My hospital stories

Talking of hospitals (see previous post), I’ve been quite lucky, I think.

Although I’ve had a number of hospital appointments in recent years - mostly for scans (MRI, CT, ultrasound) - that’s more to do with ageing than anything serious.

I’ve not required a hospital bed nor have I been kept in for more than a few hours.

The last time I needed a bed was in 2008 when I was taken to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington in an ambulance for what turned out to be a gall stone. But even then I discharged myself after five hours.

The longest I’ve ever been in hospital was the ten days I spent in Dundee Royal Infirmary in 1971. I was twelve years old and was rushed to hospital with acute appendicitis.

I didn’t know it was appendicitis or acute until I got to hospital, but I was in severe pain and they operated within hours of my arrival.

(Had they not removed my appendix, I’m told it would have burst, which is quite serious.)

The operation was notable (for me) because I ‘woke up’ from the general anaesthetic while they were still stitching me up, but I was sufficiently sedated that I couldn’t move or speak so I just had to grin and bear it, although I could feel the needle going in and out.

I’ve read that it’s very rare but does happen and I remember it to this day, although it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.

However, the reason I ended up in hospital for ten days was because the wound got badly infected so they had to keep me in while they treated it.

I’ll spare you the gory details but reopening the wound to relieve the pressure caused by the infection was even more painful than the acute appendicitis. (You’ve never seen so many swabs!)

Those ten days in hospital were nevertheless an interesting experience.

I was in a children’s ward and in the bed next to me was a boy - eight-years-old, perhaps - who had spina bifida but was the nicest, most cheerful person you could wish to meet.

I may be wrong, but in those days children with spina bifida were not expected to live very long.

Perhaps he didn’t know this, but there was no self pity, or grumbling, and I sometimes think back and wonder what happened to him.

Another thing I remember is that, after ten days, it was a bit of a wrench to go home (and I was very happy at home!).

Despite the terrible food, and the significant incentive of going home to my mother's cooking, I think I got institutionalised very quickly to the rhythm of the hospital day - from the (very) early breakfasts to lights out at 8.00pm or whenever it was – and the camaraderie of the children's ward.

Anyway, I was off school for SIX WEEKS which was great at the time but, although my teachers sent me homework, the break did me no favours when it came to the end of year exams.

A few years earlier, when I was six or seven, I remember having a painful sty removed from one eye. That required a visit to a hospital in Staines, I think.

Afterwards I wore an eye patch for a week but it was a white one. In my view (no pun intended), black pirate style eye patches should be mandatory for children and adults.

Then, when I was ten (and shortly after we moved to Scotland), I tripped jumping over a low wall at school and broke a bone in my hand, and that led to my first visit to Dundee Royal Infirmary.

Sitting in his office after my fall, the headmaster (Mr Russell), assured me I hadn’t broken my hand but sent me home anyway.

When I returned to school the next day, hand, wrist, and arm in a rigid plaster cast, he said: “Ah, I thought so.”

Apart from that, I’ve been lucky with fractures or worse.

Age is now creeping up on me so hospital visits may become more common both for me and my contemporaries.

Then again, it will be something to write about so if I do end up in hospital for any length of time I'll be sure to blog about it!