Typed into phone, early hours of 16 June, while on Post Anaesthetic Care Unit PACU
I’m not sure if this is a hallucinatory experience - the dregs of earlier morphine then cyclizine, the Patient Controlled Analgesia of fentanyl - or if it is a dysfunctional health care
provision.
The constant noise: the majority and loudest of which was coming from my nurse for this night and last. The ripping apart of packaging that is one or more grades up on modern crisp bags in a hard, easy-to-clean-surfaced environment, with the plastic contents then thrown down onto the tops of metal storage cabinets in the cubicle of the sickest person here, a young woman who is now whispering and singing to herself like an Ophelia of the sluice room. He must be constitutionally unsuited to being a night nurse where a soothing, near silent presence, with caring hovering wings are required . One of the others, a soft-soled Irish woman, tucked her patient up in bed, with rolled towels at her sides to prevent her rolling back.
My husband brought me wet flannels today to wash my face and neck but I haven’t been able to wash my backside - its trailing catheter tail was too daunting an obstacle for me and promises from three nurses have come to nothing.
That nurse is now ripping things apart in my cubicle - apparently I need a magnesium injection and a salty potassium drink at 00:30 although the blood results were all available while all the lights were on. Now the lights flash into existence against Lights Out with little attempt at shielding.
The hushed Irishwoman approaches him about using Ophelia’s Hickman line which an earlier conversation identified as one of three precious routes to deliver drugs into her body, to take blood samples when he has just injected calcium and which will therefore provide unreliable results. He rushes into her cubicle - he rushes everywhere - drug cupboard keys jangling jangling.
The stiff violet cubicle curtains provide ideas for fabric and other designs - surely they are one solid block of colour yet morph into horizontal stripes, swirled splashes of grey on mauve or hard jags of shocking pink against the powder pastel, slipping away as my focus pulls.
I feel I must add my contribution to the stable (oh for noise-absorbing straw and hay) and belch, but there is still more potassium to get down.
There have been whispered conversations between him and the other nurses - did one elicit “who the fuck do you think you are to...”.... , was one to take him aside to request some quiet? They all end in a quiet chuckle; no rescue there.
It’s now the day of 16.6 - variable morning - in one of the dips, I had two unlikely visitors, one with a strangely shaped bag, maybe frog-body shaped with a chunky zip passing round it like a large frog mouth. Did it contain flowers? Never found out. Next was someone from the Star Wars/Dr Who workshop with a large dome-like shape where the right eye would be. What purpose did this organ serve? Never found out - my best guess was concealed radar.
Was Coleridge's man from Porlock an opium-induced vision? I can see why the effect might induce writing - look at me!
The constant noise: the majority and loudest of which was coming from my nurse for this night and last. The ripping apart of packaging that is one or more grades up on modern crisp bags in a hard, easy-to-clean-surfaced environment, with the plastic contents then thrown down onto the tops of metal storage cabinets in the cubicle of the sickest person here, a young woman who is now whispering and singing to herself like an Ophelia of the sluice room. He must be constitutionally unsuited to being a night nurse where a soothing, near silent presence, with caring hovering wings are required . One of the others, a soft-soled Irish woman, tucked her patient up in bed, with rolled towels at her sides to prevent her rolling back.
My husband brought me wet flannels today to wash my face and neck but I haven’t been able to wash my backside - its trailing catheter tail was too daunting an obstacle for me and promises from three nurses have come to nothing.
That nurse is now ripping things apart in my cubicle - apparently I need a magnesium injection and a salty potassium drink at 00:30 although the blood results were all available while all the lights were on. Now the lights flash into existence against Lights Out with little attempt at shielding.
The hushed Irishwoman approaches him about using Ophelia’s Hickman line which an earlier conversation identified as one of three precious routes to deliver drugs into her body, to take blood samples when he has just injected calcium and which will therefore provide unreliable results. He rushes into her cubicle - he rushes everywhere - drug cupboard keys jangling jangling.
The stiff violet cubicle curtains provide ideas for fabric and other designs - surely they are one solid block of colour yet morph into horizontal stripes, swirled splashes of grey on mauve or hard jags of shocking pink against the powder pastel, slipping away as my focus pulls.
I feel I must add my contribution to the stable (oh for noise-absorbing straw and hay) and belch, but there is still more potassium to get down.
There have been whispered conversations between him and the other nurses - did one elicit “who the fuck do you think you are to...”.... , was one to take him aside to request some quiet? They all end in a quiet chuckle; no rescue there.
It’s now the day of 16.6 - variable morning - in one of the dips, I had two unlikely visitors, one with a strangely shaped bag, maybe frog-body shaped with a chunky zip passing round it like a large frog mouth. Did it contain flowers? Never found out. Next was someone from the Star Wars/Dr Who workshop with a large dome-like shape where the right eye would be. What purpose did this organ serve? Never found out - my best guess was concealed radar.
Was Coleridge's man from Porlock an opium-induced vision? I can see why the effect might induce writing - look at me!
How you were able to write that incredible account, on you mobile, whilst in the throws of it all, is beyond my imaginings. You amazing woman, you. Hats off to you, again. You are indominable.
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