Wednesday, July 02, 2008
BACK IN HOSPITAL, SORT OF......
My girly has been the subject of some poking and prodding at the hands of a surgeon recently.
Last Friday she underwent nasal surgery to correct a deviated septum, which was causing her breathing difficulties, particularly at night.
The poor girl had never undergone any surgery before, especially one involving general anaesthetic and as such was peaking out a little. Well, a lot actually. Any more and she would have been positively flapping.
Being a veteran of many surgical procedures I tried to instil in her a sense of confidence in the doctor's skills and alleviate her sense of dread, with some success I think.
As she was having the surgery through private insurance the location was in a well to do part of town at a clinic mainly used for tits and arse jobs I'd imagine. They must be doing alright as even the receptionist was driving a Lexus.
Mind you, you'd think with all that dough they could have hired a better interior designer. There were more shades of cream than on a dairy farm and the faux antique lime washed furniture produced an initial feel more akin to stepping into a funeral parlour. Not the impression you want to give in a medical centre I reckon.
We were ushered into a little waiting / change room which I imagined started life as a broom closet.
It was an interesting experience from my point of view as I had not really had to see anyone prep for surgery before, except myself of course.
The old familiar objects started to come into play, like the standard hospital arseless gown, the hair net, the little batch of pills offered to calm the patient, etc.
The anaesthetist introduced himself and explained the procedure and risks in regards to his part of the operation. He could have chosen his words better I reckon as his parting comment was “When you wake up you'll be in much better place.”
I had to enquire if he meant “A better room yeah?”
Eventually she was called in and I had to go and occupy myself for the next 3-4 hours.
A couple blocks down the road was a shopping strip where very well to do people, mostly fashionable dressed women with time and money to blow, parked their European marques and proceeded to blow their money on everything from overpriced antiques to overpriced baked goods , actually overpriced everything really.
I did poke about an pick up a 1958 recording of Sarah Vaughan live at the London House for a reasonable price, some canary yellow roses for my beloved, fresh lasagne and pasta for mushy dinners ( a must when convalescing, particularly from facial surgery ), a book on sight and how people see things, and some chocolate, one for myself and on one for the patient.
I'd brought the camera with me, just in case, but alas the most interesting thing I saw was a very well to do middle aged man park his European marque and disembark with daughter in tow. She in a private girls' school uniform and he in an outfit that made me suspect that his profession was interior designer to private tits and arse clinics. What kind of man wears a hot pink polo shirt? What kind of man wears a hot pink polo shirt tucked in? What kind of man wears a hot pink polo shirt, tucked in and with the collar up?
After returning to the waiting room I waited some time before hearing a request on the intercom for another nurse to help in transferring my girly to her room.
I was not prepared for the sight I encountered when I entered the room.
The poor thing was lying there with an oxygen mask on, bloody dressings around her nose and an ice pack covering her upper face with some sort of elastic fishnet holding it in place.
She was clearly drugged up to the eyeballs and still in quite some pain.
I have a pretty cast iron stomach at the best of times and have seen plenty of gross things in hospital, but for some reason seeing my beloved lying there in that state, unable to see, her hand squeezing mine so tightly because of the pain, gave me a queasy feeling.
She commented that all that stuff the anaesthetist said about not feeling any pain was a load of bull as she felt like she'd been smacked in the face with a cricket bat.
I knew what he said was a load of bull too, but I wasn't about to tell her that pre surgery.
Thankfully the nurses were doing their job and administering the correct painkillers and eventually she was even more drugged up, but in a bit less pain.
Thank goodness for sister morphine and intravenous liguid Panandol.
I put the roses in a vase and placed her favourite stuffed childhood beetle in her grasp.
After describing to her what the room looked like I spent a bit of time reading the book I'd just purchased, ironic considering its subject and my girl's temporary blindness.
Eventually the oxygen mask and the ice pack were removed and she was finally able to see.
As the night wore on I went home to an empty apartment, with the knowledge that she will be spending the night in the only sleeping position allowed for what was to be days to come, sitting up at a 45 degree angle. That brought back memories for me when I was bed bound and the only choice of position was between lying flat and sitting up at the same angle as her.
This experience gave me a little insight into how my own relatives and friends must have felt when the first saw me in hospital after the big bang and how dedicated my mother was in looking after me and making sure I was as comfortable as humanly possible in the circumstances.
I can never thank enough for that and can only hope for their sakes I am never needed to reciprocate the actions.
.
Last Friday she underwent nasal surgery to correct a deviated septum, which was causing her breathing difficulties, particularly at night.
The poor girl had never undergone any surgery before, especially one involving general anaesthetic and as such was peaking out a little. Well, a lot actually. Any more and she would have been positively flapping.
Being a veteran of many surgical procedures I tried to instil in her a sense of confidence in the doctor's skills and alleviate her sense of dread, with some success I think.
As she was having the surgery through private insurance the location was in a well to do part of town at a clinic mainly used for tits and arse jobs I'd imagine. They must be doing alright as even the receptionist was driving a Lexus.
Mind you, you'd think with all that dough they could have hired a better interior designer. There were more shades of cream than on a dairy farm and the faux antique lime washed furniture produced an initial feel more akin to stepping into a funeral parlour. Not the impression you want to give in a medical centre I reckon.
We were ushered into a little waiting / change room which I imagined started life as a broom closet.
It was an interesting experience from my point of view as I had not really had to see anyone prep for surgery before, except myself of course.
The old familiar objects started to come into play, like the standard hospital arseless gown, the hair net, the little batch of pills offered to calm the patient, etc.
The anaesthetist introduced himself and explained the procedure and risks in regards to his part of the operation. He could have chosen his words better I reckon as his parting comment was “When you wake up you'll be in much better place.”
I had to enquire if he meant “A better room yeah?”
Eventually she was called in and I had to go and occupy myself for the next 3-4 hours.
A couple blocks down the road was a shopping strip where very well to do people, mostly fashionable dressed women with time and money to blow, parked their European marques and proceeded to blow their money on everything from overpriced antiques to overpriced baked goods , actually overpriced everything really.
I did poke about an pick up a 1958 recording of Sarah Vaughan live at the London House for a reasonable price, some canary yellow roses for my beloved, fresh lasagne and pasta for mushy dinners ( a must when convalescing, particularly from facial surgery ), a book on sight and how people see things, and some chocolate, one for myself and on one for the patient.
I'd brought the camera with me, just in case, but alas the most interesting thing I saw was a very well to do middle aged man park his European marque and disembark with daughter in tow. She in a private girls' school uniform and he in an outfit that made me suspect that his profession was interior designer to private tits and arse clinics. What kind of man wears a hot pink polo shirt? What kind of man wears a hot pink polo shirt tucked in? What kind of man wears a hot pink polo shirt, tucked in and with the collar up?
After returning to the waiting room I waited some time before hearing a request on the intercom for another nurse to help in transferring my girly to her room.
I was not prepared for the sight I encountered when I entered the room.
The poor thing was lying there with an oxygen mask on, bloody dressings around her nose and an ice pack covering her upper face with some sort of elastic fishnet holding it in place.
She was clearly drugged up to the eyeballs and still in quite some pain.
I have a pretty cast iron stomach at the best of times and have seen plenty of gross things in hospital, but for some reason seeing my beloved lying there in that state, unable to see, her hand squeezing mine so tightly because of the pain, gave me a queasy feeling.
She commented that all that stuff the anaesthetist said about not feeling any pain was a load of bull as she felt like she'd been smacked in the face with a cricket bat.
I knew what he said was a load of bull too, but I wasn't about to tell her that pre surgery.
Thankfully the nurses were doing their job and administering the correct painkillers and eventually she was even more drugged up, but in a bit less pain.
Thank goodness for sister morphine and intravenous liguid Panandol.
I put the roses in a vase and placed her favourite stuffed childhood beetle in her grasp.
After describing to her what the room looked like I spent a bit of time reading the book I'd just purchased, ironic considering its subject and my girl's temporary blindness.
Eventually the oxygen mask and the ice pack were removed and she was finally able to see.
As the night wore on I went home to an empty apartment, with the knowledge that she will be spending the night in the only sleeping position allowed for what was to be days to come, sitting up at a 45 degree angle. That brought back memories for me when I was bed bound and the only choice of position was between lying flat and sitting up at the same angle as her.
This experience gave me a little insight into how my own relatives and friends must have felt when the first saw me in hospital after the big bang and how dedicated my mother was in looking after me and making sure I was as comfortable as humanly possible in the circumstances.
I can never thank enough for that and can only hope for their sakes I am never needed to reciprocate the actions.
.
