Friday, 28 May 2010

Why the NHS hates me

I am so sorry I have been silent for so long. I had all great plans of ensuring I posted every day - or at least Monday to Thursday whilst I am pretending to work! However, my health and I haven't been the best of friends recently. Or should that be for a long time?

I have been suffering (on top of the usual crap) with double vision in one eye, total light sensitivity in that very same eye, a killer of a headache in that very same eye (the sort where you feel there is a drumming competition going on inside your skull, and you weren't given any kind of notice!) as well as a pain down that side of my neck.

This went on for about a week, when The Mentalist decided that I should go and see a doctor, as summat clearly wasn't right. So off we toddle, and I tell her my symptoms. She sends me straight to A&E (at the hospital where I had vowed never to set foot again - I should have listened!). We drive straight to the hospital where we manage to jump all the queues and get seen by the A&E doctor. Who decides that I need to be admitted. By this time it was about 8 pm in the evening (nothing ever goes quickly with the NHS).

The Mentalist and I were shipped off to a ward, where I was to have a private room (result), so had a quick chat with the nurse, and told her we would just have to go and get some food. As we hadn't anticipated either going to hospital or being admitted, we had no bags or anything, but I didn't worry, as the room had been allocated to me, right? Wrong. By the time we got back (15 minutes later) there was someone else in the room, and they had no idea which of us was to stay and which of us was to be moved to a different ward. Guess who picked the lucky straw?????

So I end up on one of the wards that I had been in the last time (when I vowed never to return, remember). Which was fine, only I was in a room of 6, the other 5 were 90 if they were a day, had incontinence problems (the smell of three different kinds of pooh really isn't all that appealing, let me tell you!) and to top of a really spectacular day, the woman in the bed next to me spent the entire fucking night asking Jesus Christ why he was picking on her. It's probably a good job I smoke, or that woman could have asked Jesus Christ face to face.

The next day I have to hang around waiting for my "consultant". I am lying on my bed, with a pillow over my head to block out the light, and my hands lying across my tummy (so the canular that I have spent all night nursing with great care is in full sight!). The consultant and his minions come to my bed, and draw the curtains round for "privacy". He shakes hands with me (squeezing said canular quite painfully), and asks me what is wrong. I knew the twat hadn't read my notes, so I explained the entire situation to him, ending with the statement "and I just can't cope with the extra pain". All the idiot hears is that I can't cope, so tells me that I need to see a psychiatrist. I hasten to add that I have seen two this year alone. It is not psychosomatic, and yes, I may sometimes be a bit down (ok, a lot) but to me that is not really a diagnosis. He then starts interrogating me on why I am on two crutches. We have a blazing row, he leaves, and I go outside for a smoke, a cry, and a call to the Mentalist.

The Mentalist then comes down to the hospital, and pages the idiot who calls himself a consultant. When he deigns to appear, The Mentalist and he have a very dignified discussion (read argument) which ends with The Mentalist saying that we would be leaving today. The consultant says that would be going against medical advice, to which we pointed out that he hadn't actually given me any medical advice, just been a complete prick.

We went home, and I spent the weekend feeling sorry for myself again. Do you sense a theme? For anyone who suffers any kind of ongoing illness, Pity Parties for One occur quite frequently.

Fast forward to Tuesday, and I receive a very polite letter from the hospital requesting that I go down and have an MRI. Now either the Consultant is just covering his back, or he has in fact now read my notes. Either which, at least we are taking a step forward. My pessimistic internal monologue keeps saying that it will lead to two steps back, but I ain't having any of it!

So I shall keep you posted.

Am going Oop North this weekend, to visit The Mentalist's brother. Which means chip butties, walks (or not) along very beautiful but freezing cold beaches, and getting the fuck out of London. Hopefully I will come back with a more positive outlook, or at least a not giving a fuck when it comes to work, so using my time here usefully to post!

Have a great weekend.

1 comment:

  1. That is just freakin terrible. I am so sorry that you are going thru this.

    I do know all too well about a life long illness and no one truly understanding your pain.

    Please hang in there. If there is anything I can do to help you I would.

    I will be praying for you.