Bedside manners

Unbelievably, I am back in a hospital ward, though this time one with a slightly better view over the Wiltshire downs. As I retired from my nursing duties and J made his escape back into the environs of Camberwell and Boris Johnson land ( they live in the same street) I got a call to say that S had fallen and fractured his hip, so I headed down to Salisbury hospital, a hospital that has become so familiar over the years that I even have my favourite parking space.

Unfortunately S and H live right on the border of Dorset/Wiltshire which while normally unremarkable, has a huge bearing when doing things like calling ambulances, because Dorset thinks it’s Wiltshire’s responsibility and vice versa, which results in outrageous delays, seven and a half hours in this case. I thought our waiting times last week were pretty hardcore but seven and half hours lying on the sitting room floor ?

The ward is here is bright and roomy with only four beds and none of the stuffy cupboard like feel of last weeks in Kings with the poor excuse of a window that looked out on a concrete wall. The nurses are tattooed and cheerful and just as in London, you wonder at their patience and kindly attitude, particularly to an elderly bewildered patient who is in pain and exhausted.

The man opposite is a squaddie from Larkhill ( where we used to go to the point to point) and he has some weird kind of swelling on his knee but nobody knows what it is. He is very keen ” to get back to the action” ( whatever that is) and keeps doing press ups. The guy next to him is a Sri Lankan jockey with a delicious smile and a hideous purple sling that has to be hung from on a frame as he fell off his race horse and has broken his hand in five places and has to keep it upright. He is really sweet and seems to take his fate ( 4 months in plaster, 3 more ops) with incredible good grace. And next door we have a smiley colonel ( complete with wine coloured cords and wife in wool Jaeger skirt) who has slipped a disc and is keen to get home as they are off to Barbados on Friday . Aren’t we all.

Yesterday was not a good day by any stretch of the imagination. S was in great pain, not helped by the lying on the floor scenario, and having had nothing to eat for hours. Nobody likes being manhandled and pushed from pillar to post in hospital but S really hates it . Though it is obviously done for a reason, the long list of questions that pre emptied any examinations were rather frustrating . He was perfectly able to give them his DOB, the name of the Queen, to count backwards from 20, the date of the first world war etc etc and I wasn’t sure why they had to ask him them all again and again when it pretty obvious he is tip top in the brain department. Not being able to get up to get to the loo resulted in some mishaps, something unbearable to a dignified and usually immaculately dressed 92 year old. It was very hard to watch and I cried on the way home as I drove through through the valley, golden and familiar, reminding me of when I was younger and had short hair and we were students in Salisbury.

When I finally left the hospital and drove back to the flat, a scene of carnage greeted me ( along with a strong smell of burning). H had attempted to make kedgeree ( using smoked trout, sugar, ham, nuts and rice) for a fictitious trumpeter who was apparently coming to dinner. This had then been dropped all over the kitchen floor. All four oven hobs were full on, as was the oven, and the bottom of the rice cooker blackened . When I opened the kitchen drawers I found that basmati rice had been tipped into each one, a bit like that game ‘Mancala’ we used to have as kids. I managed to calm H down and got her into bed and went out into the garden with a glass of wine.

This morning when I arrived back on the ward I was told that they have decided not to operate because the position of the fracture means it will heal better without pinning and having a plate inserted. This is obviously good news, but S now thinks he can get up and waltz off home. He can’t. He simply cannot bear any weight on his right side and this has resulted in a lot of shouting and swearing ( I had to apologise to Mrs Jäegar skirt who looked a bit startled at the last outburst). It looks as if he will be in here for a couple of days as he simply cannot go home until as the very least he can walk and get himself to the loo and back. So the car crash continues, they crash, get patched up, then crash again. And each time the getting up gets slower until they run out of time and energy and do not get back up.

And when I was looking for his glasses to bring in I found this on his desk written in his exquisite handwriting.

Why do people die so young?

Why do I live so long?