with its own toilet cubicle. It felt as if I was moving though a crowd. My right forearm soon started to swell and take on an expanding cloud of violet. It became ever more painful above the twin, inflatable bracelets. These were intended to stop my arteries from redecorating the room in a garish red. The violet a tasty contrast, to the golden, surgical cleansing fluid. Which was adding its own highlights around the expanding edges of darkness. A royal flush!
After that I was checked at frequent intervals by the lovely, highly skilled nurses. I was still suffering from fleeting pain over my heart and behind it. Being very afraid that it would worsen. So that I'd have to be taken back to the operating table for yet more repairs. Or the easier way out. To take the journey down to the morgue.
Fortunately the pain slowly subsided. So that I could concentrate on whether my right arm would burst before it actually turned completely black. Again, neither occurred. So I edged slowly towards accepting my treatment had been a complete success. Then I started leaking blood from the groin insert. A beautiful young nurse applied remarkable pressure. To eventually stop the blood flow and and my embarrassment in having her pressing on my nether regions.
The following day I was released and ambulanced back to the furthest hospital from home. Where I joined two others in a larger room. There started the strangest relationship between one other patient and myself. He was an ex-soldier and self-proclaimed alcoholic. Living year round in a rural caravan. A large, near-spherical, rough diamond of a man. With a huge, shaggy beard and badly calloused, bare legs. We shared the same sense of humour and matching intelligence.
He was as clear cut a case of walking PTSD as one could possibly wish for. He was absolutely determined that he never slept for days on end. Repeating this delusion at frequent intervals to whom ever might be within earshot. Despite my own clear witness to the contrary. He had been a sergeant and was still crippled by the pain and misery he had seen while serving in Yugoslavia and elsewhere. His sense of guilt could be measured at several meters on the Richter scale. He complained loudly and endlessly.
His command of English was absolutely phenomenal! We talked for hours. As I tried to explain away his mental symptoms. With my completely "amateur night" psychotherapy. He smoked rather heavily and had all sorts of ruses. To escape detection but inevitably leaving the room smelling strongly of tobacco. I was happy to forgive him his escapades and found it all quite amusing. His supposedly secret smoking breaks were anything but. Any passing bus driver could probably say where he sneaked off to for another puff.
The two of us spent the evening monitoring our oldest trio member. For repeated oxygen mask removal in his sleep. This octogenarian was clearly unhappy with the mask and constantly tried to lift it clear. So that it ended up on his chin. Then he stopped breathing completely. We watched for a few second before calling the nurse. Reported that he kept removing his mask. Just in case it helped. The screens went up as she worked out of sight. With other nurses looking in briefly. To check on her and that of our third team member's progress.
Eventually the screens were removed. It had seemed like an age and we two had feared the worst. Would we be a man down? It was revealed that our third partner was still living but continuing to take rapid, shallow breaths. Apparently his lung were filled with fluid. The "pilot's" oxygen mask had been replaced with a nostril feed on a clear plastic hose. This had immediately solved the mask removal problem and he seemed much more relaxed. The flailing arm movements had completely desisted. His night demons had simultaneously vanished. A win for our team!
Meanwhile the remaining two prisoners only pretended to sleep. As we talked late into the early hours. My companion was shocked to learn that he coughed continuously while fast asleep. This was an "astounding revelation" to him. [His very own words!] He had been absolutely certain he was awake all of the time he was asleep. Up to that point he had flatly refused a proffered sleeping tablet. Only to accept it in the middle of the night. From the Norse, male nurse. Though on the clear understanding that it was strictly on a trial basis.
Hours later my rotund new friend woke from a further three hours of uninterrupted sleep. To find our third member sitting naked and bolt upright in bed. As the nurses prepared him for the ambulance journey. To have his heart plumbing checked in the city hospital. From which I had just returned. A convention forced on the county councils' responsibilities for unfortunate geographical areas.
Having our third man sitting upright only added the confusion of the newly disturbed sergeant. There was much talk of his having entered a parallel universe. While I attempted to ease his fears and cheerfully blamed the "horse tranquilizer." Which he had reluctantly taken in the night. He went off muttering loudly. Pretending he had to find some food. Most probably having a first, surreptitious smoke of the day.
After further testing and my wandering the long corridor in short steps and [very] slow motion I was eventually discharged. I sat outside our shared room while waiting for the sergeant's return. From having his leg circulation checked downstairs. We shook hands and then spontaneously hugged. I sincerely hope he survives his physical injuries and learns to calm his demons. His company was a revelation in itself. I had learned that no matter how bad things may seem. Countless others are suffering on a whole new level.
To the casual, or uninterested eye, a hospital seems like pure chaos. Yet its team of highly skilled and knowledgeable workers. Are all carrying out their tasks to a routine. Which must closely match the exact needs of the constant supply of new patients.
There is an unseen demand system for small items via the nurses. Like a fresh towel or perhaps a cup of coffee. Which avoids the need to provide literally everything on site at every single bed. I felt rather bad asking for these "favours." When the nursing staff were so obviously busy. Yet always willing, smooth, calm and un-rushed.
So I was probably being far too polite. At least by average "customer satisfaction" standards. Their often warm grins. As they left the room with a "your welcome" after competing such a humble task. Showed that they appreciated my rather formal thanks. Too many patients take such kindnesses as an expected part of the service. They paid their taxes so expect to get their money's worth!
My brief stay in two hospitals showed clear differences between them. Yet both functioned as well-oiled machines. I was suitably impressed and tried to limit my own burden on their busy working day. I felt throughout that the supposed "facade" of kind, personal care provided was really very genuine. Each member of staff brought their own, unique personality and skills to the provision of their routine tasks. They were all, without exception, nice to me.
Watching the effortless movements of well-rehearsed staff was truly a delight. Like watching a master craftsman rapidly produce a work of art from only the very basic materials. Simply watching the staff cleaning the room or bathroom. Or completely stripping a bed for the next patient. Was really quite fascinating. Almost factory-like in their flawless, unconscious, repetitive actions. No wasted energy or time consuming repetition from false moves. It was all so remarkably efficient! Yet remaining safely human in their personal touch, always polite communication and instant feedback. No robots required. Nor remotely desired!
~o~
