River of calm and kindness

A warm night and a poor night's sleep, although that may be from wearing my Fitbit too loosely to record any data that makes sense. Awake in time for Thought for the Day and a more complex routine of medication at breakfast time. The beta blockers add to the existing lethargic foggy head sensation, and slow my pulse. The leak from my nose wound continues to dry slowly and reassuringly, so the systolic pressure reduction remedy has worked.

Despite being more hard of hearing than I, Clare noticed the high pitched alarm sounding from the fridge freezer, which lost temperature overnight. Initially I didn't hear it due to my tinnitus being louder. Clare called British Gas services to arrange an emergency call out. Two hours after noticing it the alarm stopped. One tub of posh ice cream lost. It seems a bag of something in our over-packed freezer caught in the door seal, allowing the heat leak, and it was a hot night, 30C this morning. Fortunately the refrigeration unit worked. It wasn't broken, but took its time getting back down to 18C. Thankfully the pump  kept working and didn't overheat. Clare was able to call off a diagnostic visit, but we ended by signing up for a household maintenance package for emergency cover.

Half a morning, half asleep while Clare went shopping. I cooked Paella for lunch with the half defrosted pack of fish pie mix and used up the remains of a bag of Valencian rice from Mercadona from our trip to stay with Veronica a year ago. Another hot afternoon, languishing indoors, sleeping uncomfortably in my armchair, too lethargic to go upstairs to bed. 

Updating my cousin Dianne on course of events gave me an opportunity to reflect on the oft-commented emergency medical crisis - having been on the receiving end. A&E seems to surf on the edge of chaos, brilliantly fielding the new intake of suffering patients, facing logistic challenges, shifting them asap, which can be an excruciatingly long wait in noisy places. I was admitted at two in the morning parked in a kids' treatment room, missed by the half awake breakfast team. I got NHS cheese and ham sandwich packs instead at lunchtime. 

Shifted to a transfusion 'lounge' for a few hours, with several quite poorly people, then decanted to a surgical couch waiting room overnight - my first visit to this place was when I had my gall bladder out, six months before the stroke and a previous nose bleed. Then, up a few floors to the same day emergency surgery unit. That was where we had to evacuate a few hours later, due to a MRI scanner electrical fire in 32C heat. Once re-instated, getting back to recover any kind of sleep was continued torture - England v Norway football made staff and patients hyper and loud. But staff continued keeping an eye on patients anyway, enjoying the mildly festive moment. That was where I was for a couple of days until further surgery was avoided by introducing beta blockers to curb my high blood pressure reaction to a stressful environment, driving the nose bleed. 

Yes it was slow and unpleasant, losing so much sleep, yes there were times when the staff seemed a bit chaotic or communicating poorly, but the whole process worked, inevitably in fits and starts. Including random and planned moves. Hard to be on the receiving end when you can't attract attention, then get woken up from recovery sleep every four hours for a BP check. Time seems to stand still as you wait, but it resembles a river or a flood, lots of movement simultaneously, not always in the same direction.

A man of my age with verbal diarrhea, talked unstoppably with a teacher's voice for 18 hours. He was losing his home as he couldn't look after himself. The conversation with his night nurse was moving. She showed him such good humoured kindness and respect, even though he was irritating half a dozen others in the same ward. There was no other place to park his bed and keep an eye on him. A sacred moment, overhearing such a conversation.

Once I'd been stabilised and the nose pack removed, I was issued with a take home bag of medications and allowed to call for a taxi to take me home. Clare came for me. As I left the ward, the team on duty bade me farewell with smiles and looks of achievement on their faces, some of them I'd seen several times in the previous days. I wish I could have said more than a mere 'thank you' as I left. Patients arriving in A&E are likely to be in a mess physically if not emotionally due to accident, injury or illness. The treatment process carries them, finds them a safe place and starts them on the way to recovery with calm respectful words, maybe even a touch of humour. A river of calm and kindness flows through the hospital at every level. I wonder if we fully appreciate it?

A day spent inactive, inert, dozing, coming out of crisis mode, getting used to a new medication regimen. Maybe after more sleep my head fog will go away.