Category Archives: Hospital life

Curtains for the NHS?

Let  the person in the NHS responsible for soft furnishings please step forward.  Come on, stop hiding behind those dodgy curtains.  Let’s have a good look at you.

I’ve always been curious about who makes decisions about soft furnishings.  Let’s be honest, there’s not much else to think about when you’re sat on your bed.  You’ve already watched the bin being emptied, noted the woman opposite you turn a page of her book, so your eyes and your mind wander to those green curtains and the not-matching green bedspread.

Green.  Now there’s a colour I understand.  Presumably the NHS soft furnishing Tsar – or more likely soft furnishing committee –  rejected a number of other colours for sensible reasons.  Red – too much like blood.  Blue – too likely to blend in with nurses. Black – let’s not go there.   Green is calming, cool, cathartic, cleansing and load of other comforting words that begin with a C.  So ok…..I approve of green though I do wonder why yellow got rejected.  Is it too happy for hospital?

Anyway who actually picked the fabric?  The one I’m looking at now with no fewer than four different green shades in splodges on it.  It’s not what I would pick.  Who walked through the NHS fabric shop looking for just the right shade for my ward?  Does the NHS fabric shop have anything plain in it?  Or anything at all in black?  Did the furnishing Tsar spend hours sifting through rolls of green fabric before he found this perfect four-splodge version?

Thinking about it, maybe there was method behind his material madness.  Presumably as our Tsar is walking past those rolls of fabric, he’s thinking feverishly,  ‘It needs to match the bedspreads.’  Let’s be honest after a thousand patients, and hopefully a thousand washes, our NHS bedspreads could end up  a fair few different shades of green.  Maybe that’s where the splodges come in?  I wonder if he worries about such things, our Tsar? Does he feel stressed at the  pressure of buying tasteful textiles to accompany hospital treatment?  Is this a person comfortable in his choices or is this a man not trusted by his wife to pick his own ties let alone the bedroom curtains?

I’m assuming he’s a man which is, of course, very unfair and indeed sexist of me.  I’ve known plenty of women with terrible taste in furnishings if their living rooms are anything to go by.   My family once had to spend a huge amount of time sat on a lilac sofa in an intensive care waiting room.  The colour of that sofa was much discussed, and is now part of family history.  ‘It’s as bad as the lilac sofa’ , they say.   Lilac.  I bet a woman picked it.

Thinking about it, this is not an easy job.  Which normal person ever finds it easy to pick curtains? My living room lasted for years with no curtains, the neighbours looking in as they walked their dogs, simply because I couldn’t decide which blinking curtains to buy.  I’d spend hours in fabric shops looking for that elusive pattern that was just the right shade.   I only actually put some up when we needed to sell the house.  I’d be useless at furnishing a hospital.

So come on out soft furnishing Tsar.  I have reflected on the problem and it’s not curtains for you.   Give the man (or woman) a medal instead.

An NHS waiting List

Ok.  I have an NHS waiting list for you.  Oh.  Not that type.  That’s a completely different blog. I haven’t written it yet.  Too busy harassing my consultant’s secretary to find out when I’ll get the treatment I need.

No, I’m referring to that other type of waiting, which is just as prevalent in the NHS but doesn’t get talked about half as much.  The one in outpatients where we sit for hours on uncomfortable plastic chairs, waiting for our name to be called, staring at posters reminding us of all the ailments we may yet succumb to.

It seems to be accepted behaviour within the NHS that patients will have to wait for anything from 45 minutes to 3 hours at outpatient clinics.  A consultant at once said to me, “You know how most people bring a book to clinics?  At this clinic we suggest you bring a tent!”  Ho ho ho.

If a clinic has an average waiting time of over 90 mins, (which mine does), surely there is something wrong with the way it’s set up.   And yet no-one within the NHS seems to take responsibility for it.  Us patients don’t complain of course; we’re too desperate to see our doctors.  And most of us accept that in our stretched-to-bursting NHS, there are too many patients, waiting to see too few medics, getting squeezed into clinics that are full already.

What to do then? The obvious answer is just not to put as many patients in the clinics.  But I want everyone who needs to see their doctor to get an appointment.   And I’ve been squeezed myself into too many clinics that are already full to complain about that.  But I do have an NHS waiting list, designed if not to solve the problem, perhaps to make the process of being ill, a little less painful.

  1. Information is everything. If I know my clinic is overrunning by two hours, and the reason why e.g. my consultant has had to attend an emergency, then I can decide to come later, nip to the supermarket on the way in etc.  My mobile phone number is checked by the receptionist every time I go to clinic.  Why then does no-one ever phone me?
  2. At the very least tell me when I get there. Take a tip from the train companies who have now mostly learnt this lesson. At the moment the only way I can work out how long I’ve got to wait is by eyeing up the pile of medical notes and the people around me.  Massive pile of files and 20 people scrunched up on the flip-down chairs with their legs being tripped over in the corridor equals a long time to wait.  Small pile and just a couple of people not looking too fed up, equals  I might be seen within the hour.   A more scientific means would better so I can choose to go and get a coffee or at least text my lunch meeting to tell them I’m going to be late.
  3. Barring emergencies, insist every clinic, yes every clinic, starts on time. It’s a tad frustrating to fight through rush hour traffic to get in for 0830, only to see your consultant arrive at 0915 and start making coffee for every member of staff there.   First patient is seen at 0930, an hour after they were told to arrive.   I love the fact my consultant is the human type  who would make coffee for everyone,  but frankly his brain is so huge it should be used for curing patients rather than checking who wants milk.   Get someone else to make the coffee.
  4. Treat us as human beings and make it as comfortable as possible for us to wait.  I’m not suggesting sofas and smart TVs but an apology,  updates on our place in the queue and some comfortable chairs for the elderly and infirm wouldn’t go amiss.
  5. So we wait 90 minutes to see the consultant, and then another 30 to get our blood taken. Guess what?  We’ve gone over two hours in the car park.  So not only have we spent all morning sat on plastic chairs with no one telling us how long we’ll be there, but the hospital trust is actually going to charge us an extra couple of quid in parking for the privilege.   There’s an easy solution to stop us muttering as we head to our cars.  Put in the sort of system that shopping centres have where you can get your car park charge reduced by getting it stamped by reception.  Job done.

A final thought.   If we’re not careful, we patients can head down into a spiral of self-pity.  The ‘why me’ thoughts.  Most of the time we try to forget our illnesses, make them fit around our lives rather than fitting our lives around our illness.  But an outpatient appointment is a stark reminder that all is not well and a long wait can lead to thoughts we’d rather not contemplate.  Keeping us cheerful as we squirm on the plastic seats might just help.

 

Boredom in hospital

In case you haven’t realised it yet, your time in hospital will be split as follows.   1% Treatment.   99% Waiting for Treatment.

If you are very seriously ill then the 99% will pass in a blur and it won’t matter.  But for most of us, while being in hospital can be depressing, painful, stressful, and so on,  the worst thing about it is the tedium.  If your ailments don’t get you, then there is a real possibility you could actually end up being bored to death.

You might think ‘Ah well.  I can use the time to do something worthwhile.  Write a book.  Learn how to crochet.  Become fluent in Mandarin.’  Forget it.  You simply don’t have the brainpower because of all the depression, pain and stress in the last paragraph.    Even reading something really simple can just feel like too much effort.

You know you’re in the grips of tediumitis when you start taking an unhealthy interest in the slightest movement in the ward.  When you find yourself putting down Take a Break magazine to watch someone empty the bin,  you need help.

So in the fine tradition of blogging lists,  here is my list of  five ways to keep yourself occupied on the ward without putting too much effort into it.

  1. Listen in to other people’s conversations. It’s unavoidable, so for the only time in your life , completely guilt-free.  Be as nosey as you like.   People have really  in-depth, interesting discussions in hospital, ranging from   ‘What’s wrong with my bowels?’ to whispered ‘ What ARE we going to do with Grandma when she gets out?’   If the curtains are drawn around the bed,  strain your ears as much as you like.  If they are open,  try to show a little discretion. I once had a family of six who were visiting the next bed, actually turn their chairs round so they could hear better what my doctor was saying.
  2. Hospital Bingo. You can make up your own list of phrases to tick off of course but here are a few to start you off. Have you got good veins? (Normally said by a nervous nurse with a needle.) Are my pills ready to take home? (Normally said at 7pm by a patient who was told he could go home at 10am.). Here’s your toast and it’s warm.  (Never comes up).
  3. Read your hospital notes. If they’ll let you. If  you manage to get past the ridiculous hospital procedures about whether you can or not, (another blog post pending), then reading your notes is extremely interesting.  Not only do you find out what you’ve got (which is often difficult to get out of the doctors themselves), you also sometimes find out what they actually think of you in their letters to each other.  I once read one which started ‘Thank you for referring this extremely pleasant lady to me.’ Really?  Of course if you’re a cantankous old moaner then you might not like what you read.  But then you could always write a few complaint letters.  That would use up a bit of time.
  4. Work out who is the most irritating patient on the ward. Points for snoring, whinging, not using their headphones for the TV, telling you over and over again about the intricacies of their illness, being unfortunate enough to be hooked up to a constantly beeping machine ( not their fault but hey), taking an hour in the shower,  having more pillows than you, and generally just staring at you across the ward alot.  Playing the game won’t make them less irritating ..but at least in conducting a scientific study, you can tell your visitors emphatically ‘The most irritating person on here is that woman over there.’
  5. Finally if all those fail, there’s one more thing to try to avoid boredom in hospital. Next time the nurse comes round, try playing dead.  That should liven things up.

Living on a NHS ward

Everyone should be made to live for a week on a NHS ward.  Especially our politicians.  No, not to see how over stretched the staff are. Not to experience how bad the food can be. Not even to see how long you sometimes wait for treatment. But for the simple reason that when you live on a NHS ward you’re forced into close contact with ‘people who are not like you.’

Let’s be honest, we all have our tribes and we all have our prejudices about people who aren’t like us.  For most of us – I hope – it’s not based on colour of skin or sexuality anymore but the prejudices are still there. Perhaps nowadays it’s more about what someone is wearing, the newspaper they read, the television show they watch, the way they vote, the place they live, the school they went to.

And for most of our lives we succeed in spending time with people like us.  Our families often, though not always, have a similar outlook.  We pick our friends.  Our work colleagues, if not from the same tribe, are often from a similar one.  We live our lives most of the time within a common consensus about what is ‘right’.

And then we get ill and we’re forced to live with total strangers, thrown together because of similarities in the ways our bodies have let us down, rather than similarities in education or income.  We eat together, sleep together.   We’re together 24 hours a day, sometimes for weeks on end.

We don’t just share magazines and bathrooms; we share nurses, doctors, healthcare assistants.  We share knowledge about which ones to ask for help, and which ones seem like they couldn’t care less.  We know intimate secrets about each other’s bodies; we hear hushed conversations through thin green curtains, telling us things about our bed neighbours we’d rather not hear.  We notice who has regular, loving visitors ..and who doesn’t.  Even when one of us retreats behind the curtains, desperate for privacy,  we can see the red eyes when they return to view.

I’ll be honest.  I often arrive in a ward in a foul mood.  Depressed and frustrated at being back in hospital, worried about my illness, my husband and kids, I retreat into non-communication with my fellow patients.  No eye contact, monosyllabic answers to those who pry too much, I pull the curtains and lie alone, trying to avoid the reality of what is happening to me.

But after a couple of hours sulking,  I have no choice.  I’m forced to engage with those around me whoever they are, whatever life they lead, however old they are, whatever their faith, whichever newspaper they choose … and life on the ward is generally better when I do.

And it does broaden your view of the world.   We all know in our heads that there are people who are poorer than us or posher than us,  less or better educated, or who vote for parties we might consider unthinkable …but until we actually meet those people, it’s the differences that stand out rather than the similarities.  Living on a ward can make you more tolerant, less sure of exactly what is ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, more appreciative of the difficulties other tribes face.

And that’s got to be a good thing. Hasn’t it?

A visit from St NHS

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ward,

Not a patient was sleeping, just one who snored,

The charts were hung on the bed end with care,

In the hope a consultant soon would be there,

We shivered cold under thin blankets in bed

While visions of warm toast danced in our head

One overworked nurse and a health care assistant

Ran ragged while machines beeped with relentless persistence,

I lay in bed wondering if sleep would arrive

The night stretched ahead, so hard staying alive

When out in the car park there arose such a clatter

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter

Away to the window I flew in my gown

Gaping cotton, bare back, with loose ties hanging down

When what to my wondering eyes did appear

But a tinsel-clad ambulance with lights blue and clear

With a little old doctor so lively and quick

I thought for a moment he must be St Nick,

But with a voice full of cheer he did loudly proclaim

‘Santa’s old hat.    St NHS is my name!’

Then with garb crisp and bright as the new fallen snow

His troops from the sky he did call to come low

‘Now Doctors! Now nurses! Now healthcare assistants!

Come cleaners. Come caterers.  Give your commitment!

To the ward! To the ward! Give it your all!’

And with that,  they all flew right through the wall.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard by the stair

A clumping of boots; St NHS was there.

He was dressed all in white from his head to his foot

With a stethoscope hanging down from his hood

A bundle of pills he had flung on his back

A thousand new treatments peeping out of his sack

His eyes – how they twinkled! His dimples how merry

A hundred clear drip tubes tied round his belly

A glistening syringe he held tight in his hand

To pump us with painkillers if we’d so demand

He spoke not a word but went straight to the job

His troops filled the ward, armed with pillow and swab

They tended, they cleaned, the doctors knew all our names

The toast on the trolley was warm when it came

Three pillows appeared at each of our heads

A duvet was laid with care on the bed

In a flash waiting lists were a thing of the past

And the dirt in the washroom was cleaned up at last

Even the ward nutters stopped shouting their ills

And for once everyone in there got the right pills

We all had our own nurse, firm but kind as can be

The TVs were working, the car park was free.

And then with a nod, and a burst of hand gel

He was off with naught but a short farewell

His blue lights flashing and tinsel glistening

Patients asleep, just me still listening

And I heard him exclaim ‘ere he drove out of sight

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night”

 

 

With a little help from Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts of mortality at the kitchen sink

I always thought the hardest thing about getting older would be having to confront your own mortality. Turns out I was wrong. It’s confronting the mortality of those around you that causes the dagger to your heart.

You’re forced to confront death in hospital. Sometimes it’s a conversation you overhear about making the woman in the next bed ‘comfortable’. Sometimes you’re still there, in the next bed, when she dies and the nurse suggests ‘You might want to go to the day room for a bit while we sort things out.’

It’s upsetting when these things happen..but strangely it’s mostly because you feel you know her family. You’ve never really spoken to them of course, just the occasional ‘Are you using that chair?’ conversation. But you’ve seen them, every day for three or four weeks, coming in, straightening mums’ bedclothes or changing her nightie, hushed conversations as she sleeps, disappearing from the ward for a half hour and returning with red eyes. They don’t notice you but you know them. And you grieve quietly for them – and her – when she goes.

Somehow the thought of my own death gets easier the more time I spend in hospital and the older I get. In intensive care this year, under sedation for five days, I slipped in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware that I was close to death. I found in that moment that I was quite at peace with the idea. I remember thinking ‘Well 45 years wasn’t as quite long as I’d have liked….but it’s been a really good 45 years. So be it.’

I certainly didn’t rail against it. I was very happy to go gently into that good night. And yet, when confronted with the idea that someone close to me could die, my heart falters, my stomach turns over, my head tries desperately to think of something else. And the terrible thought of how those closest to me would feel if I did die, is enough to have me fighting with every breath to survive.

In my teens and twenties I used to look at ‘old people’ and wonder how they could bear the idea of death. The nothingness that awaits. I used to imagine them screaming inside, violently struggling internally against the inevitable while placidly doing the washing up. Either that, or they’d filled their lives with so many distractions, a hundred to-do lists, that they’d forgotten the brutal truth of what awaited them. But as I stand here, with my hands in the kitchen sink, when I allow my mind to wander away from life’s distractions, I know the real dagger that awaits is in losing those I love, not in losing life itself.

It would be so much easier if we lived a life alone wouldn’t it? Except with no one else to worry about, I suspect we would indeed be obsessed with our own mortality.

Sleep in hospital

Sleep.  The great healer. The time when our bodies recharge and mend themselves.  Without it we quickly feel poorly.  Scientists have linked lack of sleep to, among other things, diabetes, obesity, and even speeding cancer growth.  It is without doubt a great natural cure for our ailments and the reason our doctors, and our mothers, tell us to ‘Get a good night’s sleep.  You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Why then does the NHS put so little value on it?

It’s a recognised fact among us patients that we won’t get much sleep in hospital.  The staff from consultants to porters seem to recognise that too.  The cause is generally put down to other patients, snoring, the crazy ones who shout all night, those who simply weep, loudly.

But as much as other patients do sometimes keep me awake, without doubt, it’s more often the hospital staff and procedures that leave me tossing and turning in frustration at 3am.

Let’s talk about last night.  Lights off about 11pm.  I’d shoved in my headphones to drown out the sound of the two elderly, confused ladies alternately crying for help and ranting at the poor care worker on shift.   Then I’d managed to drop off to sleep.  Until, at 11.58pm,  I heard a voice. “Fiona.  Sorry love but can you wake up?  We need to move you to another ward.  Can you get up and pack please? The porter will be here in a few minutes.”   I travelled down some cold corridors, porter commiserating with me, (“It’s not bloody fair love, they shouldn’t move you at this time”), and probably woke everyone else on the new ward as I clumsily tried to unpack in the dark.  I was not surprisingly then a tad unrelaxed and didn’t manage to get to sleep until about 4.30am.  And of course they woke me at 6.30am to take my blood pressure.

Now if this was a rare occurrence I’d accept it as inevitable in a busy  hospital that has to admit patients through A and E in the middle of the night.  But in some wards, in some trusts, it seems to be an  acceptable, common way of behaving.  The night before last I’d been woken from my slumber by first one patient moving out at 2am and another moving on half an hour later.

And it’s not just the procedures but sometimes the staff themselves. There are those who seem to understand that it is in fact nighttime, who get on with the stuff they have to do but at a lower decibel level than they’d use during the day.  But there are many who carry on as if it’s the middle of the afternoon, switching bright lights on, talking in hearty, loud voices, waking us all up to ask a patient a few questions which could perhaps wait a few hours until morning.

So, NHS, here’s what I propose.  Let’s introduce sleep-protected time zones in the same way we have protected times for meals.  A period between midnight and 7am when everyone talks in whispers, lights are dimmed and no-one should have to move beds.  Of course there will be times when these rules will have to be broken for essential medical care.  Most patients would recognise that.   But if it’s not essential, let’s keep the ward quiet and dark so we can get a few hours uninterrupted kip.   We’re ill for goodness sake.  We need our sleep.

A single room in hospital

 

Okay, let me first of all put you straight on a notion that I was once stupid enough to hold.   You might think that being allocated a single room in hospital,  i.e. a room to yourself, is good news.  In most cases, it’s really not.

I remember  being wheeled on a stretcher to my first single room.  ‘Never mind love.  At least you’ve got a single’ said a kindly porter.  Oh yes, I thought, how lucky.  Privacy.  No snorers. No other patient listening in on my so-called private conversations with my consultant.  All true.  All good.  But completely offset by the following.   Unless you are very,  very lucky, there are generally only two reasons why you might be given a single room in the NHS today.

1) You are deemed to be officially just too irritating for other patients to bear.   You can of course take advantage of this premise.  Find yourself in a mixed ward with a snorer on one side and an incessant talker on the other, then by all means have a go ….pretend you’re a nutter for a couple of days and you might just get moved (or sectioned).  But singing Kylie on a loop for 48 hours or taking off all your clothes every time a nurse comes in, can be a bit debillitating in itself.  And the staff aren’t daft.    Anyway watch out for the other patients if you decide to take this path.  We’re an unforgiving lot what with our confined space and bad food.  I once found myself in a single room opposite another single room whose occupant  had such issues.    At first I was sympathetic  to his shouts of Help every 3 seconds.  When it continued remorselessly for 24 hours, I was less sympathetic  and raging at the system that had put someone with drastic mental health issues in a room next to me.  When ‘Help’ turned into racist taunts of the staff, smearing his excrement on the food trolley, and throwing furniture into my room once a day, I lost all sympathy and am ashamed to admit I spent the days that followed planning a detailed operation to pass on my superbug by spitting into his water jug.  (Didn’t actually carry that one out).

2)  Single room in hospital equals superbug.  Most commonly MRSA or C Difficile (which I had).   OK so you might be vomiting for England but hey, at least you can do it in peace.  And you get to amuse yourself by watching the various means the staff come in and out of your room.  First we have what I call the Stormtrooper approach.    Masked, hooded, gloved – is there a nurse in there?   You watch the major dressing up operation just outside your door and wonder if you’ve actually got leprosy rather than a vomiting bug.    Then we have the Indiana Jones types.  Minimum apparel, a quick push on the handgel, and then before you have chance to say MRSA, somehow Indy has got across the room, retrieved your full bed pan and got it outside with barely any surfaces touched and  nothing more than a whipcrack of the plastic gloves.    And then sadly we still very occasionally get the parliamentary candidate approach.  Press the flesh as much as possible without thinking of the consequences and then sally forth into the next ward, without so much of a glance at the handgel, to press yet more flesh.   In my years in the NHS I thankfully see fewer of these types but they’re not extinct quite yet.

I’ve always felt quite isolated and vulnerable in a single room.  The reason you’re in hospital in the first place is because you’re pretty poorly and you need some attention.   In a single room, unless you’re in intensive care,  you will spend large swathes of the day alone, trying not to be a needy type and pressing the call bell too much.     If you’re on a ward with other people at least you can grab a nurse as she walks past, have a bit of conversation with the other beds, listen in to everyone else’s ward round consultation.    And the staff glance at you when they walk past, a quick check to make sure you’re ok.  I once spent three weeks in a single room.  I’d got into the habit at night of shutting the door so I could ignore my mad neighbour and sleep. Then they let me home for a night during which I had several seizures, fell out of bed and had to be blue lighted back to hospital.  My husband was there in the room with me.   Had I been on the ward in my single room, I’m not sure anyone would have found me until the next morning.

So when you’re sat on your bed, desperate for some privacy,  irritated by the woman in the next door bed,  fed up of sharing a loo …just be careful what you wish for.   A single room in hospital isn’t always worth a supplement.

Company at the Bed – the hospital visitor

Always a tricky one this.  We all want hospital visitors.  Let’s face it, if we’re so bored that we’re reduced to putting down Take a Break to watch someone empty the bin, then it’s pretty clear someone from the outside arriving to actually talk to us will be the high point of the day.  Or will it?

The problem with visitors unless they are your nearest and dearest, conversations run dry pretty quickly.  Here is a typical example:

Visitor:  Hi! You’re looking well (blatant lie).  How are you doing?

Patient: Oh not so bad (another blatant lie).

Visitor:  How did the test go/what did the doctor say/when will you be out?

There will then follow three minutes of conversation in which you draw out in great detail the one minute conversation you had with the doctor this morning.

Pause …….

Patient: So how are you?

Visitor: Oh fine, fine.

Patient: Any news?

Visitor: No not really.

Pause………

Right so now you’re at most six minutes into your visit and you have at least another 30 before your hospital visitor can reasonably leave, safe in the warm feeling that they’ve done their duty by coming in to cheer you up.

And then there’s the tricky issue of what they bring with them.  Because they want to bring something.  To arrive at a hospital visit without a gift is a bit like being invited to dinner and not bringing a bottle.  Except they can’t really turn up on the renal ward with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.  Flowers?  Well that used to be the easy option, but nowadays most wards don’t want them. They’re apparently a hygiene risk.  Along with a load of other hygiene risks that most people ignore of course …but frankly flowers are messy, require vases, drop petals …and when you’re ill any strong smells can tip you over a vomit inducing edge.  So no thanks to flowers.

Magazines?  Newspapers? Books?  Yes please. But be prepared, as a patient to see your hospital visitor in a whole new light.   You expected the Daily Mail, he brought the Guardian.  You thought you’d get Vogue, you got Chat magazine.  Their choice of what they bring you to read says something about them …or about what they think about you! No pressure then Visitors.

Food.  Ah yes.  Even worse. They won’t know what special diet you’re on.   So if you’re on low salt, they’ll bring crisps, low potassium you’ll get bananas and ‘I thought you’d be missing your skinny lattes’,  restricted fluids you’ll get a nice big bottle of lemonade to wink at you from your bedside cabinet.  With every visit your table piles higher and higher with forbidden food until the nurse comes over and tells you in no uncertain terms that if you don’t  sort your diet out, they’ll stop the IV insulin.  (*IT WASN’T MY FAULT.  SOMEONE BOUGHT IT ME!!!!*)

If you’re in for a particularly long spell, you may find your gifts get more and more imaginative (or bizarre).  I recently got a Lego campervan, two origami kits, a paint by numbers, and a Rubiks cube.  Think I may have been doing some moaning about being bored.     I didn’t finish any of them while I was actually on the ward ….but it did give us all something to talk about.

Expect many pauses.  Some will be extended while you both listen intently to what visitors to the next bed have to say.  And what the doctor said to them on the round.  And to see what gift they got.

And of course your visit ends with more blatant lies.

Patient: Good to see you

Visitor: You too.  I’ll tell everyone how well you’re looking.