The many tests of a patient waiting in patience

A Week to Fathom

What a weekend that was, or rather, let us consider the full week, because the thought of all that transpired is hard enough to fathom.

Fresh from the good news of my PSA having fallen to its lowest level, buoying my confidence in the radiotherapy for prostate cancer, I was having chest pains that led to my attending A&E first thing on Monday.

That was one unplanned visit to the hospital. The result was reassuring; it was nothing serious, just musculoskeletal pain that some bed rest could help.

Good News, Then Distress

Friday was the main day scheduled for my biannual monitoring at the Christie Hospital. Going there never ceases to be as impactful as it is critical to saving lives. It is a visit to a renowned cancer hospital to review my PSA result and discuss the attendant issues from radiotherapy.

That went well, so I stopped by Nando's for a meal and used the opportunity to call Brian. Halfway through my meal, after our call had ended, I had a choking episode. I won’t suggest this is a longer-term side effect of radiotherapy, as dysphagia, and I have not considered if it could have exacerbated it; I’ve had choking episodes going back decades.

Thankfully, I had enough napkins to contain the relief in bringing it all back up. Not a beautiful sight, and no one noticed I was in distress either. I cleaned up in the conveniences and returned home to lie down.

Saturday Takes a Turn

Whilst that should have resolved things, as I do usually have episodes of choking on food, this one was different. Some cereal before midnight did not go down, likely due to food impaction, an obstruction, or inflammation in my throat. I threw up in the toilet and decided to postpone my pills for a few hours.

The pills did eventually go down, and I had a lie-in for most of Saturday into the afternoon.

Getting up, I made a cup of tea. I thought I had drunk the full mug, but there was pressure in my throat and quite a bit of discomfort. I had to throw up again.

The tea came up with some mucous-like substance that fell to the bottom of the toilet bowl. That was concerning. I was about to return to A&E for another ailment.

A Night in A&E

Calling an Uber, I made it to the hospital soon enough, though as I alighted, I was sick in the bushes before being triaged. From then on, I was vomiting a thickened, mucous-like substance every thirty minutes or so into a sick bowl.

Just about two hours after arrival, I saw a doctor. She gave me a drink of water, which seemed to stay down. I have not vomited after that. I was then referred for a possible endoscopy and left in the Emergency Room for two hours.

Then another doctor called me in for review. We agreed on an experiment: I would have a sandwich and a drink, and if that stayed down, I was to be discharged for further outpatient review. If I could not keep the food down, it would mean hospital admission, nil by mouth, and a possible endoscopy on Monday to identify the obstruction.

The food stayed down, but it was left waiting for a few hours before I received an email notification; an after-visit message; it was sent 30 minutes earlier. Apparently, I had been discharged, and no one had bothered to inform me. I left the hospital over eight hours after arriving. It was almost 2:00 AM.

The Weight of Being Alone

I appreciate that these matters take time. Anyone attending A&E is busy juggling the precarity of their situation that brought them to the hospital with the need to keep others informed, especially if they are alone in that predicament, and that is just the way it is.

I have every reason to want a better situation, to be in a hospital with someone. Everyone else seemed to have someone with them, but as one person, you are a container of the reflexes of concern, anxiety, or even panic of others about you. You must wonder whether it is necessary to inform anyone during the crisis or only after it has passed.

There is an emotional toll involved in the desire for information and details. I have had calls whilst a doctor's stethoscope was feeling around my body, calls I have had to ignore.

My going to the hospital should be part of accepting that the right decision has been made and that I am in good hands. Not much can be helped beyond everyone holding their nerve, thinking good thoughts, and praying for the best outcomes.

Everything takes time, and the patient patiently waiting for answers and assurances, first for themselves before finding the form of words for dissemination to others who duly need to be informed, is probably the most impacted by it all.

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Of bigger balls of discomfort

We, the vulnerable

Each visit to the hospital presents an opportunity to observe humanity at its most vulnerable and, at times, a few at their most irascible. It also showcases the society in which we live.

Illness does not selectively affect individuals based on class, race, status, or identity. There may be susceptibilities indicated by certain groups, but these are often ill-defined.

We all visit the hospital because something beyond our control has afflicted us, and we require assistance against whatever the onslaught may be.

Do the shower inspection

In the spirit of Men’s things, while I was in the shower on Saturday, I noticed my left testicle was swollen. Signs of this, the day before, led to the feeling that my underwear was a size too small. However, I ignored that indication throughout Friday until a shower inspection raised cause for concern.

We should all be doing a shower inspection and checking ourselves, examining our intimate parts for anything unusual. Men should check their testicles for swelling, hardness, lumps, redness, or heat, just as women should examine their breasts likewise.

As breast cancer can affect both men and women, we must also be mindful of assessing those parts too.

English as standard

While I acknowledge that during my time in the Netherlands, I never became as Dutch as might have been necessary, English was generally the language of transaction in business and all matters aside from government and politics.

In Dutch hospitals, the professionals, typically multilingual, would switch effortlessly to the preferred language of the patient.

I remember a 91-year-old Englishman in my ward nearly 16 years ago who had lived in the Netherlands for 50 years, and despite his fluency in Dutch, you could still hear that polished English accent from a bygone era.

How do they cope?

However, I was taken aback by the number of ethnic minority couples who visited the Accident and Emergency Department on Tuesday morning, who could barely communicate in Pidgin or broken English. Each relies on their spouses to register and relay their issues to the nurses and, eventually, doctors.

I was left pondering how they navigated society and how isolated some might feel. Whether any would receive a proper or complete diagnosis without the ability to speak for themselves is a concern. Imagine those with a rather stifling conservative background having to speak to strangers about intimate matters affecting their partners. Are the words for those issues the same ones we can comprehend?

Much as many of these couples were parents with children who had been schooled in English, exhibiting local and foreign accents confidently and expressively. No one under the age of 16 could act as a chaperone, due to safeguarding regulations. Invariably, it is probably for the best that children are not answering for their parents regarding their sex lives and similar subjects.

Bide your time

From triage through registration, basic checks, blood tests, and consultations that led to an ultrasound scan and ultimately a diagnosis. Everything pointed to inflammation, for which I was prescribed antibiotics.

At A&E departments in UK hospitals, arriving is the easiest part, even if you were blue lighted into resuscitation. Alright, perhaps that’s an exaggeration. One can expect to be there for a conservative estimate of six hours.

Take a book, a bottle of water, a phone charger, or better still, a power bank; let your patience be tested but do not suffer for the privilege of free healthcare at the point of access, regardless of status.