The surgeons were still deciding whether
or not they needed to re-operate, and so I stayed on the ward for several days.
However, over this time I began to feel extremely unwell. My headaches, which
were mostly mild and only occurred when I’d been sitting up for too long, became
severe and constant. I started feeling nauseous and dizzy, and began to run hot
and cold, especially at night. This was not a good time for me. I threw up at
least once a day, and I struggled to eat or drink much. As a result, I lost
over a kilogram of weight in perhaps four days, and became badly dehydrated.
The painful headache and fluctuating temperatures prevented me from sleeping.
Worst of all though, it was the World
Cup. There was a large television at the end of the ward, and this was on
constantly. Both inmates and wardens talked about it incessantly, and I had to
explain several times that I don’t much care for football, and don't have any
particular emotional investment in which country can Football Best. I did have
a considerable emotional investment in having the TV turned down (or better
yet, off) and in everyone around me shutting up, but this was mostly beyond my
powers.
The doctors and nurses were sympathetic
to my plight (the illness, not the World Cup), and gave me increasingly strong
painkillers, which barely seemed to help. However, none of them seemed
especially interested in why I was feeling so ill. They took regular blood
samples, and apparently these weren’t showing up any infection markers, and
that was that as far as they were concerned.
Another infuriating thing was that
during this time, my leak seemed to stop. Several times doctors had come to me
and asked me to lean forward to produce a drip. I’d explained that it was only
a very slow leak, and they always got bored and left before I could produce
even one drop, but now the drip had subsided entirely. I got the impression
that they thought I was lying.
My own theory, borne up by my total lack
of extensive medical training and scientific knowledge, is that I had
contracted some sort of sub-meningitic infection, and the resulting
inflammation had swollen my leak shut. When the infection eventually subsided,
my leak returned, more enthusiastic than ever, which seems to confirm my
hypothesis.
Before this happened, however, several
things occurred. They were feeding me regular doses of anti-sickness drugs. To
do this they fitted a canula, but the nurse chosen to do this didn’t seem very
adept. She first dug around in my left wrist trying to find the vein, but in
vain. She then did the same on the right wrist, leaving me with what looked
rather like stigmata. Eventually she got it in.
That evening, I was feeling as bad as
ever. Meningitis was on my mind (so to speak), since I seemed to be evincing at
least some of the symptoms. My neck was rather stiff (although not to the
degree I’m told meningitis produces), but I had no rash or aversion to light.
Then I looked down and saw that a rash
had suddenly appeared on my right arm. Stoically, and without panicking even
slightly, I called a nurse. He came over, examined my arm, and put his face in
his hands. If this was calculated to reassure me, it did not. He called a more
senior nurse, who said they’d need to monitor it, and see if it spread, or if
the blotches grew. Their high-tech method of doing this was to draw around them
with a ballpoint pen and come back later.
To my great relief, the rash faded over
the next half-hour or so. They concluded that it was an allergic reaction to
the anti-sickness drug they’d injected into me via the canula.
The doctors were still deciding whether
to operate on me again, and I was subjected to another MRI. I was wheeled down
in my bed, and the scan was completed. I was left in the Radiology waiting room
and a nurse was called to come and collect me. However, some crossed wires
meant that the nurse never arrived, and I was left there for almost an hour.
The waiting room was much cooler and far quieter than the ward, and I was
actually able to get some sleep before they realised their mistake and took me
back.
They also decided that I needed a cisternogram.
This involves stabbing a rather long needle into your spine, and injecting a
dye up through your spinal column and into your brain. As ill as I was feeling,
I was nonetheless curious. The room in which this was done was large and cold,
and contained a lot of interesting machinery. Because it involved stabbing a
long, flexible needle into my spinal column, it had to be done whilst observing
me in real time using x-rays. I was lain on my side and my back painted with
local anaesthetic. The surgeon and two nurses donned large, heavy-looking
aprons lined with lead and proceeded.
The actual spinal impalement wasn’t too
bad. It hurt a little, but no more so than many injections.
“Now, I’m injecting the dye. You may
find your headache suddenly gets worse.”
“Ok.” I waited for a couple of seconds.
“No, it’s not too… Oh. Yes, alright, that’s really painful. Ow. Oh. Um, also, I
think I’m going to be sick.”
One of the nurses acted with superhuman
speed and presented me with a bowl just in time. Once I’d finished, they
withdrew the needle, cleaned off the excess anaesthetic, and I was wheeled
through to another room to be given a CT scan, so they could track the progress
of the dye out through my leak.
I was put inside the white doughnut when
I was once again assailed by a bout of extreme nausea. Unwilling to throw up on
their no-doubt very expensive machine, I alerted the nurse, who was once again
able to get there in time. Once the nausea subsided, they were able to complete
the scan and I was wheeled back up to my ward.
It was also during this period that the Great
Ham Sandwich Fiasco of 2018 occurred. I have mentioned that my usually robust
appetite had been badly affected. I struggled to eat more than a few mouthfuls
of any meal, and selected the plainest possible options from the menu. One day,
for lunch, I chose the ham sandwich. This simple dish seemed best.
Lunch time came round, and my sandwich
was brought to me. It was a ham, cheese and pickle sandwich. I called the nurse
and explained that this wasn’t right. Normally I quite like these, but in my
weakened state I didn’t feel up to the task of tackling such a complex meal.
The nurse contacted the catering department, and came back to tell me that they’d
said that I was a liar, a cad and a blackguard, and that I’d received the
sandwich that I’d ordered. If I’d wanted a sandwich that contained only ham,
they said, I should have specified that I wanted a ‘plain ham sandwich’. By
merely saying ‘ham sandwich’ I’d clearly requested a ‘ham, cheese and pickle
sandwich’.
Too weak to send my seconds down to
demand satisfaction, I resigned myself to picking the cheese and pickle out,
and jury-rigging a ham sandwich out of what I had been given. During my careful
dissection however, I discovered something. Not only had I received the wrong
sandwich, it didn’t even contain any pickle! I didn’t want any pickle. I hadn’t
asked for any pickle. But since I was told that nonetheless there would be
pickle, I thought it only fair that pickle there would be. I pointed this out
to the nurse, and told them that they were being defrauded by their catering
company.
The next day, the Food Lady came round
again and asked what I wanted for lunch.
“A plain ham sandwich please.” I
stressed the ‘plain’.
“A plain ham sandwich?”
“That’s correct. A sandwich containing
nothing but ham. Ham, and nothing else. In a sandwich.”
“It does come with margarine as well.”
“That’s fine. Margarine is also good. I
want a sandwich consisting of nothing but ham, bread and margarine, all in
their usual positions and proportions.” I wondered if I wasn’t laying it on a
little thick, but they had irked me. Behind the Food Lady, I saw the nurse
snigger.
At lunchtime, they brought me the
correct sandwich.
To be continued…
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