16th April Shakespeare and Hamming it up

 

16th April ‘some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them’.

Nurses really are, and this sounds corny, the ministering angels.

This is emphasised by the generally appalling treatment they receive at the hands of patients who, no matter what their age, regress to the state of needy nursery children.

“Nurse, NURSE! Switch my fan off [right next to my bed]”.

“Nurse, NURSE! I need to get back in bed now”.

After 10 minutes of two long-suffering nurses re-enacting Sisyphus they get the ‘grateful’ patient back in bed.

“Is that OK Mr X?”

“Yes!” comes the curt reply.

This behaviour is in marked contrast to the other two main protagonists on the Ward: the physiotherapist and the doctor.

Having given short-shrift to the skivvies, in walks the physiotherapist, determined but smiling. The patient quivers, for here is the source and summit of pain. It is hard to repeat the interaction without imitating Lieutenant Gruber’s Gestapo Officer from the BBC’s Allo Allo:

“So Mr X, have you been doing the exercises I showed you yesterday?”

Ecce homo: “Oh I’m sorry Miss, I was very tired, err, I forgot, errrrrrr, the doctor...”

Did the dog eat your homework I wonder? “Zat, iz not good enough, do zem or you vill not get better”. And with an almost Godfatheresque level of menace, she says quietly, “You do vant to get better, don’t you?” The patient quivers. The physio leaves.

The third player in this bizarre study in human interaction enters stage right: the doctor.

Having bullied the nurses, been humbled by the physio, the patient begins their impersonation of a colonoscopy. “Oh, doctor it’s so good to see you, I’ve been waiting all morning, I’m so glad you’re looking after me,...” Malvolio eat your heart out as your words are rendered true: “She uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone else that follows her”.

The distraction of the comedy opposite soon dissipated as my consultant stood –  as he had the day before – at the end of my bed, surrounded by SHOs, regs and junior doctors all clutching sheets of paper like Linus clutching his blanket in Peanuts.

“How are we feeling today, you seemed very down yesterday?” I replied, “Yes, that’s because you insensitive sods diagnosed me with every condition from Leprosy to the Black Death, all wrapped up in the phrase: ‘I expected you to be on death’s door!!!!!’”.

Of course, in reality I’m an Anglican parson, so I actually said: “I’m fine, thank you!”.

We discussed my condition and ‘roadmap’ in a calm manner as I was able to ask the questions I was too shell-shocked to ask yesterday. After ten minutes, with the bonhomie flowing like claret the other doctors left for the next patient. As they departed, I shared with the consultant what had happened yesterday – what I had overheard and the emotional pain that had resulted from this lack of awareness. He apologised profusely, with a level of contrition I rarely see in the penitent. He also promised that I would be home for the weekend. Sensing I was in the ascendancy, and perhaps rather ignobly I said, “That should save the NHS £500 to £600”. Realising that this, too, was a snippet from yesterday’s indiscretion, the consultant once again apologised in a manner worthy of a patient talking to a doctor.

Buoyed up by the further details and prospect of home. I sat back and looked forward to my lunch.

Hamming it up!

Earlier in the day, I had the opportunity of selecting my lunch from the ‘Light Lunch Menu’. The variety is staggering and somewhat at odds with the caricatured image of hospital food.

On my second day I opted for a meal of orange juice, vegetable soup, ham sandwich, and banana, but prayed for a less confrontational experience. Yesterday, being a creature of habit, I had also ordered: orange juice, vegetable soup, ham sandwich, and banana. I had been in the hospital less than 24 hours so was still unfamiliar with the strange economy of language used here.

For example, I now realise that when giving an injection, the person administering it must say, “You’ll feel a sharp scratch.” They all say it. This is to the injector what, “Are you going anywhere for your holidays this year?” is to the hairdresser... sorry, stylist.

However, sweet verbal habits aside, assumptions are risky things. The lunch menu offers two sandwiches with ham in them. One is called ‘ham, plain and simple’ and the other ‘ham, cheese and pickle’. Contrary to my appearance and demeanour of an 18th century over-fed parson, I hate cheese. Therefore, I requested the “ham sandwich”.

At noon the tray of goodies appeared, but with the ham, cheese and pickle sandwich.

I mustered all the strength I could to stagger down to the end of the ward, found the lunch lady and asked why I had this sandwich. She replied, “Because you ordered the ham sandwich”. Somewhat incredulously I enquired as to why, when faced with two ham choices, the default for a “ham sandwich” would be ham, cheese and pickle, and not plain ham?

She stared back at me and tilted her head at apparently the most stupid man in the world. Sensing her bemusement I, like our Lord, began a parable: The Parable of the Costa Coffee Visit. If I asked for a coffee at Costa by the entrance would they serve me an Americano or Flat White with Monin vanilla sauce and marshmallows?

“You just want plain ham then?” came her war-weary reply.

Sensing I was losing the moral high ground, I went into full Sergeant Wilson mode, “Thank you so much, if that’s not too much trouble, that would be most awfully kind”.

She assured me the ham sandwich would be with me in ten minutes. Ten minutes later, an exultant nurse came to me waving the sandwich like Chamberlain waving his ‘peace in our time’ paper.

“Nooooo, his is Ham, cheese and pickle!”

“Yes” the nurse replied quizzically, “the ham sandwich.”

“But I don’t eat cheese,” I pleaded in desperation.

“Oh sorry, let me request the plain ham sandwich.”

Ten minutes later, the sandwich arrived sans pickle and cheese. It wasn’t really worth the wait, but I felt somehow better equipped for the future culinary choices during my inpatient stay. Lessons all round.

Today’s lunch arrived without fuss, and I sought to make light of yesterday’s misunderstanding. The battle-hardened server cared not a jot, another meal was over, another campaign finished.

That afternoon looking through the murky bay window in the direction of home I longed for my exeat. At 6pm my consultant came and sent me packing armed with drugs and the promise of Monday’s come back via the CT scan and Colonoscopy.