Maslow’s hierarchy builds on basics first: psychological and safety. Then, love and esteem. Fulfilment, wof said needs, sorts out self actualisation. Well, in theory.
Why am I starting to theorise?
You might have guessed there’s been a busy week.
Having somehow got through the wet wedding with burbling, discombobulated bladder, I woke on Monday hot, cold shivery, no voice and a chest which tightened as though a spanner was graunching up an engine’s wheel nuts, in this case lungs, my engine.
I did the sensible thing. For once! I rang surgery for same day appointment. All I could get was a phone call from a sundry nurse.
So clutching phone I got through a busy day, to receive a call at 5pm. No worries the nurse said as I struggled to speak.
She sent a script electronically to chemist. She told me to self treat at home with a nebuliser. My croak of dismay went unnoticed.
Chemist, lovely man, objected. You must be seen by a doctor.
No chance.
Cutting a long story short I ended up in London on Tuesday. X Ray, peak flow, bloods, meds, advice and empathy dispensed by the very lovely Dr O2.
Meanwhile Jerome sensed an imminent, Jacq – crash, he seems to have a sixth sense to preserve psychological and safety of the human machine that is me. Lack of beds on Tuesday meant a shivery train home. Only to return, via Dipstick’s clinic, so that he could do admission to hospital on Wednesday.
As the Lewis Hamilton car pulls into the pitstop, the team leap about to tighten, change, oil, fluid, test, check.
In much the same way a team of doctors, nurses, phlebotomists, had me connected up, fluids in, out, meds flowing from iv pump to bloodstream, and finally with oxygen and ventolin mixture the mask which helped me breath once more… safe at last . Or as Jerome put it Hoo F****** Ray.
I’ve been asleep most of the time.
A masseuse turned up. Well she said she was. Could’ve just walked of the street.! Dopey me agreed to a foot therapy. God I’m ticklish at the best of times, but the sight of her pouring baby oil liberally over the crisp sheets, whilst she played moody music on her crackled speaker . In no time I was ‘asleep’, or rather pretending to be, stifling my giggles into a fake snore….. She left soon after. Phew!
Bloody awesome visits from BFG, Daughter 2, D, AT, yellow cardie M too. They dispensed grapes, and avocados, and raspberries…and giggles. They know my needs!
The picture at the end of my bed seemed to be blurry, tipped to one side and of flamingoes.
Now I am up… I realise it’s horses! 🐴
Then there’s been the 4’9″ ancient little Filipino cleaning lady. She’s been here years, chattering away. Turns out on her day off she dances as in ball room, she sings, as in talent shows… I asked her to show me. She was AMAZING, her rendition of ‘I will always love you’ Whitney Houston, as she sashyed round my room will stay with me forever. Unknown to her, a little crowd of staff gathered at the door. As she ended with Striesland ‘Memory’ they clapped and cheered. She grabbed her mop and bucket and carried on down the corridor grinning a big self actualised grin.
Then there was Dippy. He was actually great, empathetic, checking I had what I needed, asking me to update him. Arrogant Registrar man didn’t like the sound of that and kept test results a closely guarded secret. #plonker
Dippy and I watched a bit of the rugby together too.
As for Jerome… Always in the background, tweaking the plan, prodding the team, even bringing coffee at dawn. Grinning and laughing we set the world to rights.
The day nurse came in later on that day.
I didn’t want to bother you with your meds as you had a MAN in your room.!
God how we laughed when I told her:
he is THE consultant!
Night nurse all week has been, let’s call her, Barbara. I have known B, here, for so long. We share stories of walks on Parliament Hill, of grandchildren, of fitness watches (I fixed hers)… and laughter so much laughter.
And I’m better, I can breath, pee and talk again.
Jerome likened surgery to a flat hierarchy. The surgeon-in-charge conducting the operation from the top. But the team of more surgeons, technicians, interventionists and all the other theatre staff down at the bottom ready to pull, push, tighten, change, swab, wipe and slice. The surgeon and his team take the glory, accept the grateful thanks of a successful op. Team Lewis Hamilton of the theatre.
But if it goes wrong. And things do go wrong. It’s the surgeon alone, who takes the flack. He led this, he set it up.
Hamilton blamed his tyre choice, the issue, the test, of racing in the wet.
“We pull together and regroup,” the world champion said. “Then we will come back fighting. We are still doing pretty awesome.”
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Daily Stent. I cannot cure you but I can make you laugh (citation Jerome) 