Sick Lit

All day in the Whittington A & E

Overnight in the Royal National ENT

Results in an extended codeine fueled portrait

Not a rhyming jubilee

 

Madeleine Hospital

November 18 2014

 

Going on four days in sharp throat and mouth pain…tonsillitis diagnosed (and re-diagnosed three times before diagnosis discarded—‘your tonsils are the only thing not infected’ says the definitive Dr…) and so started on antibiotics Thursday—the incredible relief of a diagnosis and drugs—then the sinking feeling that this is not working as I slipped out of my faith in modern medicine. My mood grew bleaker as I realized that it was not enough that I had gone a week without my favorite stimulants—running, cold water swimming, coffee, a crisp Sancerre at the end of a rollicking Salon but now food was no longer an option and I had to convince my mouth to swallow, gritting my teeth against the pain—sleep was harder as I had to wake up hourly to try to sip a bit of water and uncrack my throat and I couldn’t talk. I did manage to teach Thursday and Friday morning—and those darn kids!! If it wasn’t the most focused, attentive class I have ever had with my 10-11 year olds—they would ask me questions as we went through the initial verses of the Odyssey and I would write running responses on the projected computer screen. I should teach silently more often…

 

So its Sunday now and after our third phone consultation with NHS I mentioned that besides no improvement in throat pain & swelling, my chest was feeling tight (I am also starving and growing increasingly unpleasant to be around—crying at the sight of Andy enjoying food I can’t eat—but we didn’t share that—we spent so much time convincing the advising nurse that Ebola was not an issue we had lost all sense of perspective by the time we hung up). Each time we had spoken to NHS, they suggested an urgent care apt—but I resisted with my horror of the timelessness of a weekend hospital visit and the inability to control my environment when I was in so much pain…but suddenly the choice was no longer ours: that little detail about the chest tightening? BAM. 9:30 AM and we are off to the Whittington—as in Dick Whittington’s cat don’t you love it?

Suddenly immersed in the emergency room twilight of frightened young parents with crying babies, old men waiting quietly alone and last night’s drinking casualties looking ready to vomit. Went from urgent care into A & E in the blink of a blind hour…the intake Dr mentioned throat abscess and I cried as she probed. You know how last week we were so excited to see images of Comet 67P? It has nothing on the contours, blisters and swellings in my mouth and throat—I am disappointed every time a medical professional approaches and does not want to gaze into my mouth so they can oooh and ahh in appreciation.

 

The A & E intake club is a step up in drama as we wait to get a an examining room, there is a disembodied voice calling out to every passerby—‘I need some RELIEF! This gas (phwffff) is killing me! Nurse, please, some drugs!’ I watch a family come into to get news of one of their members: ‘Yes, I was the consulting physician, well, we had to let her go; she was dangerously inebriated when she arrived but had sobered up enough to walk out…’

Three hours later after pumping me full of steroids and antibiotics, lovely Dr Yasmine determines to send me to a specialty ENT hospital; Andy asks for directions and she says ‘O no- this is a full service trip- she goes by ambulance.’ Even in my starved and weakened state, I find this news exciting—never ridden in an ambulance before….

 

But first I am shuffled off to a decrepit back room where the moans and pleas of the man in the cubicle next to mine no longer reach me. Andy goes home to deal with dog and Mads and I feel forgotten, unknown and lost as the hours tick by…Suddenly a beefy chap and lovely green suited young woman fill the doorway: ‘ Ready, love? We’re taking you for a ride…’

Of course I can’t talk but he keeps up his end of the conversation admirably.

‘How did you get yourself into this mess?’

‘Probably I talk too much…it’s sort of my occupation….’ I whisper.

I want to break that down: explain I am an innovative educator and that my self-criticism points to flaw in my pedagogy as I believe the learning moment ultimately should be more in the hands (voices) of the participants…but my words can’t come to the surface.

He chuffs and answers: ‘Talk too much? You must know my wife then…’

As we climb into the back of the ambulance I point at the lights: ‘Can we…?’

‘Sorry love, we only use those for life & death emergencies.’ Fair enough. So they buckle me into the gurney and off we go through central London to the wrong hospital.

I know, right?

They brought me to the A & E ambulance in-take port at UCH. I recline dazed and starving on a gurney surrounded by fresh hospital drama…suddenly here is the beefy chap with a look of chagrin: ‘Sorry love, wrong hospital…we need to load you up again—just down the road a tick…’

So off we go again—he leans back towards me : ‘better buckle up dear, we need to use the lights and sirens now, the doctor is waiting (so that’s a life & death emergency!)…’ Finally I get my dreamed for medical/celebrity dash through central London: scattering tourists in the dusky drizzle lining up outside Mme Tussauds (well, geographically improbable but nice image). Next stop is the ghostly reception of the Royal National ENT—no one there. The ambulance driver looks at me:’ Where do you think we go?’ Sorry, mate no idea and I can’t talk anyway. A bit investigation and wandering empty corridors finally leads us to Ward C with actual people- a few. Here I meet Dr Goh who promptly decides sticking a tube up my nose will be the best means to figure out what is going on.

One thing that really stays with me from this whole experience is the incredible diversity of the staff: Drs, nurses and all attendants represent all nations, ethnicities and genders: diversity represented across the medical hierarchy. And kindness—if, of necessity, very brief and attentive kindness—dealing with drunken idiots and histrionics and mopey, mute me…

So Dr Goh is about to insert a scope into my nose and just then my knight in scruffy red polar fleece rides in as she—ever so gently—rams the scope up my nose and down my throat. Andy notices that I am turning a rather unnatural shade of yellow whilst simultaneously answering the phone to a shrieking Madeline who has arrived home and become DISTRAUGHT because she left her computer open on the couch and now it appears that Scout has wandered over it and it now reads: ‘ Re-Set to factory settings complete’. “ All my GCSE work is on there—and my pictures!!!!” She wails as Dr Goh reaches further and I turn more interesting shades of yellow. Poor Andy.

 

Examination completed and I am directed to a bed for a night or so while I am rehydrated and pumped full of all sorts of exciting drugs—and finally, praise Jesus- some food. The most AMAZING dehydrated but eminently slidable cream of chicken soup. When the two sides of your throat are battling for control and any food must squeeze between them there is so little that can be ingested. Yoghurt is too acidic, even rice pudding is too painful—the husks of the rice scrape—and Andy’s gorgeous homemade squash soup is astringent—but this soup! Three bowls and I have my own TV where I stumble on the recent film version of King Kong that I have been wanting to see as some friends have leading roles—I never realized what a powerful imperialist critique the story portrays.

 

Strange night in this huge old room alone—reminds me of the hospital room in the Madeleine story—with blotchy flower art and Ebola warning signs. They give me a welcome pack that include ear plugs—ear plugs!! I have been dying for a pair of these as I think this is the key to my galloping insomnia issues. But I find some technical difficulty inserting them—the plugs imitate those sponge capsules that bloom into animal shapes when you add water. Suddenly I have Bonsai tress sticking out of my ears though I forget they are in and when the nurse comes in the middle of the night I am pretty sure I have traded off the agonizing pain in my throat for a more thorough hearing loss and at the moment, that seems fair enough. I can not sleep in spite of the misshapen plugs because my mind whirls all night with everything I need to get done—probably a sign I am getting better. I still need to wake every few hours to crack the coating at the back of my throat and swallow—I feel as though I am at war with my body.

 

Mads’ computer turns out in the end to be okay: Scout had thoughtfully signed in as guest before resetting to factory settings. After a few days, they let me go home—as soon as I can talk and swallow without pain. The time in hospital allows me that magic available when the range of the mind is set free in a secluded environment with all bodily needs accommodated. I notice the impact of my writing from weeks submerged in Proust—and touched by Miranda Hart. Mads sweetly prepared me a bag of goodies for the hospital –including nail polish—and her favorite funny writer—along with my more absolute needs of Proust, Joyce and Durrell. Proust reminds me how characters contain such contradictions and multiple sides that the reader must accept these as whole characters (we expect consistency). Though these contradictions are the true form of humanity—if we examine ourselves or truly known loved one: we must admit to the endless array of shadings and inversions.

So home I am now and clawing my way back to my too full life. With appreciation (espc. for the NHS) and a renewed taste for strength and clarity. And reminded that any interesting adventure deserves a good telling. Hope you enjoyed.

 

2 thoughts on “Sick Lit”

  1. Phew!!!! What an ordeal Toby! Glad to hear it wasn’t anything worse than a painful sore throat.
    See you soon xxxx look after yourself please!

  2. Ah, Toby! Or should I say, “Say, aaah, Toby.”
    Beautiful writing that takes us a multitude of places. Your poor throat. I hope you are all better or on your way to that…
    Scout as Guest, hilarious!
    Take care, Lizzie

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