First of my daily diary entries from the fun-filled land of the Chemotherapy Ward. Nice.
Okay, so maybe this is cheating a bit since I haven’t even had the port-a-cath (more on this later) put in, let alone been properly poisoned in the name of good health. Still, the first time he checks in for an overnight stay in a healthcare institution marks a transition in a man’s life from outpatient to inpatient. Now, at the moment of writing I have not even got into my jimjams*, let alone tried to sleep here, but there is something strangely otherworldly about this place that makes the transition so significant.
I’ve been put in room 3-9 which, I am told, is much more ‘fun and friendly’ than the ‘grumpy old men’ in the next room. If I doubled my age I would still be the youngest patient in the room. By a lot.
Since arriving almost two hours ago I have been fussed over by chipper nurses. I’d like to use another adjective. Happy would suggest rosy cheeks and skipping steps. Warm would suggest conversational skill that can’t be mimicked and surpassed by an IRC bot. Friendly would suggest that they have friends who they are even more jovial with, poor bastards. No, these people are chipper in a manner that suggests that they superglue their smiles on every morning and tear them off with a whimper each night. Sometimes it feels like I’m having my blood drawn by S Club 7, The Later Years.
One good point though. Today I was allowed to swab myself for MRSA. If anyone reading this doesn’t know, MRSA is a Superbug (no cape – viruses have seen The Incredibles too) that is often found jobbing people in hospitals with such skill that I sometimes find it suspicious that I have never seen Harold Shipman in the same room with it***. MRSA is one of those gribblies that we’ve bred into a pedigree killer with antibiotics and its favourite hunting ground is hospitals. The test for MRSA is a good swabbing of the groin and nose. Preferably not with the same swab and definitely not in that order. Still, I did enjoy the privilege of being allowed to swab my own decks for once.
Seriously though, the doctor who just stopped round seemed decent enough and the nurses appear good at would they do. I’m even allowed to use my mobile and laptop. I’m told that I can use any power socket by my bed, including the one marked THIS UNIT ON EMERGENCY SUPPLY. If the earth shakes, power lines go down and life support machines start failing I’ll sleep safe in the knowledge that the Beegees back catalogue is torrenting nicely.
El Chemrat
* Private pyjamas, mark you, not national pyjamas. I was warned far in advance that NHS clothing was designed primarily to cause discomfort and anger** and as such supplied myself with 7 pairs of pyjamas in preparation. I was warned so far in advance that I was actually busy selecting elegant nightwear in a well known supermarket chain when I was called by Stanmore and officially diagnosed with skin cancer over the phone. This just goes to show that bad news can find you anywhere, even the Tesco ownbrand pyjama aisle.
** Based on the quality of NHS gowns, and the lack of clothing available to British squadies in the gulf a while back, I can only surmise that an administrative error lead to Iraqi prisoners receiving british army pattern nightwear, NHS inpatients receiving Geneva convention breaking prison outfits and Tommys receiving nothing at all in a grand game of pass the parcel. The fact that the squadies got nothing probably says more about NHS funding than anyone’s logistical abilities.
*** Hmmm…..worst secret identity ever. The problem with calling anything ‘super’ is that any person with half a soul will immediately imagine tights, a cape and some really bad CGI. I recently read something about a ‘supermariachi’ in Mexico who could play two guitars whilst too drunk to walk. He didn’t wear tights, but he did wear a poncho, which everyone knows is just a cape that goes all the way round.
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