Day 1 - Isolation (kinda)

Today was my first time to be admitted to hospital in awhile. It's been over a year since I last had the pleasure (or punishment?) of being a guest on Foulis Ward, a place that I have been way too familiar with at times. Admittance day is not always pleasant. There is a lot of boring stuff to be done- bloods, x-rays, lung function tests, etc- and you spend your whole day answering the same questions over and over. What are your symptoms? How do you feel? And my personal favorite, Have you had a bowel movement today?, and then a number of further questions on this topic. Nothing like talking poo to someone who may have been a complete stranger two minutes ago to make the day interesting.... I could say a lot of rude things on this matter and make some horrifically bad jokes, but I'll spare you. This is only the first paragraph of my second post and it seems silly to offend potential readers so early on.

So day 1, in semi-isolation, is over. Here is a recap.

I pack up all my stuff (machines, meds, clothes) that my poor husband has just unpacked from Japan and catch a ride with my mother in law (thanks, Liz!) to the hospital. We get there and have to stand outside the building. I am not allowed to enter in the usual way as the docs have got it in their heads that I may have swine flu. I have been told to call a mobile number when I am outside. I call said number and am told to wait. I feel like a secret agent waiting for my mission. A nurse comes and brings me a mask, which I am to put on before I can go in. I mask up and feel slightly ridiculous. I clearly do not have flu, but understand that the hospital must take the proper precautions. I enter and people look. At least I feel like they are looking at me. I imagine that they see me as germy WMD that could blow at any moment, spewing germy grossness everywhere.

I get to my room, a small side one at the end of the hall. It has been a long time since I have been on this side of the ward. I am not overly fond of this side for a few reasons, which I'll save for another post. There is a sign on my door telling people that they must be suited and booted (gloves, mask, gown) before they can enter my room. These are the rules of isolation. If I did indeed have the flu, then I would be fine will all of this. But I don't. Anyone with a working pair of eyes can tell that I am not a host for that flu that goes by the name of Swine. Still, everyone that wants to enter must follow these procedures. It must be maddening getting all dressed up just to pop in.

I sit and hear the usual hospital sounds of trolleys and IV poles being wheeled to and fro, nurses coming and going, the beep, beep, beep that calls a nurse to a patient's room. The endless beeping, how I loathe it.

Eventually, I get my first guest, a student nurse. She fusses about outside for a long while before entering, and when she does, she reminds me of something out of a cartoon. She has a mask on, but it is loose and hanging strangely, so I can't see that it is doing any good. The gloves are too big for her and the gown looks odd. This disheveled appearance makes her look like a child dressed up in a nurses outfit, despite that fact that she looks to be over 40. Halloween is not far away, I think. She could be all set with a costume. I can't say this though, because that would be rude.

My feelings about student nurses? Mixed. Everyone must start somewhere; I know this. But the admission process is bad enough, and having to carry a nurse through it all because you know way more, can get very old very fast. Her first question is, "Do you have CF?" This is a fair question but it irks me for some reason and I think, yeah, duh. Question two is, have you been here before (the hospital)? I say "yes" and realise I can't say how many times because I have lost track. I then think that someone should have given this woman my notes, then she wouldn't have to ask me these questions. It's not her fault, but I am a bit cranky and prone to shooting the messenger when in a mood.

She then spends a lot of time talking about not liking the gloves and how hard it is to work with them and how it seems silly to wear them as she will just wash her hands afterward while she fuses with the admission booklet. We make our way through the questions. She then takes my vital signs. She fails in her first attempt to take my temperature in my ear and then doesn't really have it fully in my ear on the second go. She says my temperature is such and such and I think there are ice cubes that are warmer. But the temperature on the outside of my ear is probably not very warm and this is where she has taken it from, so I think it makes sense and can't be bothered to correct her.

She then asks me a few more questions and before I know it she is telling me about life with CF. She is telling me how health care professionals on other wards and in other hospitals just don't understand what it is like to have CF and how it affects my life. I am sure I am staring at her with my mouth open in a shocked sort of fashion, but she doesn't seem to notice. I know she is trying to be nice, but the situation  is very ironic. This is totally lost on the student nurse, new to the health care profession and new to CF. The mind boggles.

A porter arrives to take me for a chest x -ray and bloods. I have to sit in a wheelchair. This always makes me feel ridiculous since I am perfectly capable of walking. And I have to wear a mask. I am wheeled straight in to x- ray and immediately start removing my bra. I push the wheelchair out of the way and get myself ready. The technician knows that CFers have done this a hundred times before and know the drill. In two minutes we are finished and I dress and wheel the wheel chair back round and plonk into it.

The porter takes me next door for blood. I chat with the phlebotomist about the book she is reading. She is only 20 pages in so I can't discuss details. I don't want to ruin the end for her. I tell her I have a friend with the same name and I tell her she is from Somalia. She too is from Somalia and we chat about this for awhile. She is a good stick but half way through the tube stops filling. I ask if I should pump my hand. She says "yes" so I do it and this seems to help. My mind wanders back to a time when this would have been very traumatic for me ( I used to be terrified of needles) and think how odd it is that I am sitting here calmly now, pumping my hand so that the tube will fill with blood. I finish and go back to the wheelchair in the hall to wait for the porter. I start coughing really hard and can't catch my breath. At this very moment they try to wheel an extremely obese woman in an (a double wide, I think) wheel chair through the door. I am in the way even though I am not even near the doorway. I am losing a lung and can't breathe but am trying to get out of the way. I think that this must all look very odd to the people watching. And then I think it is a bit rude Mrs. Doublewide hasn't even said thank you or acknowledged me. Eventually the porter arrives and we go back upstairs. The hallway is blocked by a number of things so I hop out and walk rest of my way to the room, thinking how pointless the wheelchair thing is.

After this I am visited by the doctor, an SHO (Senior House Officer). She is youngish, as they always are, but seems very competent. We discuss my symptoms, talk about how I probably don't have flu but that she will need to stick a tube up my nose to do a test in the morning. We then move onto my favourite part, talk about IV lines. I tell her that I am tricky stick and have very disagreeable veins. She does not acknowledge this. I suspect she is telling herself she will be able to manage. I can't fault her as I think putting in an IV line successfully requires a lot of luck, a bit of skill, and huge helping of confidence. She looks at my veins and chooses one.

She sticks me and routes around for a while. No good. She picks another vein. She opens another long line pack and we do the routine from the first time all over. Tournaquay, cleaning, needle, etc. She says, "sharp scratch" before sticking me. They always say this. She tries several angles but the blood won't flash back, a sign that this is not going to work. She tells me that my veins keep jumping away or collapsing. I imagine my veins hopping all about and mocking her with childish taunts of the nanny- nanny - boo - boo sort. She looks a little shocked. I immediately go into "it's not your fault" mode. I have given this spiel many a time to a despondent young doctor. She asks if she should put a cannula (a very short, small line) in so that at least I can get my first dose of meds. I agree despite that fact that cannulas usually fail on me within 24 hours.

In the meantime, a man brings my dinner. He has not put on any isolation gear and he doesn't look to happy. He barges in and sort of tosses the food at me. I notice his shirt is untucked and I can see the top of his underwear. Shame he is not cute. A little Chip and Dale action could have made the day a little more interesting. The doctor chastises him for not having the proper isolation clothing on and he leaves. I am now starting to feel sorry for everyone who enters my room. Getting all dressed up is a pain and I am sure it is pointless. The doctor leaves and I ask her about going home. She mutters something about Monday and disappears.

I sit for a bit and stare at my bags. I haven't unpacked them yet because part of me thinks that they may send me home again once the discover that I don't really need to be admitted. I do delusion well. You probably know this. I then give over to the fact that they are not going to send me home again but latch onto the idea that the bags may unpack themselves. I often wish this of my bags, but it has never happend. I stare spitefully at my bags. The bags remain packed. So I give in and unpack them myself.

It is now 6: 30 pm or so and Alastair comes to visit. This is always the best part of my day. Normally he would stay with me while things get set up, but we have become old hands at all this and know it will be a lot of waiting around and wasting time, so he went home after dropping me off to do work. Poor guy has a million and one things to do. Plus, he is exhausted from single-handedly getting us home from Japan. He wouldn't let me lift or carry or even roll any of the bags at any point on our journey home. He is my Superman. But he is detained outside by the doctors who have just arrived. They are chatting to him and the consultant (head doctor) is asking him all about Japan. She enters, dressed in her isolation finery, and gives me a hearty " konnichiwa" and asks what I have learned in Japan. I say I have learned very little as the trip was cut short and I was ill while there, but I give her my best "arigato goziamas." She asks when I have last been on IVs and I tell her February. "So a good run, then," she claims and says I have managed to not be an inpatient for over a year. She also says, "you look as if you have gained weight since I last saw you" (a complement in the CF world). I tell her I have lost some weight and the she should of seen me a few weeks ago. I was a real porker then. We then discuss a few medical points and she tells me she thinks the visit should be straightforward. I'll get some IVs and physio and be on my merry way. I ask about my blood work and they say it is not back yet, so we don't know what the CLP number (measures amount of infection) is, but the consultant guesses between 60 and 70. Anything over 10 is considered infection. Later I find out that it is 39. This is neither the highest or lowest number I have ever had.

A nurse comes and gives me my first IV. I am worried it will hurt because I only have in a short line and the meds I take are very corrosive and can sting sometimes. It stings a little but all in all it goes OK .

Alastair sets up my internet and unpacks some of my machines for me. Time has passed and he needs to go home. This is always the worst part of my day. I want to go home with him. I don't want to be here with all the beeping and clanging, sleeping in a bed that is not my own with horrible pillows.

Hours pass and I email, Skype and watch telly to pass the time. Around 11, the nurse comes back with another dose. I watch True Blood for the first time and then a drama about the war in Iraq. I have been been wanting to see this but I can't really turn it up loud enough to hear and can't really understand what is going on.

I work on typing this and before I know it 1 am has come and gone. I get ready for bed and wait for day 2 to arrive.