The spot returns

The spot returns -
bigger than before.

A stressful day yesterday. I had to be on the ward at 7am, but they had given us an overnight room so it was just a brief walk. The waiting room was full and I was last there at 6.55, so was surprised by the nurse calling my name. "You're first on the list," she announced, and led me through to a single room. I just had time to text Ann before they took my phone as they stripped me off for their dowdy nightgown, and pulled tight elastic stockings over my feet. Then I was sat in a chair and wheeled away to theatre. Addenbrooke's  is huge, and I was taken to theatre 22; all the others looked busy already, full of bustling staff even then.

Old assumptions live on

They laid me on the table and passed the catheter into the vein, and I knew no more. There was no time for fear. They didn't even ask me to count to ten! I awoke in the recovery ward, dripped and groggy. They said I'd had a large haematoma which was drained well, and my oxygen was low, so a cylinder was pushed onto my legs with a nasal feed. Finally, taken back to the ward to be greeted by Ann and Edwin - a most welcome sight, but I couldn't sit up for them. I felt sick, dizzy and miserable, and could only manage sips of water. BP low, pulse slow, O2 down, but I knew I had to wee for them to let me go. Finally, I managed to stand and move to the toilet. After a long time, I squeezed a drop out, probably residual from the morning, but I could truthfully tell the nurses I had PU'd and they said I could go home, with a gash across my neck and minus half an ear.

I couldn't resist this picture of the nurse call. I think they must date back with the hospital to pre-equality days.