so far, 2012 is a real bitch
Jan. 17th, 2012 04:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
llywelaIt's been a really long week, so far. Or rather, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it was a really long weekend and I haven't caught up with myself yet, since I just got home last night from a very impromptu weekend spent camping out at my sister's house in Kent because said sister is very poorly in hospital.
Basically, last Tuesday Deb was sent home from work with a crashing migraine. When it still hadn't gone by Thursday morning, she went to her GP, who gave her a special pill and told her that if it hadn't worked in an hour she needed to go to the hospital because it wasn't a migraine. By Thursday afternoon, she'd been admitted to hospital and was having an emergency CT scan - this is the point at which we were all panicking, thinking 'brain tumour, aneurism, stroke...' but fortunately the scan came back clear, nothing sinister to declare. The crashing migraine still wasn't going anywhere, though, so Friday brought with it a lumbar puncture, which among other things revealed that Deb's intra-cranial pressure was three times higher than it should be (should be 13, was actually 39) - no wonder she is in so much pain! Her white blood count was also double what it should be. Deb was seriously freaking out at this stage, and the doctors were suggesting meningitis as a possible diagnosis, so Mum and Dad and I all got together for an emergency council of war that resulted in Dad and me getting into the car and heading for Kent, while Mum attempted to keep Chelsea calm.*
[*NB Chelsea has broken up with her twit of a boyfriend again and is heartbroken, plus Shanei decided over Christmas that she was going to give up on everything she's been working toward since she moved in with D&R and stay in Cornwall with her drug-addicted prostitute mother instead, plus the cat died, so, you know, there's been a lot of stress floating about the family lately, even before this.]
So Dad and I went to Kent to a) see Deb, and b) support her husband Ray. We spent as much of the weekend hanging out at the hospital as visiting hours would allow. Deb seemed to spend most of the weekend getting worse - chronic migraine turned into chronic migraine plus constant nausea. She lost six kilos in three days. And there were no doctors anywhere to be seen, because why on earth would they be working at the weekend? Seriously, the hospital Deb has landed herself in is absolutely awful, the standard of care is appalling. Woefully understaffed, and most of the nurses they do have seem to be agency nurses who turn up for a single shift and then are never seen again, so there is no consistency and very little care. The possibility of Deb's illness being meningitis was floated on Friday - the more serious form of the disease, bacterial meningitis, was ruled out by blood tests almost at once, thankfully, but there was and is still a strong possibility that it might be viral meningitis, which is less dangerous but a real bugger to treat. The results of the lumbar puncture done on Friday would provide more answers, we were told, only it would take 48 hours, so the results would be back on Sunday, only the consultant wasn't working on Sunday, so we'd get the results when the neurologist saw Deb on Monday.
Dad and I originally intended to return home Sunday evening, because of work. But Ray had to work on Monday - he was teaching the final day of a first aid course and absolutely couldn't get out of it - and Deb had been so limp and wretched all day Sunday that we decided to stay another 24 hours and wait for the neurologist on Monday.
The neurologist failed to turn up on Monday. During afternoon and evening visiting, Dad and I took turns harrassing the nurses about when he was likely to make his rounds - politely at first, but increasingly stridently thereafter. Deb was a lot brighter than she had been, because they had finally given her an effective anti-nausea drug, so she only had the crashing pain to contend with, rather than crashing pain exacerbated by nausea, but we felt and still feel that being left so many days without seeing a doctor or being given an update on her diagnosis and treatment was unacceptable. The bank nurses were supremely indifferent, although the junior sister was rather more helpful. Once Ray arrived back from work, he also kicked up a fuss. A minion doctor eventually turned up, very late in the evening, to say that they were still concerned and that Deb would need to see the neurologist the next day. Since the neurologist had been meant to see her that morning and had failed to do so, this was frustrating in the extreme. The minion was at least able to say that the viral culture had come back negative, which I presume means that it might not be viral meningitis after all, but all that really means is that we remain no further forward than we were last week and the days are ticking by and Deb is still in a lot of pain and unable to even sit, never mind stand, for longer than two minutes. There has to be a reason why her intra-cranial pressure is shooting through the roof, but as far as I can see that poxy little second-rate hospital isn't actually doing very much to find out what that reason is.
Dad and I left Kent late yesterday evening and arrived back in Cardiff sometime before midnight, on call to go back if needed. Today, apparently, the consultant has deigned to show his face, but only to prescribe a stronger painkiller - and both Deb and the minion had to point out to him that the drug he was prescribing is one Deb is actually allergic to, so I'm not sure what kind of specialist he thinks he is. Not one who reads the patient notes, certainly.
Me, I'm back in work today, feeling not unlike a zombie and also very concerned still. I want my sister to get better now, please. Failing that, I'd quite like for the lousy little hospital she's stuck in to pull their collective finger out and make a bit more effort to diagnose and treat her illness.
Addendum: in the bed opposite Deb is a horribly frail little old lady who hasn't eaten since 2nd December because she is convinced she is having surgery (she isn't) and won't let anyone persuade her otherwise. Her husband and daughter have been visiting her every day. He is a very straight-backed elderly gentleman who was clearly something terribly senior in the military prior to his retirement. She is a rather horsey individual of the kind that will still refer to their mother as 'Mummy' to their dying day. They are frightfully, frightfully posh. Over the days I was visiting, I overheard numerous conversations, held in cut-glass accents of the best-bred variety, on the subject of the electric fence they've just installed around the mare's paddock, and how the grass has been simply dreadful this year, the west lawn is going to be an absolute disaster, and so on. And all I could think was: if you can afford a mare's paddock with an electric fence and can afford to have enough lawns that you have to specify which one you are talking about, why on earth would you leave your aged wife/mother to waste away, compliments of the NHS, in a horrible little hospital like that? For the love of all that's holy, go private!
Basically, last Tuesday Deb was sent home from work with a crashing migraine. When it still hadn't gone by Thursday morning, she went to her GP, who gave her a special pill and told her that if it hadn't worked in an hour she needed to go to the hospital because it wasn't a migraine. By Thursday afternoon, she'd been admitted to hospital and was having an emergency CT scan - this is the point at which we were all panicking, thinking 'brain tumour, aneurism, stroke...' but fortunately the scan came back clear, nothing sinister to declare. The crashing migraine still wasn't going anywhere, though, so Friday brought with it a lumbar puncture, which among other things revealed that Deb's intra-cranial pressure was three times higher than it should be (should be 13, was actually 39) - no wonder she is in so much pain! Her white blood count was also double what it should be. Deb was seriously freaking out at this stage, and the doctors were suggesting meningitis as a possible diagnosis, so Mum and Dad and I all got together for an emergency council of war that resulted in Dad and me getting into the car and heading for Kent, while Mum attempted to keep Chelsea calm.*
[*NB Chelsea has broken up with her twit of a boyfriend again and is heartbroken, plus Shanei decided over Christmas that she was going to give up on everything she's been working toward since she moved in with D&R and stay in Cornwall with her drug-addicted prostitute mother instead, plus the cat died, so, you know, there's been a lot of stress floating about the family lately, even before this.]
So Dad and I went to Kent to a) see Deb, and b) support her husband Ray. We spent as much of the weekend hanging out at the hospital as visiting hours would allow. Deb seemed to spend most of the weekend getting worse - chronic migraine turned into chronic migraine plus constant nausea. She lost six kilos in three days. And there were no doctors anywhere to be seen, because why on earth would they be working at the weekend? Seriously, the hospital Deb has landed herself in is absolutely awful, the standard of care is appalling. Woefully understaffed, and most of the nurses they do have seem to be agency nurses who turn up for a single shift and then are never seen again, so there is no consistency and very little care. The possibility of Deb's illness being meningitis was floated on Friday - the more serious form of the disease, bacterial meningitis, was ruled out by blood tests almost at once, thankfully, but there was and is still a strong possibility that it might be viral meningitis, which is less dangerous but a real bugger to treat. The results of the lumbar puncture done on Friday would provide more answers, we were told, only it would take 48 hours, so the results would be back on Sunday, only the consultant wasn't working on Sunday, so we'd get the results when the neurologist saw Deb on Monday.
Dad and I originally intended to return home Sunday evening, because of work. But Ray had to work on Monday - he was teaching the final day of a first aid course and absolutely couldn't get out of it - and Deb had been so limp and wretched all day Sunday that we decided to stay another 24 hours and wait for the neurologist on Monday.
The neurologist failed to turn up on Monday. During afternoon and evening visiting, Dad and I took turns harrassing the nurses about when he was likely to make his rounds - politely at first, but increasingly stridently thereafter. Deb was a lot brighter than she had been, because they had finally given her an effective anti-nausea drug, so she only had the crashing pain to contend with, rather than crashing pain exacerbated by nausea, but we felt and still feel that being left so many days without seeing a doctor or being given an update on her diagnosis and treatment was unacceptable. The bank nurses were supremely indifferent, although the junior sister was rather more helpful. Once Ray arrived back from work, he also kicked up a fuss. A minion doctor eventually turned up, very late in the evening, to say that they were still concerned and that Deb would need to see the neurologist the next day. Since the neurologist had been meant to see her that morning and had failed to do so, this was frustrating in the extreme. The minion was at least able to say that the viral culture had come back negative, which I presume means that it might not be viral meningitis after all, but all that really means is that we remain no further forward than we were last week and the days are ticking by and Deb is still in a lot of pain and unable to even sit, never mind stand, for longer than two minutes. There has to be a reason why her intra-cranial pressure is shooting through the roof, but as far as I can see that poxy little second-rate hospital isn't actually doing very much to find out what that reason is.
Dad and I left Kent late yesterday evening and arrived back in Cardiff sometime before midnight, on call to go back if needed. Today, apparently, the consultant has deigned to show his face, but only to prescribe a stronger painkiller - and both Deb and the minion had to point out to him that the drug he was prescribing is one Deb is actually allergic to, so I'm not sure what kind of specialist he thinks he is. Not one who reads the patient notes, certainly.
Me, I'm back in work today, feeling not unlike a zombie and also very concerned still. I want my sister to get better now, please. Failing that, I'd quite like for the lousy little hospital she's stuck in to pull their collective finger out and make a bit more effort to diagnose and treat her illness.
Addendum: in the bed opposite Deb is a horribly frail little old lady who hasn't eaten since 2nd December because she is convinced she is having surgery (she isn't) and won't let anyone persuade her otherwise. Her husband and daughter have been visiting her every day. He is a very straight-backed elderly gentleman who was clearly something terribly senior in the military prior to his retirement. She is a rather horsey individual of the kind that will still refer to their mother as 'Mummy' to their dying day. They are frightfully, frightfully posh. Over the days I was visiting, I overheard numerous conversations, held in cut-glass accents of the best-bred variety, on the subject of the electric fence they've just installed around the mare's paddock, and how the grass has been simply dreadful this year, the west lawn is going to be an absolute disaster, and so on. And all I could think was: if you can afford a mare's paddock with an electric fence and can afford to have enough lawns that you have to specify which one you are talking about, why on earth would you leave your aged wife/mother to waste away, compliments of the NHS, in a horrible little hospital like that? For the love of all that's holy, go private!
