A SOJOURN IN PURGATORY

A SOJOURN IN PURGATORY

This is not a story for the faint of heart, it is a story of what it can be like in hospital. Last week I completed 16 days, or more specifically, 23,040 minutes of pure purgatory, in Harptree Ward of Weston General Hospital. I say “minutes” because that is the reality of an hospital bed, you become aware of each minute, if you are lucky and get a visitor, they stay for a precious few minutes.

It all started on the morning of 24th May just twenty-two days following the death of my beloved wife. I had checked with my GP at the crack of dawn that morning with my right leg in massive throbbing pain following a completely sleepless agonising night. She sent me post haste to the hospital, “do not even go home - go!” and I left the car in the carpark. She feared DVT and already my toes were turning black. Ultrasound ruled out DVT so A&E immediately put me into the Medical Assessment Unit worried that it might be Necrotizing fasciitis (NF), that’s commonly known as flesh-eating disease, an infection that results in the death of the body's soft tissue. Vials of blood are taken and rushed away and cultures developed. Thank God NF was then ruled out and a massive attack of cellulitis identified. An immediate counter-attack was started with intravenous amoxicillin leading the battle and clavulanic acid stopping the bacteria attacking the amoxicillin. All marvellous in curing you but you feel like shite, really shite, and the pain requires powerful stuff and so it goes. This picture is worth thousand words:

This takes place and then they move me into Harptree Ward to continue and remains my lot for the days, hours, minutes, and seconds of the time in hospital battling infection.

There’s one mantra that very quickly became established. “Ripshishtick” [the all too familiar sound of the velcro-cuff being opened to take your BP] “ You can’t use that arm, Nurse.” “ Why not?” ”I had cancer on that arm and now I have no lymph nodes on that side.” “oh OK.” I uttered that mantra over a hundred times.

It was mainly a cardiac ward. Three died during the 16 days I lay there. The first was silent, the angel of death came about 2 am one night, no sounds and then silently all curtains were drawn, and then behold the bed was empty and later everything removed and cleaned.

The second death was unexpected, and then there was loud cry of utter anguish as a dearly loved person died and daughter [or wife] had a paroxysm of grief saying “Don’t leave me” over and over until finally calmed by the love of strangers. It seems the angel of death likes 2 am but then I did not get much sleep most nights.

And then there was old Bill, an old soldier, in the bed next to me, who had survived D-day. He had been an infantryman with the South Wales Borderers. He was 19 years of age in 1944. During the long morning of 6 June the South Wales Borderers sat waiting in their assault craft as the smoke from the battle rose into the air and the sound of explosions echoed across the water. Then, just before midday, came the order to land. At the end of D-Day itself the South Wales Borderers had captured more ground than any other unit involved in the invasion. Their job was not over, however, and 11 months of hard fighting were to follow, with the South Wales Borderers in the van of the Allied drive through France into Germany.

So this brave man now had renal failure and was bound to die. I talked to him, comforted him. He said to me “ They have told me that I am going to die”. I said “I know”.

Have you noticed that the very young and the very old cry tears of the purest crystal? Well they do. Old Bill said to me “I want to go home. I want to go home.” His little wife could not cope so they brought him into hospital to die.

And so it came to pass that on the eve of the anniversary of D-day shortly after 20.00 hrs Old Bill died alone in a hospital bed - no family nobody except me to see his death. [Greg was there on one of his two visits.]

No “beat the drum slowly, play the fife lowly” for Bill. Nobody cared, but nobody. What would it have taken to ensure a man who gave so much die at home? Now this old soldier had 9 siblings and each one served King & Country!

Meanwhile back at Eddington Court we have this Libdem Peer who swans up to London at £300 per diem to twiddle his thumbs! How I detest and abhor politicians.

“Ripshishtick” and by this time I have another mantra to add “Are you diabetic?” the nurse asks and now I answer “No, I am Catholic, I don’t hold with strange religions.” It gets their attention.

One night we had a Zombie -  an animated corpse.  A walking, un-dead lunatic.  A former person, now devoid of the qualities we all know as explicitly human, such as compassion, logic, love, awareness, self-preservation and so on. A&E sent this to us as there was no where else to put him. Terrific I spent all night watching this creature, that’s all on needed was this human detritus pulling somebody's lines out. I made a lot of fuss in the morning, he disappeared. Ah the joys of modern life!

I will finish my tale with a story of another hero John Thorne.

No, you are not seeing things, it is probably one of the beautiful aircraft ever built - the Spitfire.

John was a Spitfire pilot in 1944 - he was 19 years old - the same age as Old Bill  and he too took part in the D-day landings but his aircraft did not have guns - it had cameras. He was an unarmed reconnaissance pilot zooming in at sea-level at 580 km/hr. The Germans blazed away at this boy and he enjoyed it until later. The photographs showed piles of dead American soldiers at the foot of cliffs. And so an old man cried tears of crystal again in Harptree Ward for men who had died long ago and are oft forgotten like Old Bill.

John Thorne in a way is Velia’s Jack who never really grew up. He has two lovely daughters who dote on him. One came over to me with a twinkle in her wagging her finger. She said “ Now behave, Dad can get into trouble easily without your help!”  I am staying in touch with John and get him into Probus, we other RAF chaps there and aircraft builders so tales and yarns will keep him happy.

So some final thoughts on hospital. Was it purgatory? Yes, but unlike hell purgatory is a place you suffer for a short time. It seems long at times. Was I bored? Never I have a brain that doesn’t stop. I have a lifetime with my beloved Tina to reflect upon.