Admission to Papworth

 I left home asbut though it were the last farewell to England. The dogs were moping with their ears back and tails down as though they knew something was afoot. I stepped outside to breath the clean autumnal air, so crisp and fresh, so final with the leaves. Ann drove me to the door of Papworth Hospital, and we said a sad goodbye ere I donned my mask and was forced to locate and show my letter before the bouncer on the door would let me pass into the vast cavern of Papworth reception hall, eirily empty and silent during Covid restrictions. 

I tried to enter a lift, but they have a strange system whereby one has to enter the chosen floor from an external keypad: once trapped in the lift, we can only go to the floors preselected by the staff. I had to get out and enter Floor 5 and await a different lift to arrive. Another patient got in with me. I knew she was a patient, as she had no uniform and, like me, carried a bag and a stick. I assumed she too was going up to Floor 5, as it shot past her destination and she lamented, "I wanted Floor 3", a member of staff explained the unusual rule, so she had to go back to the reception area and try anew.

Now I have been admitted to the ward and have had a succession of visitors - more in one hour than in 6 months in Hundon. Someone called to check my name and afix an arm band, someone came to take an order for lunch, then a porter to wheel me down to a back lift for a chest X-ray, another to measure BP and vitals, another two to take bloods for cross-matching, a surgical minion to tell me I will have to sign more consent forms, someone else brought my lunch, a guy popped his head round and said "I'm Greg, I'll be in later", without saying what he did or why I might expect his later visit.

My luxiory suite in Papworth Hospital

Then a nurse came to ask many more questions about my mobility and state of mind, though she threw me when she asked what year it was and where I was. I thought she must be losing it if she didn't know, but then realised she was checking I didn't have dementia. "Can you get out of bed yourself, and walk unaided?" she asked. I said I could. "You won't be able to after tomorrow," she cheerfully informed me. That sounds a bit bleak.

Then an ECG with a shaved chest, followed by a form to consent to my bits being used for research. Finally, an anaesthetist came, a tiny Australian lady, to describe the procedure in tedious detail including all I might expect and all that might go awry. Unlike Ann, I have not read anything about it, for I reckon I'll find out soon enough. But my blissful ignorance was shattered by this woman who described in detail how they will be forced to place an extra large tracheal tube down my throat and into the main bronchial passage to facilitate the collapse of the lung, this making the surgery a little easier. I will be left with a sore throat, a large drain to help the lung reinflate, breathlessness and a horrible cough spitting blood! I wish I'd never asked. Oh, now I remember - I didn't. They just told me anyway.

The room itself is large and airy, overlooking the Gog Magog hills from the fifth floor, so a good panaramic view. It has an en suite bathroom and shower ready for tomorrow's ritual to begin. I will keep you posted as and when I can, dear readers, for now it grows dark as the day flees the dreaded night ahead.