Is this what I pay my taxes for?


Hey all, I’m stepping away from my normal posts on here for this post. I’ve been terribly crap writing anything for the past few weeks or months as my crazy life has taken over everything. But sitting here in a room by myself, on a ward where coughing, splurting, puking and crying patients lay waiting for the words of “you’re going home” to give me a kick up the ass and write a post. Never have I been in hospital for this long by myself and it’s a scary place.

I’ve got asthma. Not the kind that sets me off every second, but the mildness of one that likes to dance on my chest when it feels like a party and scream SURPRISE when it comes by. This has happened more recently when the weather sucks ass and it’s terribly cold. Since developing a cold on Monday throughout my own stupidity of dolly shoes, skinny jeans and a jacket that barely covered my ass, a pitter patter of delicate wheeze started showing its face on Tuesday. Thanks to my sister’s expert diagnosis and my child-like mind of a four year old, I didn’t listen and carried on with my day. Dumb and dumberer springs to mind. The shear stupidity of not listening to my sister who has read every book on illness and good health since having my 11 month old niece, should have sparked a bit of worry that since it’s winter, this is not a good mix at all. It took three days of constant coughing, sleepless nights and severe shortness of breath before my Mum had to drive me to A&E at 1am Yesterday morning.

In most cases, asthma is seen as an emergency right? If you’re taken in by an ambulance, they strap you in your seat, shove a plastic thing on your face and wrap you in a blanket whilst one of the paramedics asks you questions before zooming you into A&E writing a few things down before saying ciao and your with Mr Hottie McNottie breathing into a nebuliser. That’s happened before. Hottie McNottie was hot in some light. SOME. Must have been quite a nebuliser to think different. Anyway, I didn’t come in via ambulance this time. After a mini breathless chit chat with NHS Direct, a refusal for an ambulance (let’s not give my neighbourhood gossip and pointy fingers), I asked my Mum to drive me down. Half Miss Daisy like and half Jenson Button. What was promised as ‘being seen in 15’ was hospital speak for 5 hours, I managed to half sleep on a bench in A&E, watch an old man piss himself and a fat guy snore like a rhino as I felt myself slowly deteriorating into a deep black hole. Without the words of my name spoken loudly by my ear, God knows where or what I’d be right now. Thank God for doctor, definitely Mr Hottie in the blue scrubs and Converse (a normal person, hallelujah!) who I’ll call my knight in shining armour who put me on a nebuliser and said my hat was awesome. Go Dr!

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After a while I was taken to an observation unit where I sat opposite a dude with a broken jaw, bloody ear and attitude of Mike Tyson whilst I waited for a further 9 hours before actual word I would be moved to a ward. Thank god for my Mum and best friend Beth. Both saviours. One with food ( thanks mummy) and the other, my bestie with hugs and laughs. Definitely what I needed and so grateful for.

The food here is atrocious. Surprised it’s even considered as food, tastes rank and looks nasty. I wouldn’t feed half of it to my cat. It makes me laugh when the assistant comes round and recommends the breaded chicken with chips (which I agreed to) and I’m given this instead:

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Have a guess what the above is… Answers on a postcard please!

My lunch today was roast beef and ‘roast’ potatoes or a ball of fluffy smash that resembled a dollop of yellow sick and carrots swimming in water:

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My dinner this evening. Definitely five star in the eyes of West Middlesex’s catering department. Fluffy chicken breast served with seasonal vegetables and mash potatoes served in a delicious syrupy sauce perfectly placed on the fine dinning set:

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I’m delirious and fed up. Blessed my mum is borderline OCD about cleanliness and healthy eating that half of TESCO is by my bedside in full view of the broken English speaking nurses on the ward.

I just want to know what my taxes go on. My national insurance pays for this right? Or does it? This will be my second full night in here since my arrival.

The stats:
Hours in A&E before being seen by nurse: 4
Hours in A&E before actually going into A&E and being seen by a doctor: further 2 hours
Hours until paracetamol given: 9
Number of nebulisers given since I arrived: 10.
Number of English speaking staff: 4
Number of staff on the grasp of English understanding and speaking: too many to count.
Number of paraceutimol: 8
Number of horrid meals: 3
Number of meals actually eaten: does bread with butter count?
Number of hours slept: overall 6.
Time till discharge: unpredictable.

Hopefully I’ll be out tomorrow, fingers crossed. Will never complain about food again, will appreciate my roof over my head a tonne load more and my health much more. It’s terrifying being in here. I thought I was just on a ward. Didn’t realise they all are wards for certain things. I’m sharing with 4 other ladies; groovy grannies and trendy teens. Tonight sees no sleep on my part as I countdown the hours to the consultant hopefully showing up today. Thank god for this:

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Fingers crossed I’m out tomorrow.

Ps, I’m intrigued, has anyone had a bad experience or similar at an NHS hospital?

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1 Comment

  1. Pingback: Panic Attacks are bull. Why do you exist? | Random Ramblings Of Me Dingo

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