So there we were back home.

D had trained down to West Country. Soninlaw drove through the night to rescue Daughter 1. D then drove non-stop to get my parents home from a Cornwall break which ended up with Dad in Hospital. In bloody BARNSTAPLE. That architect must be so proud of his miserable looking hospital in the middle of nowhere. Where, in order to park patients must queue on roundabouts a mile back. Blood pressure must be high by the time they actually make it if they make it.

Puppy Fred.

We picked him up en route from his overnight in ‘dogspital’…he’s ok and recovering from his ordeal with ingested palm oil.

The journey home was gruelling. Dad must’ve been so uncomfortable. D so patient. My mother’s bloody mobile pings and pongs a stupid harp sound every time she gets a message. How it did not end up chucked onto the M5 I do not know.

I, meanwhile, just could not stop throwing up. With a stabbing pain down my left side it was a long way home.

The pain turned into a sort of smashed glass feeling under my ribs and shaking and shuddering, two duvets and an electric blanket made no difference. Of course poor D was so very worried. He rang Jerome.

Hurrah for Jerome he got me a bed in his London hospital and off we drove once more.

Got admitted by a blood stained grumpy RMO: “why are you here” – him.

“I’m not well” – me

“We have no record of you. But someone with your birthdate was in the hospital last year….was that you”?

“No” I replied “really, if it’s easier I’ll leave”

Somehow it got resolved. Awesome staff nurse and nurse on nights took over . Cannula in. Convo with Jerome. Meds. Fluids. Bloods etc etc. Suddenly ok.

Next day ditsy day staff didn’t know I was there so drips etc ran out at 8. Didn’t get redone til Daughter 2 turned up at 12:30 and protested to all and sundry. Catering didn’t know I was there either so they went nuts as I hadn’t filled in my ‘menus’. “Sorry” I recall muttering. No water jug. No food …not that I actually wanted anything.

Anyhow, in strode Jerome, calmness personified. Telling funny stories about chain smoking patients trailing catheter bags asunder.. He sorted everything. He sorted the meds. Sorted the staff. And it was the weekend . Phew. Order restored. He explained the ‘numbers’ ..#50 means you have an infection…no kidding? Sherlock!

The catering manager gave me a bottle of wine to apologise for the mix up. I gave it to Daniel when I got home! He says it’s horrible. Oops.

Fantastic day nurse. She was or is,  utterly OCD. That’s so brilliant when you are chained to a bed. She insisted on drugs being done to the very second they ran out. She sorted everything like a military commander. Pushing past Jerome to make sure I got the next stuff on time. No consultant would get in the way of her work!

Night staff 2 was hilarious. She’d not been told she was duty- back -up nurse. Went to the gym and emerged to find 100 missed calls. Managed to nip home. Tell the kids and rush into work. So it was a late night getting drugs that night. But when you know why it’s fine. We chatted and laughed all night. Her kids turned out to be 30 and 32. There was I worrying they’d been left alone at home, so she could go to work to drug me!

In fact I was laughing again when Jerome arrived in the morning. Not seeing night nurse hiding in the bathroom he asked if I’d finally lost it..laughing to myself alone? Crazy lady . The cackles that emerged from the bathroom helped him realise all was perfectly fine?!..#50 became #15 so we were on the right track. I say we…Jerome definitely makes you feel like you have a part in this treatment plan…it helps…massively.

 

Anyhow, I’m home. I’m zonked. But fine. Hey ho. Ophelia.

PS Dad recovering well. Fred too.