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Well, I spent last week in hospital, having brain surgery.
That's right, they operated on my groin.
For reasons not unrelated to this; I was supposed to go in on Monday and be out by Tuesday evening but due to some things just not working out ("Complications", my eye), I ended up staying in for three extra days. As my phone upped and died on Monday night, nobody knew where I was for four days, either, which led to some consternation in the Davy household. Still, I'm alright now.
What can I say about invasive surgery except that it really, really hurts when the morphine wears off? What can I say about morphine except that it's cracking stuff? And what can I say about nurses except that I reckon opportunities to say "Nurse, I've got a swelling in my groin" don't come round every day and I took every advantage to say it whilst I had the chance?
Being a bit of a capitalist (you may have noticed) you'd think that I might have some trenchant things to say about the NHS and how much it costs, but I have to that say five days at her Majesty's medical pleasure gave me an insight into the running of the service and a new appreciation of the service. You see, the horrendous costs of the NHS aren't caused by incompetence of the medical staff. They're caused by the other patients.
A good example of this was the man in the next bed to me; he was very diabetic (he told a doctor that he'd been 'eating crap - until I came into hospital that is'. If you've ever eaten hospital food you'll know just what a shocking statement that really is) and was being taught to test his blood sugar and inject himself with insulin. Every day, three times a day, I'd listen to the conversation between him and the nurse:
"You just put the needle in the bottle and tap it like this..."
"Like this...oh, sorry, I've done it wrong."
"Not to worry, we'll throw that one away and try again..."
And so, with infinite patience the nursing staff watched him screw up a perfectly simple procedure and threw away all his failures (with a rattle and a clatter of my taxes vanishing down the lavatory). He got it wrong, two or three times, every single time. Three times a day. For five days. And they just threw the failed insulin injections away.
By Friday I was chewing on my bedding to avoid shouting "Just let him die, nurse! It's for the best in the long run!"
And then, as I was getting ready to leave on my last day, he turned to me with a conspiratorial gleam.
"I'm going to take the council for everything they've got, now I've got an illness", he said.
No you aren't, I thought. You're going to take me for as much as you can. The council is simply a grotesquely inefficient means of transferring my money into your pocket.
He gave me another twinkle of pride at his own cunning. "I'm going to tell them I've got depression. Then they'll send me on holiday."
I had to leave, then and there. Otherwise there would have been violence done. God alone knows how they expect me to recover from injuries when I have to put up with that sort of stress.
And so it was on Monday that, four days after invasive surgery, I was back in the office working to pay taxes whilst my erstwhile wardmate was doubtless living the life of riley on the Costa del Depression. At my expense.
Oh, and whilst the medical staff were great (I won't hear a word said against nurses now. I'm a convert) in hospital, the food sucks (can we say "Lowest bidder"? Yes we can), the cleaning staff are shiftless layabouts, and the windows don't open so you have to lie in an overheated room surrounded by recycled air and people coughing.
And then they wonder why people get ill in hospital. I can tell them.
I'm pretty much recovered now, anyway, or at least in the main. Well enough to walk and to stalk unfortunate womenfolk, and isn't that what life is all about?
Sadly, however, I may not be recovered enough to go and see Rammstein play on Thursday. A real pain in the arse and no mistake, but if, by Wednesday, I don't feel up to it someone else can have my ticket. Mail me if you're interested. I'll charge cover price for it unless you're attractive, female, and willing to put out, in which case it's free.
* Not really a return to LJ. I'm at Stately Wade Manor, where LJ isn't blocked, so I'll write this now. I'll be off LJ again when I leave.
That's right, they operated on my groin.
For reasons not unrelated to this; I was supposed to go in on Monday and be out by Tuesday evening but due to some things just not working out ("Complications", my eye), I ended up staying in for three extra days. As my phone upped and died on Monday night, nobody knew where I was for four days, either, which led to some consternation in the Davy household. Still, I'm alright now.
What can I say about invasive surgery except that it really, really hurts when the morphine wears off? What can I say about morphine except that it's cracking stuff? And what can I say about nurses except that I reckon opportunities to say "Nurse, I've got a swelling in my groin" don't come round every day and I took every advantage to say it whilst I had the chance?
Being a bit of a capitalist (you may have noticed) you'd think that I might have some trenchant things to say about the NHS and how much it costs, but I have to that say five days at her Majesty's medical pleasure gave me an insight into the running of the service and a new appreciation of the service. You see, the horrendous costs of the NHS aren't caused by incompetence of the medical staff. They're caused by the other patients.
A good example of this was the man in the next bed to me; he was very diabetic (he told a doctor that he'd been 'eating crap - until I came into hospital that is'. If you've ever eaten hospital food you'll know just what a shocking statement that really is) and was being taught to test his blood sugar and inject himself with insulin. Every day, three times a day, I'd listen to the conversation between him and the nurse:
"You just put the needle in the bottle and tap it like this..."
"Like this...oh, sorry, I've done it wrong."
"Not to worry, we'll throw that one away and try again..."
And so, with infinite patience the nursing staff watched him screw up a perfectly simple procedure and threw away all his failures (with a rattle and a clatter of my taxes vanishing down the lavatory). He got it wrong, two or three times, every single time. Three times a day. For five days. And they just threw the failed insulin injections away.
By Friday I was chewing on my bedding to avoid shouting "Just let him die, nurse! It's for the best in the long run!"
And then, as I was getting ready to leave on my last day, he turned to me with a conspiratorial gleam.
"I'm going to take the council for everything they've got, now I've got an illness", he said.
No you aren't, I thought. You're going to take me for as much as you can. The council is simply a grotesquely inefficient means of transferring my money into your pocket.
He gave me another twinkle of pride at his own cunning. "I'm going to tell them I've got depression. Then they'll send me on holiday."
I had to leave, then and there. Otherwise there would have been violence done. God alone knows how they expect me to recover from injuries when I have to put up with that sort of stress.
And so it was on Monday that, four days after invasive surgery, I was back in the office working to pay taxes whilst my erstwhile wardmate was doubtless living the life of riley on the Costa del Depression. At my expense.
Oh, and whilst the medical staff were great (I won't hear a word said against nurses now. I'm a convert) in hospital, the food sucks (can we say "Lowest bidder"? Yes we can), the cleaning staff are shiftless layabouts, and the windows don't open so you have to lie in an overheated room surrounded by recycled air and people coughing.
And then they wonder why people get ill in hospital. I can tell them.
I'm pretty much recovered now, anyway, or at least in the main. Well enough to walk and to stalk unfortunate womenfolk, and isn't that what life is all about?
Sadly, however, I may not be recovered enough to go and see Rammstein play on Thursday. A real pain in the arse and no mistake, but if, by Wednesday, I don't feel up to it someone else can have my ticket. Mail me if you're interested. I'll charge cover price for it unless you're attractive, female, and willing to put out, in which case it's free.
* Not really a return to LJ. I'm at Stately Wade Manor, where LJ isn't blocked, so I'll write this now. I'll be off LJ again when I leave.
