On Tuesday I had cause to pay an unexpected visit to my GP. In the morning I felt absolutely fine; but I just happened to notice I couldn’t hold a cup with my left hand, which felt clumsy and weak. I thought, “That’s not right!”, and called the practice at 8.00 am. I was fitted in, first thing. I thought the consultation went extremely well. I could not have received better attention. Professionally, I’ve always been temperamentally inclined to plan for the worst possible scenario, but my GP was inclined to be more optimistic. He thought I had a radial nerve palsy. That cheered me up no end. I’d far rather have a lower motor, than an upper motor lesion. Nevertheless, just as a precaution, I was sent into the local district hospital. No blue light ambulance. I drove myself in.
A series of interviews, and a series of tests, interspersed by a lot of waiting. I wished I’d taken a book. But I wasn’t complaining. If I was presenting with an acute problem, and I could be sorted out within the course of a single day, that’s fine by me. I had a chance to observe the activity within the hospital, and I was curious. I haven’t been in practice for thirteen years, and I haven’t worked in hospital for a quarter of a century. Would I see much change in the modus operandi?
Not much, at heart. People were extremely courteous, and extremely kind. I mentioned this to somebody subsequently, and they said, “That’s because you are a doctor.” But the staff, with the exception of the consultant, didn’t know I was a doctor.
The front of my District General resembles an airport terminal building rather more than a traditional hospital. It is very spacious. Opposite the reception desk there’s a Starbucks, and a W. H. Smith, and a Marks & Spencer food hall. Immediately upstairs there’s a large restaurant. I asked for directions at reception and embarked on quite a trek along two long corridors. There must have been a sign for my old stomping ground the Emergency Department, but I didn’t notice it, I guess because I wasn’t going there. I think it’s down at the back end of the hospital.
The corridors were spacious too, and seemed to me to be quite quiet. Throughout my whole short stay, I was never aware of any of the overcrowding and chaos that is supposed to characterise life in an acute hospital. It looked to me like a routine day, the way a routine day should be.
Triage… History… Examination… Investigation. If I were a glass half empty man I might say this all occurred in rather a piecemeal fashion but hey, it occurred, that’s the main thing. I was amused when I was told that, laboratory-wise, the computers were down. No change there then. They’d had to go analogue, and use bits of paper. I sneaked a peek at my full blood count, my electrocardiograph. I remarked to the consultant that I would have felt right at home. She laughed. I suppose the use of computers was the main operational change I noted from 25 years ago. They were ubiquitous, and a lot of people spent a lot of time hunched over them.
I was ferried at various stages between various departments, and although I felt perfectly fit to walk, I was obliged to sit in a wheelchair and be pushed. I just did as I was told. The porters were delightful, chatty and humorous. Throughout the day, tea ladies, equally delightful, appeared, to ply me with tea, coffee, and sandwiches, which at first I refused, until it slowly dawned on me that this was going to be a long haul, and I’d better have something to eat.
CT head scan. How extraordinary to be on the other side of the health care system, within the whirling doughnut. I had to lie perfectly still. But it only took a few minutes.
Then the longest wait of all. CT result: no acute lesion. But, to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s, I need an MRI, pending. Meantime, I can’t drive. They would organise a lift home for me.
Dusk fell. I loitered in the departure lounge until it closed, and got sent back to the assessment unit. This time I could walk. In the assessment unit I fell into conversation with a lady on my left. In hospital, you quickly forge these transient relationships. She asked me how long I’d been there. At that point it had been between 11 and 12 hours. She had only been there for 6. We were like a couple of old lags comparing our stretches. I accepted another cuppa tea, and said to her, “Sure as fate, my lift will come right now.” And it did.
I was transported by two volunteers, one a fireman, the other a prison officer, who was very chatty. We dropped a lady off in Alloa. She was from Skye, from Dunvegan. I said, “My cousin’s the baker in Dunvegan!” She knew him. Small world.
Home, safe and sound, by about 10.30 pm. I suppose the whole experience was one I would have preferred to miss, but there was something heart-warming at its core. People from all echelons of society were working in harmony. A sense of community was very evident. We are still civilised.
I think the putative radial nerve palsy is improving; or maybe I’m just getting used to it. I can lift a saucepan full of water up with my left hand supine, but only with difficulty when prone. So, slightly week left wrist dorsiflexion; that would fit.
Yesterday I went back to the hospital with a relative to collect my car, thankfully still there and in one piece. As a passenger, I had to give some dual instruction on how to drive an electric car. I think I would have made a terrible driving instructor.
So, here I am, still somewhat in limbo. The MRI scan awaits. I’ve heard these scans can feel quite claustrophobic. I don’t care for confined spaces. I would have been a terrible tunneller in Stalag Luft III. Perhaps they will play me some soothing music. My driver asked, “Bach? Mozart?” I suggested Heavy Metal.
But as my driver pointed out, you can’t have heavy metal in an MRI scanner.
