August hasn’t been the best of months for me, medically speaking. I started coughing quite a lot early in the month which turned out to be a chest infection. My emergency antibiotics seemed to help initially, but then I had a bit of a relapse. The decision was taken to admit me to hospital, in a specialist respiratory ward. A bed was reserved for me but, by the time everything was organised, and an ambulance assigned to pick me up, it was too late in the day for a normal admission so I had to be admitted via A&E at the Queen’s Medical Centre (QMC).
I wasn’t terribly keen to go into hospital, and especially not via A&E. I remember the uncomfortable hours I spent on a hospital trolley when I broke my ankle in December, and the prolonged period of coccyx pain I experienced afterwards. But, I was assured, that the passage through A&E would be a formality. That turned out to be far from the truth!
The doctor in A&E seemed intent on completing all the usual admin and formalities. A chest x-ray was organised, and then they started to administer the intravenous antibiotics which I expected to receive on the ward. One of them had to be drip-fed slowly, which took until midnight. Only then was I told that I was to be moved to Nottingham’s other main hospital, the City! The City Hospital doesn’t operate a 24-hour A&E unit which is why I’d had to go to the QMC first!
An ambulance arrived to collect me at 1 AM. It was not a long journey, especially at that hour, but it was 2 AM by the time I was admitted, completed all formalities, put to bed, and finally able to sleep. I certainly didn’t appreciate being woken at 3 AM by one of the doctors with yet more questions!
I spent four nights in hospital. The staff were lovely; all very kind and caring. The ward was also treating Covid cases not quite serious enough to be in intensive care. To avoid cross infection, everyone had a single room. Mine had clearly been designed for two beds so I had lots of room and no distractions. After three days of intravenous antibiotics, I moved on to tablets which I could take orally, and so I was allowed to go home. One residual problem was that having been using my ventilator 24/7 over the previous 10 days, it was difficult initially to breathe independently for very long. Over time, however, I have been gradually extending my time without ventilator assistance and I’m now almost back to where I was before the chest infection.
For some time now we have been trying to organise some respite care sessions so Doreen can get out for half a day without worrying about me. The delay was caused by the need for the carers to be trained in use of the ventilator and the cough-assist machine, should I need them. Ironically, the first of these sessions was arranged for the day I was taken into hospital! We have now managed to restart them, just as the month drew to a close. This time, our daughter Fiona whisked Doreen off to McArthur Glen, a retail outlet centre near Mansfield, and ‘forced’ her to buy four new tops and some new jeans. It’s a hard life!
We had another period of mourning this month. Doreen was absolutely convinced, once again, that our last fish had been taken by a heron. Its food had remained untouched for 24 hours. But, in yet another miracle (which we should be used to by now), the fish magically reappeared!
One impact of my illness and recovery was that I had to miss all my sessions at the hospice this month. Hopefully, I’ll be able to return soon, but I’m a little worried that the others will now be so advanced with their Tai Chi that I’ll be completely left behind!