Having family and friends who work in the hospital world, I had heard it said that general medical wards are interesting places. I was about to find out just how true that was – just how interesting a place they can be. I was being moved there because I no longer needed to be on the stroke ward, but wasn’t well enough to go home. Kind of like a reverse waiting room, I guess.
The first thing to mention about this particular general ward is that it was next to children’s ward. Now it seems sensible to me that if you have someone being transferred to your ward who has a condition that is making him very nauseous, dizzy and disoriented, you would inform him that he may hear the cries of children in the night. This was not the case and I spent the first night thinking I was hallucinating.
The second thing to mention about general wards is that a large proportion of the residents are really rather old. Now please don’t misunderstand me here – I’m a big fan of the older generation. However, it just so happened that quite a few of the older people on this ward were, for a variety of reasons, pretty interesting roommates.
So naturally, the third thing to mention is some of the funny moments that kept me sane during what was a pretty tough week: I should’ve been at home, celebrating the success of my heart surgery, and beginning what would be a long and challenging recovery. Instead I found myself with new neighbours – Three elderly gentlemen – Mr Alcohol Smuggler, Mr You’re in my Bed, and Mr Bloody Blood.
Allow me to introduce you to Mr Alcohol Smuggler. He lived two beds to the left and appeared to be quite a reasonable chap. At least until he had his alcohol confiscated by a nurse. Now you might be thinking, “But how did he manage to get his hands on alcohol in a hospital?” A question I would’ve asked had I not overheard his telephone conversation earlier that day.
Eavesdropping is not an optional extra on hospital wards. It’s more like those pre-installed apps that come with a new phone. Some of them you really don’t want but there’s no way to uninstall them. And some residents seem to forget that they are bunking with five other people with only curtains between them.
Mr Alcohol Smuggler was one of those people and earlier in the day he’d had a very loud phone conversation in which he gave clear and precise instructions to the person on the other end of the line. He was, of course, directing them to his beer supply.
Then later that day, a young man turned up to visit him carrying a plastic bag which clearly contained bottles of beer – it was obvious from the chinking of glass. As soon as the young man left, Mr Alcohol Smuggler took out a bottle and proceeded to open it.
A nurse was very quick to notice and swiftly confiscated the contraband. Mr Alcohol Smuggler couldn’t believe that his beer had been taken away and was adamant that there was absolutely nothing wrong with drinking alcohol whilst heavily medicated on a hospital ward. As the nurse walked past the end of my bed he looked at me and said, “Shall we have a party later?”
Next meet Mr Bloody Blood. He was a quiet and gentle man from Malta. He didn’t really do much other than lie there. Every day he did something that never failed to bring a little smile to my face.
Each morning he was required to have two blood tests that took place one after the other. At which point he would spring to life and fight off anyone wielding a needle. Well, for a good thirty seconds or so, until he ran out of energy. At which point he would lie back down on his bed and simply say, in his strong Maltese accent, “Aaaah, bloody blood!” He would then be very pleasant to the staff and thank them for looking after him. He was a very sweet man.
Finally, meet Mr You’re in my Bed. He lived in the six bed bay next to mine. My bed was in the exact same position as his was in his bay. The toilet was between both of our bays. I’m sure you can see where this one is going.
Every time Mr You’re in my Bed went to the toilet, upon exiting, he would turn left instead of right and make his way to the end of my bed. He would then stare at me with a mix of surprise, confusion and disgust, until a nurse came and escorted him back to his own bed.
The funniest occurrence of this happened when Mim and my good friend Mike were visiting. We had pulled the curtains for some privacy and were mid conversation when the curtains behind Mike started twitching. We told Mike to investigate and as he turned to look, he found himself face to face with Mr You’re in my Bed, who was pushing his head slowly through the curtains. He said nothing. He simply gave Mike his classic wide eyed stare and then slowly backed away.
I understand that I have made light of these situations. However, the reality of life on that ward was this – hopelessness lingered in the air – as if many of the people had just given up on life. It was contagious and it was beginning to highlight to me the creeping hopelessness of my situation. So anything that happened that brought even a momentary smile, or giggle, was greatly appreciated.
It was during that week that the lowest and most challenging phase of the whole experience began. To use a boxing analogy – the infection that had entered my bloodstream four months before, had knocked me to the canvas, and as my body clung to the ropes and tried desperately to get me back on my feet, the bacteria was relentlessly throwing punches – trying to land the killer blow.
I want to end this post by acknowledging that the three men mentioned above were someone’s son, husband, father, uncle, brother and friend. They had lived lives that I knew nothing about as they were too ill to talk to me. I know (through a random meeting recently) that at least one of them has since passed away.
So this post is in memory of those men, especially Mr Bloody Blood.
A Journey Of The Heart 