The Recovery Room
I can make out a large clock on the wall that shows it's 11:15, while a BP monitor is doing its best to strangle my left arm. However what catches my attention the most is the fact that someone is using a blowtorch on my right hand!
"How are you doing Robin?!" I hear in that caring but demanding way that only healthcare professionals use. I'd be doing fine if my right hand wasn't on fire I think to myself, but all I can manage is to mumble something about it hurting and "Lemme sleep". I don't remember the ride back to the room, just being woken again by a nurse asking me how I'm feeling. "I'm feeling like I've just been drugged and someone cut my hand open" comes to mind, but politeness forces me to merely report that it "hurts". Naturally I'm asked to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 4, and not wanting to be a drama queen (well 4 is reserved for childbirth and kidney stones isn't it?) I give it a 3. Good, a 3 merits two painkilling tablets the size of horse pills and a paper eyebath of water to wash them down. Twenty minutes later the fire in my hand starts to subside to just an uncomfortable hot stinging sensation that perhaps rates as a 2. Good, that's bearable.
This is the first time I've been in plaster and it probably comes close to the bottom of my list of fun things to do, like calling a helpdesk in Asia somewhere. These are the first few minutes of maybe 3 weeks in plaster so I need to adapt before I'm tempted to use the plaster cast as a cudgel on myself. Moments later a menu is thrust into my good hand from which I'm invited to choose my lunch. Huh? On any other day I would have happily tucked in to pretty much any of it, but right now I'm hurting and I want to sleep. No deal. I'm reminded that I've fasted for 16 hours, so I opt for fruit salad which comes in one of those inherently unstable little metal dessert bowls you get in cafes the world over. Surely not? Perhaps hospital security is secretly watching me on CCTV while having a sweepstake over how long it will be before I left-handedly dump the contents of the bowl in my lap. But no, just 20 minutes later and it's only the last grape half that's defying my attempts to manoeuvre it out of the bowl. Hah! First victory to Robin without so much as a drop of fruit salad on the carpet or bedclothes.
Dessert then arrives in the form of the pharmacist who provides me with a few days supply of the necessary tablets to make my life more 'comfortable' once I'm back home. Ah, so I take one of these and a housekeeper appears to make meals, run the bath and do the tidying up I muse. Unfortunately no. Just some trippy substances to take the edge off the day.
After another 2 hours of fitful sleep the nurse brings me the joyous news - no, not that I've won the lottery... You can go home now! I call my sister to come and rescue me, and while I wait half asleep I can hear the lady next door arguing with the pharmacist because, well "I can't swallow pills - sick them up you see". "Fine, how about a suppository then?" after which there's a brief pause. "Well ok, bring the pills and I'll do me best".
PS - I have previously installed a program that lets you speak to your PC and it turns it into text. The combination of that and a few keystrokes with my left hand allow me to keep going!
I can make out a large clock on the wall that shows it's 11:15, while a BP monitor is doing its best to strangle my left arm. However what catches my attention the most is the fact that someone is using a blowtorch on my right hand!
"How are you doing Robin?!" I hear in that caring but demanding way that only healthcare professionals use. I'd be doing fine if my right hand wasn't on fire I think to myself, but all I can manage is to mumble something about it hurting and "Lemme sleep". I don't remember the ride back to the room, just being woken again by a nurse asking me how I'm feeling. "I'm feeling like I've just been drugged and someone cut my hand open" comes to mind, but politeness forces me to merely report that it "hurts". Naturally I'm asked to rate the pain on a scale of 1 to 4, and not wanting to be a drama queen (well 4 is reserved for childbirth and kidney stones isn't it?) I give it a 3. Good, a 3 merits two painkilling tablets the size of horse pills and a paper eyebath of water to wash them down. Twenty minutes later the fire in my hand starts to subside to just an uncomfortable hot stinging sensation that perhaps rates as a 2. Good, that's bearable.
This is the first time I've been in plaster and it probably comes close to the bottom of my list of fun things to do, like calling a helpdesk in Asia somewhere. These are the first few minutes of maybe 3 weeks in plaster so I need to adapt before I'm tempted to use the plaster cast as a cudgel on myself. Moments later a menu is thrust into my good hand from which I'm invited to choose my lunch. Huh? On any other day I would have happily tucked in to pretty much any of it, but right now I'm hurting and I want to sleep. No deal. I'm reminded that I've fasted for 16 hours, so I opt for fruit salad which comes in one of those inherently unstable little metal dessert bowls you get in cafes the world over. Surely not? Perhaps hospital security is secretly watching me on CCTV while having a sweepstake over how long it will be before I left-handedly dump the contents of the bowl in my lap. But no, just 20 minutes later and it's only the last grape half that's defying my attempts to manoeuvre it out of the bowl. Hah! First victory to Robin without so much as a drop of fruit salad on the carpet or bedclothes.
Dessert then arrives in the form of the pharmacist who provides me with a few days supply of the necessary tablets to make my life more 'comfortable' once I'm back home. Ah, so I take one of these and a housekeeper appears to make meals, run the bath and do the tidying up I muse. Unfortunately no. Just some trippy substances to take the edge off the day.
After another 2 hours of fitful sleep the nurse brings me the joyous news - no, not that I've won the lottery... You can go home now! I call my sister to come and rescue me, and while I wait half asleep I can hear the lady next door arguing with the pharmacist because, well "I can't swallow pills - sick them up you see". "Fine, how about a suppository then?" after which there's a brief pause. "Well ok, bring the pills and I'll do me best".
PS - I have previously installed a program that lets you speak to your PC and it turns it into text. The combination of that and a few keystrokes with my left hand allow me to keep going!
Replies
Hi Rob, thought Id say hello, sounds like Thursday was a really tricky day but youe attitude and sense of humour are brilliant.