Let me take you back to a fairly nondescript Monday in mid January. I awoke with a rather unusual sensation in my groin, as if everything was, how shall we say, "a little tender". No matter I thought, perhaps the cat pounced on me whilst I was sleeping (as if, he's usually outside on mouse patrol). As I travelled to work on the train, the tenderness gave way to a dull aching in my abdomen. Well, when I say dull, it was painful enough for me grimace in pain, either scaring the passenger sitting opposite me, or having them wonder why they always get to sit next to the loony.
Cycling from the station to work, the pain pretty much disappeared, and I mused as to what could have caused this. Not being a doctor, and despite never having had it before, settled upon constipation as a reasonable diagnosis. The relief was short lived, and shortly after arrival at the office I made up my mind to pay a visit to the pharmacist in town to get some serious constipation relief. So at lunchtime off I headed, and being a stingy sort of fellow, gave in to the cheapness of anal suppositories over the far more expensive (and longer wait for relief) from the oral tablets. They also came with the shop assistant's personal recommendation. I was however, not in the frame of mind to contemplate her own experience in the bowel department, however pretty she was.
Once back in the office, I couldn't get back to the toilet cubicle fast enough to try one of these things out, and experience the end of this pain, which was starting to get worse, to the point of not really being able to focus on anything else. And so it was, that I found myself in the toilet, sticking large bullet shaped glycerol suppositories up my rear end. To my utter dismay, I found that whilst having the desired effect upon my back passage, the pain ratcheted itself up an order of magnitude. In desperation, I tried a second glycerol bullet and waited the requisite 15 minutes for it to kick in. Well, the only thing that kicked in was even more pain.
Defeated, I decided that the office was no place to be for someone in this pain, and staggered back to my desk to plead with my boss to go home so I could rest up, given that I didn't feel too well. He obviously was more concerned at my physical state at this point than I was, as he immediately offered to drive me home.
What happened next was very interesting, and showed at just want point the pain experienced by an individual escalates from "this is painful" to "not only is this painful, but there is something seriously wrong", to "I need to get to hospital RIGHT NOW". It's good to know that the human body is actually capable of telling its owner when something is very amiss. It was with this rapidly escalating pain (and bear in mind it had been getting worse all day up to that point anyway), that I went from asking to go home, to asking a colleague to call a taxi to take me to hospital, to demanding to be driven to be hospital immediately (i.e. I couldn't wait for an ambulance), in the space of about 2 minutes.
The only lucid thoughts I remember about the journey there was how long it seemed to take, and incoherently mumbling swear words at anyone impeding my speedy arrival at the emergency department. Oh, and the pain, the excruciating pain. On arrival at hospital, I was bent double in agony, my hands tingling and numb and my mouth dry (The latter two symptoms merely signs of a panic attack a nurse casually mentioned to me, like that helped at the time) and in a matter of minutes I was stripped of my clothing, swapped for a hospital gown, in a bed, hooked up to an ECG, oxygen and drip, and getting some very professional care from the no doubt overworked ER staff.
I cannot stress quite how painful this experience was, enough to make my eyes water (that's the non homosexual phrase for crying), vomit (several times), and no doubt provide a continual source of amusement to the emergency room staff with my groans and occasional swearing. The 5 minute wait for an X-ray seemed like an eternity. For someone who has never been in this situation before, immense pain, nausea, hooked up to various machines, pipes and drips, is incredibly scary. The various thoughts that went through my mind were along the lines of "Just what the hell is happening to me?", "What, for the love of god, could cause this much pain?", "Am I dying?", "What on earth will people think of the mess in my kitchen when the house is sold after I've died". Fortunately the wave after wave of pain tended to stop any prolonged introspection of the situation.
Confused by my symptoms and a inconclusive X-ray, the doctors advised me that I'd need a CT scan the next morning to assist in making a proper diagnosis. Muddled by the multitude of morphine shots they had given me, I somewhat naively asked if that meant I should go home and come back the following day. I was assured I wouldn't be going anywhere but up to a ward for the next few days. My inability to stand at this point was testament to that.
So, 10 hours after that little ache in the groin, I found myself lying in a ward with 4 other men, thinking this was an unusual start to the week. My first in-patient stay in hospital. After the drousy effects of the morphine wore off, I telephoned a couple of friends and left messages to let them know I was in hospital. The excitement continued when two hours after arriving on the ward, the man in the bed opposite slumped forward, started foaming at the mouth and went into cardiac arrest. Although it was very reassuring to see how quickly the emergency response team arrived and provided what certainly appeared to be sufficient assistance to revive him, it didn't seem the most auspicious start to my stay in hospital. Anyway, he was wheeled off to intensive care, and I gathered later on he did manage to pull through.
Frustratingly, they wheeled the tea trolley past my bed with a frequency that started to grate, given the "clear fluids only" restriction on my dietary intake. There was also a regular interruption to take my temperature, blood pressure and heart rate. No sooner was that done than someone came round with a large quantity of tablets (mostly painkillers) for me to take. It seemed, for the duration of my stay, I was ingesting somewhere between 20 and 24 tablets of various types per day.
I was also given some containers (they looked like unused takeaway boxes) to provide "urine samples" in. Sample being a slight mis-statement, they actually wanted all of it, but I noted quite quickly the nurses didn't particularly like you bringing your urine samples to their desk. I imagine the sight of a man in a serious state of undress staggering towards you, drip stand dragged along to the right, cardboard box of urine, sloshing all over the place, in the left hand, is disturbing in most circumstances.
It's also worth noting that being the uncoordinated fellow that I am, it was initially quite difficult trying to piss in a box, with some stupid gown that only opened at the rear, whilst getting tangled up in my drip cable.
Around 11P.M. I started to get a sharp pain in my left hand side, and foolishly thought I'd weather it, rather than calling for help. Suffice to say, it got sufficiently painful very quickly for them to be injecting me with morphine before too long. I guess it wasn't until I was out of hospital and off the painkillers that I realised I had seriously beeen biting on my tongue when getting these agonising attacks of pain, given how swollen it appeared to be for some time afterwards!
So my Monday ended with me drifting off into a drug induced haze whilst watching late-night reruns of "Only When I Laugh" on ITV-3. Talk about a nightmare.
To be continued...
Above is one of our favourite photos, notice the delicate arrangement of the flower heads. Also of note elsewhere in the "botanics" was the winter garden. Heathers were attracting many bees in the warming sun, should be a good year for honey!
