Tag Archives: NHS

5.The Knight, The King and The Jester

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Not having Pleurisy is considerably harder than having pleurisy, because if I don’t have pleurisy then what the hell DO I have?!

“Well it’s not cancer”, the doctor crooned, throwing down his Royal Flush. I spat out my tea, (I wasn’t drinking one at the time, but my mouth did the same action). “Of COURSE IT’S NOT CANCER!” I hadn’t ever thought it was cancer, not for a second, but the moment he told me it wasn’t, I thought it almost certainly was. God I miss Pleurisy. Good old faithful 18th Century sounding Pleurisy. I had a solid relationship with that bad-boy and now it’s left me – left me with WHAT?!

The hospital doctors referred me to a respiratory specialist, who (much like Mr Bean) lost my test results, forgot to schedule my appointment and tell me he was going on holiday for a month (probably with his teddy bear). On hearing this news, my MD* galloped centre stage upon his trusty white steed, a sword in one had and my private health insurance in the other… what a way to deliver an email! Legend. I booked an appointment with Professor Santis at the London Bridge Hospital for the following day. (A Professor no less, like Stephen Hawking and Henry Higgins, but better!**)

I have to admit to feeling guilty for leaving the NHS behind; after all it had done for me. Despite the crisis that looms over its head, wards fit to bursting and purses nearly empty, the doctors and nurses worked tirelessly, with care, dedication and the humility and patience of a Buddhist monk working in the Next Christmas Sale. I have a lot to thank them for.

Professor Santis had the air of a King on a polo horse. I immediately bowed in his presence and apologised for wasting his time. I fought desperately to hold back tears because I couldn’t bear to see the distain on his face at my feminine fragility… he might have me beheaded! So instead of telling him that my chest stabbed with every beat of my heart and I’d taken to fainting in embarrassing places, I danced him a merry jig and sang a tuneful song. He told me there was an area of concern in my CT scan – a small gap in one of the rivers running from my heart where there ought to be blood and that my lungs weren’t functioning as they ought to. So I told a few jokes, jingled my bells, apologised profusely and backed out of his office, relieved that my kindly master had spared me.

Whilst I waited for the second opinion, King Santis prescribed me some magic beans, I mean pills, magic pills. And so began what shall henceforth be known as, ‘The Dark Days of Sick and Doom’. Oh what a noble and magnanimous King. All hail King Santis.

I booked an appointment to see him in again in 5 days, (dark days of sick and doom) and I cartwheeled back to Vauxhall. (Honestly guys, stick around for ‘The Dark Days of Sick and Doom’… it’s going to be a hoot!)

 

*To clarify, my MD is the Coffee & TV Managing Director, not my friend Shane who is a Musical Director.

** Since Professor Henry Higgins is fictional, (and all he really did was manipulate some poor girl so she could sing about the rain in Spain and embarrass herself at the races), I can confidently say that my Proff is better. I have no facts to support Professor Santis’ superiority over Professor Stephen Hawking, but it’s childish to turn this into a competition, so just stop it! (but in a fight, Proff Santis would probably win. Just saying.)

ProffKing Santis of London Bridgeshire

3. A party and no pants…

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The Royal Surrey Hospital is a giant un-fun maze (not of the bushy variety you find in regal gardens*); and the Emergency Assessment Unit is as easy to access as Platform 9 ¾.* What a good job no one looking for it, is hoping to be assessed in an emergency. Oh.

Mum and I spent (what felt like) ten hours navigating the NHS Labyrinth. We crossed paths with lost souls who had originally come to visit relatives, only to find themselves so disorientated by hallways they were now being treated for malnourishment and delirium. Gasping for breath, I desperately attempted to keep up with mum, (‘Mother’s Race’ Winner – Saint Teresa’s School Sport’s Day – 1994). I had no chance. Having entirely forgotten I was with her, mum was enjoying a rather clinical life-sized game of Pac Man, until she had a head on collision with a white coat.

“Excuse me Sir”, mum curtsied, because he was clearly a doctor. “We’re looking for the unit where you assess emergencies.” He pointed to the EAU, which was just behind us. Mum hurried in with the power of an ambulance through swing doors, where she waited a while for me to catch up.

After being ushered into a cubicle, we quietly conspired that I would NOT be staying the night. Ever the optimist, I hadn’t packed pants. So since the visit was going to be fleeting, we decided we might as well enjoy it with a wide selection of magazines and a delicious M&S spread. What fun! Doctors and nurses were joyfully welcomed into our cubicle; “thanks for popping by, sausage roll?” And even in the absence of booze, conversation flowed freely; “do you smoke?” No. “Do you drink alcohol?” Oh go on then Doctor, I’ll have one if you are. “How many units?” What?

It felt like a peculiar drinks party under strip lighting, underscored by the beep of a heart monitor instead of Michael Buble. Mum had our guests roaring with laughter as she regaled us with tales of her Pulmonary Embolism, until a party pooper threw open the curtains to say, “We’ve had your results back and I’m afraid we’re going to have to keep you in.”… But I haven’t packed pants!

Not one to be discouraged, mum began to hatch a plan for my escape. “I’ll tell the little nurse that you’re leaving and that’s final. She’s only 12, what’s she going to do? We’ll just walk out!”

As much as I admired my mum’s spirit of determination, I suspected that the doctor’s might have the right idea as my chest felt on the edge of implosion… plus I was exhausted from all the fun of our party.

 

* Hampton Court Maze is a lot of fun, but don’t let anyone trick you into thinking there’s chocolate, or a magical unicorn in the middle, because there’s neither; there’s just more bush which isn’t edible or magical.

* If you haven’t read, or seen Harry Potter then you won’t get this reference; you’re probably also a muggle, but because you haven’t read Harry Potter you don’t even know what muggle means. Pah! What a muggle!

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It’s party time!

2. Doctor Google says I’ve got boob Ebola.

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There are five things I can guarantee you’ll do when you’re ill in bed.

  • You will Facebook stalk everyone you knew at 16 in the hope they’ve aged badly. (In case not everyone who is sick Facebook stalks Ali Naylor, believe me, this veritable sex-god-in-chinos has NOT aged well. See! Don’t you feel better already?! You’re welcome.)
  • You will eat more calories in one day than is humanly possible to burn running a marathon, (if like me,  you’re eternally grateful your illness hasn’t put you off your food!) As delicious as this is, it isn’t all that sensible to consume 15,481 calories when you’re not in the mood to run a marathon, and the only exercise you’re getting is when you’re forced to get out of bed because digestive biscuit crumbs are exfoliating your bottom. This ‘exercise routine’ may happen every hour or so, but still, it’s no marathon.
  • You will pretend not to have watched four episodes of Come Dine With Me, back to back.
  • You will pray to God your HR department isn’t pulling out the big blue folder that says ‘Statutory Sick Pay’.
  • You will Google your symptoms at least 3042 times, an hour. You will learn SO much from Doctor Google, you’ll wonder why on earth people waste ten years of their lives training to become doctors via the traditional (and clearly out-dated) route. You will Whatsapp your friends to tell them you’re probably having a heart attack. You will call your mum to break the news you have Ebola in your left boob. You will hold your boyfriend close and sob into his shoulder because he’s probably infected with your Smallpox. Your boyfriend will reassure you that Smallpox was entirely eradicated in 1977, and you’ll stroke his poor little confused head in the knowledge your disease has already started to erode his brain. Your brain hasn’t started to erode yet, because it’s stronger.

I spent two weeks in comprehensive medical training. It was thoroughly exhausting because Doctor Google is relentless in the provision of ‘knowledge’. Doctor Google is always open for business; unblinking, unyielding, unending. Insistent information awaits your click. WebMD.com rests for no man; NHS Symptom Checker.co.uk needs to be checked; MayoClinic.org; HealthLine.com; Patient.info; VetDirect.com (just in case.) An endless stream of enlightenment waits to be unravelled, from the moment you wake until the wee hours. Because how else are you going to get to the bottom of why you’re STILL hurting?!

So when I returned to the doctor’s, I sympathetically advised him that perhaps he’d wasted ten years of his life to an evidently fruitless education. I didn’t say those exact words, I think I said ‘help. The anti-inflamatories haven’t made any difference. It hurts more than I can bear. I can’t breath. My chest feels like it’s breaking with every breath. I haven’t slept properly in two weeks. Please. Help me.”

He made a quick call to the Emergency Assessment Unit at the Royal Surrey Hospital to tell them to expect me. I Googled ‘Bird Flu’ on my way.

So my advice to the sickly folk out there, is DON’T DOCTOR GOOGLE. What does ‘@HotmizzArizona’ know that your doctor doesn’t? Granted, she probably knows how to peel a prickly pear, (an Arizonian delicacy your doctors hasn’t encountered yet) but that’s not a good enough reason to follow her health advice on Med.Help.com. Even in the dead of the night, when you feel lonely, helpless, anxious, and you fear you’re loosing control, DON’T DOCTOR GOOGLE, because boob Ebola isn’t worth worrying about after all.

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Danger. Midnight Doctor Googling.