Even when you've got a lethal medical condition, it's still easy to take your health for granted. The meds do their job, and after a few months of having no ill-effects whatsoever, you've almost forgotten you're only alive because medicine makes it possible.
So it was last Sunday when the creeping nausea of what felt like a post wedding anniversary hangover kicked in. I'm not the drinker I used to be, so I wasn't entirely surprised by a bottle of champagne making me feel like Satan himself had kicked me in the guts.
Around 3pm though, it became apparent this was no mere hangover. I'll spare you as much detail as possible, suffice to say "violent explosions at both ends," is a phrase I could use. I assumed a once familiar position; fully clothed and under a duvet in 25 degree heat, teeth chattering violently. At this point my wife made the obligatory call to the 111 service. I've mentioned this before, but there is no way on this earth you can substitute a trained nurse for a call-handler with a checklist and not sacrifice quality. A skilled professional from any background will tell you the same thing, but in this age of austerity from above, why not consider the words of Red Adair -
"If you think it's expensive to hire a professional to do the job, wait until you hire an amateur."
If you can't be secure in the knowledge you've received the best advice possible, where else do you turn outside normal working hours? Increasingly, it's A&E, just to compound existing problems further. Suffice to say this type of blinkered cost cutting is the reason I fight.
So anyway, an hour after getting off the line with 111, I staggered to the toilet, beset by flashing lights in my vision. After throwing up, the greatest physical effort I could manage was to rest my head on the toilet seat.
Not long after that, my father in law arrived to provide the impromptu ambulance service he's kindly laid on for us many times before. By this point, I was in need of a wheelchair to get me from the drop-off point to the front desk (forty yards, tops).
I was through triage and in a cubicle inside about twenty minutes, shortly followed by the relief of an IV being fitted. I got fitful sleep throughout the night, and was moved to a ward at around 6.30am.
It didn't dawn on me when I was half asleep, but I ended up on SCDU (Surgical Clinical Decisions Unit), as opposed to my original destination of AMU (the Acute Medical Unit). I later got time to ask the nurse why this was; it turns out this really was a case of any port in a storm. I ended up where there was bed space available.
I came in just before a fractious phone conversation between one of the senior staff and what I later heard was a bed manager; the bed manager, on trying to shoehorn more patients into the ward, was told in no uncertain terms to start thinking of patient safety and not numbers. Suffice to say the NHS I love is the one where patient care is paramount, and you know the people in the trenches will fight for you when you can't fight for yourself.
That's the NHS I was reminded of as one of the nurses coming into shift took the time to introduce herself personally and walked me through the necessary paperwork. On arrival, she spoke with each of us new arrivals, confirmed she'd be one of the nurses looking after us for the day, and added the sense of calm and comfort that makes all the difference when you're at your most vulnerable.
A couple of hours later, after having three weeks' dose of meds intravenously, I was passed fit for discharge by the consultant during rounds, and for the second time in four years I stepped out into the car park having been nursed back from the brink.
