As it tends to do, Time marches on, even when one is incarcerated in the hospital. On the health front, my foot seems to be improving, according to the Professor. It was re-dressed again today (with my help, as the wound specialist was at the European Wound Conference in Geneva, Switzerland, and enjoying herself with junkets onto the lake and the like) and the vacuum pump put back on. I was also taken down to X-Ray for a PICC line to be installed, just as during my last stay as a guest of the NHS. The external part of the line is slightly different than the last one, but it works as well, and thhe cannula has been removed. However, it looks like the Professor won’t let me out this week or, seemingly, next. I am going quietly crazy.
The ambience of the ward, however, has been spoiled by our newest inmate. I’ll call him H. H is from Surrey (judging by his accent), and he has spent much of the last year in hospitals. He had a spinal operation last year that went wrong (a surgeon mistakenly perforated his colon). This resulted in infections and finally in a large wound and a colostomy. He is in litigation with the NHS, but more importantly, he is a singularly demanding person.
There are limited food choices on the menu here, and most of us confine ourselves to what is on offer. Breakfast is cereal, porridge, or toast, with coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. There is sugar available for those who can use it. Most of us here are diabetics (H is not diabetic) so eschew the sugar and jam for our toast.
H wanted toast, 2 glasses of milk, and porridge (=US oatmeal). He wanted sugar and salt, as (he repeatedly said) no self-respecting Scot would eat oatmeal without salt. The breakfast trolley does not carry salt. He went spare. Then the breakfast server said that he could not have 2 glasses of milk as it would not leave enough milk for the rest of the patients’ cereal. Complaining about this kept him occupied until lunch. I was livid, as I don’t particularly like hearing that kind of groundless complaint.
At lunch I got sugared Jello, not sugar-free. Rather than complain, I gave H my Jello as well as a packet of salt (hopefully he’ll save it for use tomorrow morning).
This afternoon, one of the nurses, a nice older Caribbean woman who has always treated me very well, was asked to change H’s dressings. Now H is very particular about how his dressings should be done, but the nurse was doing it the way she was taught. For 45 minutes he argued with her about the dressings, getting louder and louder. I found this quite upsetting. Now he does have the right to get the dressings done as he wishes them to be done, but he didn’t make that clear beforehand. So he is now trying to complain to the NHS about the nurse (who doesn’t seem to mind) and about his treatment generally. I am not looking forward to tomorrow.
Now if Mr. McDonald were still around, perhaps he could return and strangle H like he tried to strangle P, my previous neighbour. No jury would convict him.
Jesus wept.
