UPDATE: The MESS in the NHS?

Season 1 Revisited

The NHS and me have had another run-in. You may wish to bone-up on the background, if so read http://jonelkon.com/nhs-crisis-what-crisis-this-one/

If not, don’t bother. Like a box-set, the story is easy enough to pick up from Season 2. (They never tell you that! Try Mozart in the Jungle. You can start anywhere and you’ll still be confused.) If you have read that blog, skip the next paragraph.

In Season one (“The Story This Far:” in a deep and sensual American voice, brimming with the promise of a very large penis) I had a horrible gall-bladder attack in the wilds of Seattle where my confused medical professor brother managed initially to misdiagnose me, then reluctantly take me to ER. THEN the Americans diagnosed gallstones with the help of a multiple array of expensive and mostly redundant tests. My Insurance Company bless them refused to pay for an operation in the US but promised to pay to get me “repatriated” to the UK so the NHS could pick up the bill. I was duly repatriated and operated on at Hammersmith Hospital where they nearly killed me with an excess of drugs. It was lovely. I spent the next few months recovering and suing the insurers for the repayment of the expensive change of air tickets.

NEXT, a few days after the operation, major pain invasion. A brigade of pain. A regiment of pain. An army pain. With all its weapons firing right inside my stomach. Charing Cross Hospital, by ambulance. Lots of painkillers, a few investigations. No diagnosis. No treatment. Discharged when the pain became befuddled by drugs and retreated in what turned out to be a mere ceasefire. DO read Season 1; it really is quite witty.

Season 2: The Day Before Yesterday.

Scene 1

Ok, you’re now ready for Season 2. Opening sequence: Starbucks, Soho interior. ELKON in conversation with GAVIN, a movie director, discussing Tube Surf, their upcoming short film, and an idea for a feature. Enter PAIN, L. PAIN at this stage is a short, pale insignificant creature dressed in army camouflage. As the two men get into a passionate discussion on the script, PAIN winks to the camera and climbs into ELKON’S stomach.

At first his presence is not noticed but as time passes we realise that he is growing inside his host. ELKON’s face begins to show evidence of twinges of passing discomfort.

GAVIN: What’s the matter?

ELKON: I don’t know. Pain I suppose. In my stomach. It reminds me of something….

Their meeting continues. It is obvious that the script excites them both, and several times they leap up and down with delight…

The scene changes to a Mexican Restaurant, where the pair are discussing the idea for a feature film. All this time, PAIN which is now firmly ensconced in the ELKON stomach, is growing, breeding, expanding. Until Elkon says, “It’s no good Gavman. I have to go home.”

Scene 3: A District Line train, night. ELKON, seated in the carriage, is obviously suffering a great deal. Inside his stomach, PAIN has replicated itself so from having been a soldier, it has become a platoon; from a platoon, it has grown to a regiment. And from a regiment, to an Army.

ELKON stands, shaking with agony. Immediately two SAMARITANS, a man and a woman, rush over.

MAN: Are you alright?

ELKON: No.

WOMAN: Come, let’s help you off.

The train has come to a stop at Baron’s Court. Between them the man and the woman half-carry Elkon out to a platform.

MAN: Should I do it?

WOMAN: Yes please.

They help Elkon to a bench, while the man dials 999. Damn. I’ve always wanted to do that.

MAN: They say two hours.

ELKON and WOMAN: (Chorus) Oh no!

MAN: Leave it to me.

He does some magical dialling and muttering. Within five minutes a paramedic appears.

*

What an amazing couple of people. They didn’t know each-other, but both immediately knew that someone was in distress and both leapt to be of assistance at almost the same time. The man: about thirties, very smartly dressed, probably Middle-Eastern origin, the sort of person with contacts for everything with everyone. A Sorter. The woman: twenties, blonde, very perky, smart. Doing an Internship with a famous fashion house. Formerly an actor, currently a lover of Opera. Which gave us a subject of conversation to divert me from the Army at war in my innards.

Fine people. If I was Satan, or Prostetnic Vogon Jelz, the existence of these two people would be an adequate reason not to destroy the planet.

*

Then came the Hospital experience. I have written extensively about A & E at Charing Cross before and have no intention of repeating the scene, except to say it was worse than before. And before was a few months ago. I waited about 6 hours before I had moderately effective pain relief. I was finally admitted to a ward at 6am with the words, “You are going to spend the night…” What night! The night was over!

Just a couple of vignettes from a&e:

Large youngish woman, somewhat overweight, fairly well-dressed, blind, probably non-verbal too. Falling off her chair. Not once, several times. Being guided ineffectually by a harassed unkind Phillipina into a treatment room, only other patients yelling “get a wheelchair” preventing a further fall.

Another: An incredibly slim, beautiful, gentle young woman wearing a bikini top to show the range of tattoos on back and midriff. She is placed on a bed under the watchful eyes of two policemen. A curtain is drawn around the bed, a doctor attends. Every word can be heard through the curtain, and we realise that she has done something awful and is there for an Assessment. We hear her describe three suicide attempts. We hear the doctor endlessly asking for aspects of her medical history. He has no idea whatsoever of how to treat people with mental disorders. Eventually she says, “I’ve had enough! Do you realise you’ve been talking to me for fifteen minutes asking me stupid questions, and you haven’t even used my name ONCE!”

*

So I stayed “the night”. Was given 5mg morphine, no effect. Paracetamol, codeine, every damn thing. Eventually by the next evening (yesterday) the pain was under some control and they discharged me.

NO diagnosis. NO actual treatment. NO idea.

The staff, I have to say – especially in the Ward, were so lovely and kind and funny and loud (not good when trying to sleep). The Consultant was an old-school gentleman, straight out of an Ealing comedy.

BUT NO diagnosis. NO actual treatment. NO idea.

What do I do now? Frankly dears if that pain returns xxxxxxxx (deleted). Look: I’m a third dan in karate, 4th in Bushido. ~I’m tough. But that pain is tougher. Too tough. I will go to the GP tomorrow and demand a meeting with the surgical team at the Hammersmith. I must have an answer and some treatment at least.

Hello! How has your day been?