Attempting to make it as a writer

Posts tagged ‘hospital’

Drive across Britain – Bath

DSC_0128The quality of my accommodation has been quite exceptional, which is more than I can say about the quality of my attempts at running.  However I have been out, not quite before the sun but shortly afterwards to see his gently prodding awake of the world.   This morning I left the warmth and peace of my bed and managed a small jog towards the main road, all downhill and very short, I might add.

Still high above the hills of Bath with the mist in the valleys, I slowed to a walk  along the A36 stopping below the back of the house I had just left.  Taking a photo of the street name which is the very same as Middle Son I was overtaken by a couple of cyclists heading out of town.

A few more came by and then Sexy Sporty Dad passed me.  At least I had seen him whether or not he was awake enough to see me remains a mystery but it was a brief moment that kept me cheering all day.

Yesterday did not go as planned, but there is a certain flexibility built into my days and I called on it then.

I had planned to visit Crediton where a major fire (second only to the Great Fire of London at the time) wiped out most of the buildings in the town.   This will play a rather significant detail in the new novel so it would have been nice if the museum opened on Sundays but I knew that was going to be in vain.

It would have been a tad helpful if I could have found the museum at least.

DSC_0087There is nothing relevant to the fire that I could see having walked up and down the town.  There is the statue of St Boniface DSC_0093who famously was born there, not sure that bit can be weaved into the story.  There is the small shelter, still with the poppy wreath remembering the war dead and there is a tourist information office which, I guess, might be in the same place as the museum; which if you remember I could not find and it too would be closed on a Sunday.   I feel another visit may be required but am not suggesting Sexy Sporty Dad repeats the exercise in the near future.

I moved onto Exeter where the hospital will have just opened 6 months before the fire in Crediton.  Another significant bit to the plot.

Having been to school in Exeter I can remember visiting people at the very old hospital on the spot of the original hospital.  They have now revamped most of the town and the building is unrecognisable in my memory let alone the history.  It now houses a very  modern façade DSC_0150and ultra modern offices inside which again were closed for the weekend.

I received a call from my sister to suggest as I was passing her door, did I want to see her new house.  Well of course I did, so tea and cake and a suitable unplanned tour took me well away from my research.

I did reach Bath university to find a bleary eyed husband having finished in excellent time and gone to sleep for a couple of hours.  Although a little tired, and in a touch of non-worrying pain, he had had a massage which possibly contributed to his present aches but might be more beneficial in the morning, he is in remarkable spirits.  He was again in 30th position which although not a race means he gets to base camp for leisurely showers and massages and has time to nod off before I arrive for an update on his day.  He is still able to speak coherently and still planning the next stage.

Tonight they had the benefit of student rooms with beds and ensuite facilities in funky colours.  A fact that he assured me had changed since bath unihis days at uni.   It made me feel less guilty about the beautiful Abbey Rectory where I had to lay my head.

So today I have learnt that all the planning and list making in the world will not mean it will happen as expected.

Tiggy

Growing Pains

Sometimes you do wonder how much bad luck you are able to take?   How can some people and families sail through life with no real life changing scares, upsets or worries and other families get the worst of all scenarios.

I remember a close friend of mine, we both worked together and ended up job sharing as we both went part time together.  We both had three boys all within days of each other.  Her three were all planned, she thrived in pregnancy and they were born quickly and easily without problem.  Mine may have been planned but came along bringing with them, miscarriages, emergency C-sections and a spell in special care baby unit.

Commenting on my struggles she told me that I was the strong one and that was why things happen to me.  She said she could not have coped with the trauma and that is why all the bad stuff all seemed to happen to me.   

Image

Arrow marks the spot!

No 1 Son had to have an operation yesterday, it was a simple operation would only take a few minutes and he would walk out later in the day.    At the crack of dawn we arrived at the quiet empty hospital at the appointed time to be booked in.   We still endured a two hour wait before the moment arrived.  

There was a marked change in this operation to his previous ones.  At 16 he was deemed an adult, the staff consulted with him; asked if he had questions, told him what they were planning to do and he had to sign the permission form.  To be fair they did include me as I was there with my list of ifs and buts.    As the nurses came to get us, we started to walk down to the prep room; I was gently directed in the opposite direction.   It is not my favourite past-time watching my children be put to sleep but I do feel it is my right as a parent and at 16 he is still my little boy.  I waved him off, guilt ridden at leaving him to be escorted by two albeit friendly motherly nurses promising to take care of him.

There would be no call from recovery for me to help him come round but he would be up on the ward in about an hour and I could see him there; he had his mobile and would call when he got there.

After nearly two hours of waiting, wondering and worrying I moved to debating, deliberating and deciding to get another coffee, knowing the minute I did they would call.  I got up and picked up my phone and bag.  Ping, ping, ping went the phone as I moved a fraction; to where I got a fleeting signal.   Two messages from Sexy Sporty Dad and one missed call from a blocked number.   I tore up the stairs, no time to wait for the lift to arrive then dawdle its slow passage upwards.   Finding the ward I looked around for staff or someone to tell me where my son was.   A nurse began checking, no they had not called and definitely no-one had come back from theatre to the ward yet.   But had they not rung me?  No!

Perplexed and anxious I turned to go, maybe I would get my coffee after all.   Another nurse rushed up and asked if I was No 1 Son’s mother?   Yes, at least someone seemed to know he was coming to this ward.   Then the punch;   the surgeon needed to speak to me could I go to theatre.  

Woooo!  Winded!  Why would the surgeon need to speak to me.   Half running, slowing to stop that sick feeling flooding my stomach, I fled through the corridors of the hospital back to the theatre waiting room.  “Are you….?” “Yes yes,” I panted “I know he wants to talk to me where is he?”  Probably, I realise now “he” is not the correct way to refer to this God like character you have entrusted your child to; but etiquette was not uppermost in my mind.

“Take a seat” was the answer.    

The lovely nurse who had looked after him earlier came and found me.  I jumped and turned to her.   She told me he was fine but the surgeon wanted to explain what had happened.    At least he was fine whatever fine was; but that niggling pain in my chest knew things had not gone as we hoped.

The surgeon did appear himself, to explain that only one side had been done and that they could not remove the pin from his other hip.   They were sending away to the US for equipment to remove the second one and could we come in next week.   No we were about to leave for France.  He was happy to do it the following week just before he himself left for a month’s holiday.

I know he was out of the operation because I had been speaking to the surgeon; but not allowed to go and see him in recovery, I returned to the ward to await his arrival.  Nothing in a hospital is quick and I endured yet another wait of an hour and a half, before my son was finally brought up to the ward.  I was going to have to give him the news it hadn’t gone as planned. He was going to be upset and angry and guess who would bear the brunt of this. Choosing my words carefully and re-writing them in my head before I told him, I tentatively asked how he was. 

“Do you know?”  He asked, yes I already knew but how did he know.  He had heard the nurses in recovery talking as he drifted in and out of sleep. 

Unlike his brother Middle Son who comes out of anaesthetic hungry and running, No 1 Son is very sick which he continued to be till late into the night, meaning he was unable to reach the targets to allow him to come home with me.

Children’s wards are great, tea and coffee on tap for stressy parents.  A bed in the cupboard pulls down to allow those same stressy parents somewhere to sleep.    Extra food is snuck onto the child’s plates to feed an additional mouth.  The care of your child is very much your responsibility.   No 1 Son at 16 is an adult on an adult male surgical ward.  There are no facilities for visitors.  In fact visiting is a short timed affair to which I did not adhere in the slightest.    The patient is responsible for his own welfare and asking for his needs.  A suddenly shy suffering sick teenager did not know what he wanted or needed except to be better.

I could not leave my little boy on his own in this alien environment still being sick from the anaesthetic.   I outstayed all the other visitors, and ran around finding things to make him feel better and in control.   He had the nurse call button just in reach, the bed control unit to raise or lower his head.  I placed his bag within reach knowing he had his book and phone in it, and an extra £5 note; just in case!  His table had drinks on which when he felt better he might enjoy and I also managed to pay for him to have 24 hour access to the TV/Radio/Telephone unit which together we managed to get not only the internet but his facebook page.  Reluctantly I did have to take my leave so with heavy heart and dull ache in my stomach, not only from not having eaten all day I wandered alone through the now spookily deserted hospital. 

Sexy Sporty Dad had come in to visit earlier in the afternoon but had been delayed by the car breaking down and having to call out the AA.  The starter motor had gone.    This is the car we are driving to France in today, the same car that had been in for a service all week checking it adheres to all the French regulations.     My tiny little car will not fit three growing boys in the back with any luggage for more than a few miles; we have 5 hours of continent driving.  Sexy Sporty Dad did manage with a bit of co-ercing to persuade the garage to squeeze in the extra job this morning; I have no doubt it will cost us.

I have managed to delay the ferry for a day to allow No 1 Son a little longer to recover, and we will be able to attend a family party en route to the ferry port.   What I could not do was change the booking with Travelodge to stay at the ferry port tonight. 

“I am sorry we can only change like for like and the price is different the night you wish to return.”

“I am willing to pay the extra just to change it”

“No the price is £30 cheaper per night per room.  Sorry we cannot change it for you!”   Where oh where is the logic in that!   So providing No 1 Son is feeling ok we are going and we will use the room.

Are we not entitled to now just enjoy a little good luck to take with us, maybe Harry Potter could spare me a small bottle of Felix Felicis, if I promise not to use it to win all the gold medals at the Olympics!

And in a couple of weeks we will revisit hospital and do it all again………

Tiggy

Check out my cooking blog at Teatime Treats with Tiggy

 

 

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