Good evening everyone. Here’s what’s making news tonight:
The chances of a patient dying while in a NHS hospital or soon after vary hugely according to where they are treated, and I was in one of the worst.
I’m going to get a T-shirt made:
I had surgery in one of the worst NHS hospitals for survival – and LIVED!
You had your chance Northampton General Hospital – I LIVED!
It’s still in the design phase.
Meanwhile, let me tell you how I got out of the hospital:
The surgeon arrived about eight in the morning accompanied by a squad of assorted people in blue scrubs. He looked at his handiwork on my neck and pronounced me well enough to go home. That was easy. I swung my leg across to get out of bed when he stopped me: They’ll have process your discharge first he told me.
I should have known there was a test – I had to prove I wouldn’t walk into walls – health and safety you know.
So they called Miss Trunchbull, the obese physical rehabilitation person in charge of fitness, who ordered
a metallic cane for the walking test and adjusted it to just the right height.
So with Miss Trunchbull on one side, and her 25-ish man-boy on the other, I proceeded with the at each elbow, cane in hand. I walked out of Willow Ward, turned right to a massive corridor of the hospital, the M1 or Interstate highway.
Here I was confronted with oncoming traffic; gurneys whisking semi-conscious people, carts filled with cleaning supplies, carts filled with medical equipment, floral-clasping visitors and form-clasping hospital workers. And the same thing was the traffic going my way.
(If this motorway was a metaphor, I hoped my refreshed carotid artery was clearer that this)
I entered the flow of traffic, maintained my speed, avoided the gawkers, but overtook no one. I was directed into a stairwell and sent off to go up one flight on my own using the handrail. I returned to Earth safely.
I passed! Cancel that exclamation point – passing didn’t matter, because I was going anyway.
From eight o’clock until 9:20 when Amoret came around the corner to retrieve me, I was ready.
I got the OK from the surgeon, took the ambulatory test, the nurse changed the dressing on my wound, I threw my notebooks in my bag, got dressed and Miss Trunchbull gave me a custom-cut cane. It now sits in the corner, unused, because I said I could do it.
The next day I was out walking with the dogs, although Amoret wouldn’t let me throw the ball for them.
I listen to her. She’s fit.