Recently, following a medical emergency that required ambulance transportation to my local NHS general hospital, I spent five days in hospital. On the sixth day, thinking I was cured, I was discharged from the hospital and allowed home. Four days later, following the return of the same medical emergency, I was again rushed back into the hospital (family transport) where I spent a further ten days undergoing a barrage of tests seeking to identify the root cause of my problem. It has now been identified, and I will shortly return as an outpatient to undergo a procedure to remove the cause.

Most of the time I spent in the hospital, I was on a diet of antibiotics which suppressed the symptoms and, as a result, I felt fine. This let me observe many facets of hospital life. Here are my observations.

What to take

On both occasions when I was taken to hospital, I was in no fit state to pack a bag with everything I would need to make my stay comfortable. I now have a very comprehensive checklist for future use. Most items are as you would expect – clothes, toiletries, electronic gadgets, personal medication – but if you have time before you leave home, don’t forget to charge your phone and tablet, and their backup power packs and, if relevant, take spare reading glasses, spare batteries for hearing aids, and trekking poles! More later on this last item.

Corridor beds

On both hospital admissions, I entered via the A&E department. The first time was fine. I was whisked into a single-occupancy ward. The second time was horrendous. I arrived at 17:00 and, eventually, around 20:00, was placed in a bed in the A&E corridor where I spent the night and most of the following day. Here is what I sent to my family in the morning.

God, what a night☹️ I’ve just visited the toilet and, along the way, counted 20 corridor beds here in the A&E corridor. I slept fitfully under the blazing corridor lights. I haven’t had my temperature taken yet, but I feel it’s returned to normal. There were no pillows available, and I had to sleep on my back – very uncomfortable. I’m also being pumped up with antibiotics. Plus, I’m hungry and thirsty, but apart from an assortment of 3-pack biscuits, food is sparse, and the water fountains are empty. It’s a far cry from the reception I had nine days ago. The nice lady from my village who was in the next corridor bed has gone to be replaced by a very noisy effing and blinding bloke with no couth. He’s just been warned about his shouting and swearing. “There are some very sick people here, you know,” he was told. “Stop shouting and swearing, otherwise you will be moved.” He paid no attention and, sure enough, they moved him. I know not where – maybe into the far corner of one of the open car parks?

I’m becoming an expert in corridor bedding facilities and limitations. Little gotchas like making sure you have a pillow, proximity to toilet facilities, access to a power socket for charging, and how to deal with obnoxious neighbours. I might write a blog about it. 😋

Hospital food

My ability to eat almost anything comes from four teenage years living in a Lincolnshire boarding school in the mid-to-late 1950s. I emerged at age 18 with no food fads and, even today, I very rarely leave anything on my plate. That ability stood me in good stead while in the hospital wards. The daily menu was reasonably varied, and I could select meals that generally fit my ‘nothing over 3% fat and 3% sugar’ diet. I didn’t put on weight, and I didn’t go hungry!

Healthy breakfast: bran flakes, two pots of fruit salad, orange juice

Problems with hearing aids

My deafness is rated moderate to severe and I wear hearing aids all day every day. Wearing aids in a hospital causes me two problems. Even with the aids in place, I have difficulty understanding some accents from members of the medical and support staff for whom English is a secondary language, and I have to remove an aid to let a nurse take my temperature with an in-the-ear thermometer. Firing on one cylinder isn’t as good as firing on two!

On two occasions when a doctor came to tell me the results of a significant test, I patched my daughter into the discussion via FaceTime. I’ve done this very successfully during previous important medical discussions. My daughter is in the medical profession, understands what has been discovered and what treatment is proposed, and asks penetrating questions. She also hears the bits I can’t make out and relays the whole story to me in a private call after the visit. I am eternally grateful to her and to the doctors for accommodating her participation in the discussion. As I often say to her, “I knew your expensive education would pay off one day!”

Shower and toilet rooms

During my second stay, I was housed in a conventional ward fully loaded with around 28 patients, most of whom were senior citizens. Here is one of my daily reports to my family.

What is it with old people in hospitals? Four times over the last five days, I’ve entered an apparently unoccupied toilet (green showing on the access handle) to discover an old person, sometimes male, sometimes female, sitting on the toilet either straining or cleaning up! I don’t know who is more startled – the occupant or me?

Securing the door from inside isn’t rocket science. The locking mechanism is very simple (turn the handle 90 degrees), and that’s it. No code or key required. No deadbolt system. Easy to test (tug the handle once inside). Simples.

I’m thinking I need to knock hard on a seemingly available toilet before attempting entry. What I’ve seen so far, four times, has not been a pretty sight!

I also lost count of how many times I had to pull the chain to flush away the previous occupant’s deposits before I could use the toilet. And let’s not talk about dribbles on the floor in front of the toilet!

Enough said, but to be fair, I did notice the cleaning staff worked hard to keep the toilet and shower rooms clean, but it’s tough trying to keep up with an ageing population with FNTP (Frequent Need To Pee) syndrome, possibly combined with other bodily evacuation problems!

Passing the time

I was well prepared for passing the long hours when nothing was happening – no meals, no visitors, no regular assessment of my vital signs. Apart from the usual reading and sleeping activities, I had my iPhone and iPad Mini with me and spent time watching pre-loaded movies, sending and receiving WhatsApp and SMS messages to family and friends, playing solitaire and sudoku games on my iPad, and keeping up with the national and international news on the BBC website. I do not encourage discussion with fellow patients. Even with hearing aids, I have difficulty hearing what someone across the ward is saying to me and, besides, I don’t want to hear what ails them, nor them me, I’m sure.

I was also fortunate in that I could walk around the long corridors to maintain some level of fitness. I need my trekking poles for anything over 0.5 km, and I did notice many an amused smile as I strode purposefully in my M&S slippers, Adidas 3-stripe sweatpants, and T-shirt saying, “Listen to your body, unless your body says you can have more ice cream.”

One other point: individual TVs in hospital wards are now redundant and can all be removed. In every ward I stayed in, every bed had an individual TV on a swing arm. I spotted nobody watching their TV. Staring at personal tablets such as iPads and smartphones – yes, but TV? No.

Making the bed

During my years at the boarding school, I was made to make my dormitory bed every morning using the hospital corners style (sometimes called the military corners style), whereby a neat 45-degree angle fold appears at the foot end side tucks.

Hospital Corners bed-making style

I’ve never forgotten this method of making a bed, and I watched with curiosity to see if the nurses who made my bed still followed this style. They didn’t. They folded back the upper sheet and blanket at the foot end such that your feet were in danger of poking out of the end of the bed during the night. When I asked why, I was told it was to remove pressure on the feet, which can cause foot drop and pressure sores, and to allow fast stripping of bed coverings during an emergency. Thinking about it, the explanation made sense but, in my case, meant I needed to wear socks at night!

My fancy non-slip slipper socks

The Magnetic Resonance Imaging experience

I had all sorts of scans during my second stay, including a fully-in-the-tunnel MRI scan. This was not my first fully-immersed MRI scan, and I no longer anticipate claustrophobia. Here’s what I sent to my family after this latest scan.

‘Tis done. The mysterious, cavernous, slightly intimidating MRI machine and I have bonded once again to perform a different dance called MRCP*. I spent 20 minutes in its claustrophobic grasp, still as a mouse and with eyes shut, listening to the strange gurgling and clanking noises it made as it probed deep into my liver, gallbladder, and surrounding parts. To pass the time, I mentally sang the refrain from the Village People’s song YMCA, substituting MRCP for YMCA. Try it. It fits perfectly.

* MRCP: Magnetic Resonance Cholangiopancreatography, used to create detailed pictures of the liver, gallbladder, bile ducts, and pancreas.

Keep your sense of humour

I naturally see humour in certain situations. Here are two short stories I sent to my family

Today’s humour. I’m still in bed in the Acute Medical Unit corridor waiting for a slot in a ward to come free. There’s a guy in the ward by me who is waiting to be transferred to another general hospital today. He told me he had lost a toe. I asked if he lost it at the other hospital and was going back there to try to find it. 😹. Fortunately, he saw the funny side of my reply 😅

My hearing impairment makes a hospital a daunting place. There is a variety of accents spread throughout the medical and support staff and, as always, anyone entering my room for any reason naturally assumes I can hear and understand their comments or questions. Here’s what happened on one occasion.

At 20:30 this evening, a nurse put her head around my hospital room door and said, “This is nice stuff.” “What’s nice stuff?” I asked, expecting her to produce a cake or some other treat. “No,” she said, “nice stuff.” Hmm, I thought to myself. Maybe I’m mishearing. “I wear hearing aids,” I said, pointing to my ears. “Say it again.” She smiled, moved more into my room, and slowly said, “I am night staff. Good evening. I will be with you soon to give you your medicines.” “Oh. Hello, and see you soon. Thanks.” I replied. And with that, she withdrew and went away. No cake!

What’s my name?

Ever since entering the adult world at age 18, I have been known as Ben, a shortening of my surname, Bennetts. In anything formal such as opening a bank account, signing a legal document, or receiving medical treatment and care, I am addressed by my actual first name, Roger. At first, it sounded strange to me, but over the fifteen days I spent in hospital, I got used to the staff calling me Roger. In fact, it brought back very rusty but pleasant memories of my pre-boarding school childhood years when I lived at home with my mother, father, and younger sister. Feel free to call me Roger!

Such is life in hospital these days.

(^_^)