Posts Tagged ‘Hospital’

Hospital and an Oxycodone led recovery.

February 28, 2017

 

 

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You know how it is. The days have been reasonable. A blissful uneventful period of stability and quiet confidence. Normality is stable as it is supposed to be. The only spoke was a return to a backache. The last time I had this was in November the 9th, 2015. The date of a packet of six pain killer tablets told me so.  I had four left. Over the last few days I took 3 of those and thought it prudent to go to the local public hospital to get another few of those tablets. They really helped last time. I kept this last tablet up my sleeve in case the pain became so bad that walking to the hospital would be out of the question.

We live almost next to not one but two hospitals. One is public, and abutted to it, and part of it is a private hospital. The difference is that the public one is a bit add hoc with all sorts of strange additions cemented on to the original one. It can be a bit of a challenge at first to find ‘Emergency’. Someone has thought of gluing down plastic feet guiding patients to the different sections. There are confusing ramps and doors held open by bricks.

The private hospital is simple, modern and has no odd additions. The brickwork is tuck pointed and there is an outdoor café with a healthy Coke  sandwich- board on the pavement. Each hospital have their own parking allotments. The public has Ford trucks, Holden utes and Toyota panel vans. The private have Audis and Mercedes, and whiffs of perfumes and polished shoes.

After showering I took myself to the hospital. It was 11 o’clock and the sky overcast. It had rained but the birds were happy. Lots of screeching white cockatoos. Within minutes triage nurse had taken my particulars including pulse and history. I proudly showed my packet holding still the one Oxycodone tablet dating to 2015. No drug addict here.

‘Please take seat back in the waiting room’, she said, smiling. ‘Doctor will see you SOON.’ The waiting room just had a young girl holding up her hand with her spare hand. Her palm had a bandage. After waiting for two hours I noticed that in the office opposite where I was sitting, there was a coming and going of many nurses. There was a lot of jollity and loud positive laughter.

However, sitting for such a long time took its toll. Previously I would be in and out within an hour. Two hours and just one girl? I went into a convivial and accommodating mood. It must be a few severe cases of ambulances bringing in terminally damaged patients, I thought. Doctors are flat out dealing with damaged ones. What is a backache compared with smashed head and broken bones? Normality doesn’t live in the Casualty departments of hospitals.

After almost three hours I was finally seen to. One of the jolly and laughing nurses asked again the extent of my injuries. She did notice my awkwardness in getting off the chair and limping behind her to yet another chair. I’ll fix you up first she said, and left. She came back with a poly styrene cup with water and a smaller clear plastic cup holding a variety of different shaped tables. I rummaged around the tablets trying to understand what I was supposed to do. ‘Which one do you want me to take?’ There were at least 15 tablets. ‘Take the lot,’ she commanded. ‘What, the lot?’ ‘Yes, she said, they are Nurovan, Panadol, Hedanol, Paracetamol, and some others, take the lot.’ I had trouble fitting them all in my mouth. May I chew them, I mumbled politely?’  ‘Yes, chew them, she said.’ Was this my lunch?

I was so amazed. I felt like leaving a tip. Nurse left after telling me she was going to see doctor for a prescription for the more stronger pain killer. She assured me I would soon be feeling better. I assumed they would be the Oxycodone, as before. But, who should walk in but Helvi, my wife. I thought I was seeing an angel. Turns out she got worried. There was no one in the waiting room. She asked the staff where a Mr Oosterman might be. She was taken to her husband. By the time she got to me all pain had floated and I was flying. I managed to tell her about the cupful of tablets. Almost asked her for a dance.

She too was amazed.

Getting down to Earth

February 2, 2017

img_1059the-heat

With the heat of the last few days in retreat, I’ll try and revive a few more words. Words tend to wilt with anything over 26c. If not wilt, melt. Like butterfly into buterfy or wedding into bedding. Letters faint, drop off. In the meantime. Let me recall some of the last few days. Of course, the minimum requirements during heat are plenty of electric fans. The double glazing is fine when the nights cool off. Eventually everything gets hot and an itchiness develops to just survive breathing in and out.

One of the advantages of large shopping malls or even small ones is that they are air-conditioned. Dire warnings for elderly to stay well hydrated, avoid sun sugar seek shelter, stay calm. It wasn’t helped reading more people die of heat than drownings. We sought refuge in Aldi, just sauntering around the oranges and broccolini. It is amazing though that the the big ones such as Woolworth and Coles that advertise on the Telly, are losing custom. You won’t see Aldi on TV. Yet Aldi is taking away shoppers in droves from the big supermarkets. It are the Mercedes and BMW’s that now glide in and out of Aldi’s parking stations.

Svelte bouffant blonde ladies carefully going over the specials, bending over sweet potatoes, fingering the carrots that one is likely to encounter at Aldi now. Men in Country Road shirts, camouflaged shorts with many pockets lingering around the tool section, contemplating sets of spanners or paper shredders. It is so relaxing. An escape from heat. I wonder if taking a couple of easy fold-out chairs into the air-conditioned splendour of Aldi would be objected to? I mean a couple of oldies just taking it easy?

During one hot night. I took to extremes. A fold-out bed under the fan. Desperate measure.  The fold-out bed is about twenty centimetres above floor level. Pretty handy, I thought. A bit like going back to my camping days. But, again for each progressive move forward, a punitive counter move. With the much lower centre of gravity I could not get up when a call of nature beckoned. Let me tell you. Getting older is in direct proportion to toilet breaks. The less years ahead the more toilet breaks are engaged in. After a few attempts in trying to get up by using available leverage I found out my limitations.  Sitting up was achieved but not actually standing up. I felt helpless. I needed nurse. I considered just letting it just flow all out. Who cares?

The mind gets active in emergencies. I thought that if I rolled out onto the floor first I might just be able to get up by the help of the coffee table next to the bed. I managed to do just that. I first dropped my feet on the floor, followed by legs, than my torso, chest accompanied by neck and attached head. I rolled over and by arching my knees managed to get enough off myself  from the tiled floor to reach the top of the coffee table. The rest was easily managed. I felt so proud. Almost did a Tarzan’s jungle call but thought it would alarm Helvi. She slept well elevated above ground level in our communal bed. I went to the toilet triumphantly.

Another handy hint during the present heat-wave is for the elderly to seek shelter in the local hospital. We are living right next to not one but two hospitals.  A public hospital and a private one. The Public hospital use blue-tack and sticky -tape while the Private hospital  gives you a free pen to sign over your wallet.  One could just find some excuse or ailment and take a comfy chair in the emergency department. They often have lots of magazines. Many waiting patients can be engaged with comparing levels of ailments or the latest government pension cut backs. The wait for triage nurse always a thing to look forward to. Her soft caring hands wrapping the different bodily measurements equipment around your arms. I tell you, it is not a bad option.

Think about it!

The ducks know: Bin liners rarely match kitchen tidies.

November 22, 2015
The flooded creek

The flooded creek

In five weeks time it will all be over folks. Don’t give in now. I know, I know, the running of the Christmas shoppers has started early this year. Santas are already in short supply. Some are now being lured away by Captains of Cash Registers (CCR’s) from underneath bridges and wheelie bins. I already noticed an abandoned trolley. Its owner sobbing (inconsolably) nearby. Her tears wetting the grass but some ducks were consoling her. Ducks are good at that. You can tell by their kind eyes. They always seem to be saying “It is never too late to reform”, repent, all will come good.”

There is hope growing eternally, especially along our creek at the back of our house. Each year and few weeks prior to Christmas, more and more elderly but still in revolutionary spirits, are to be found fondly looking into reflections of the creek’s water bubbling demurely over reeds and rushes. Some have, very wisely, taken the grandkids, to partake in the simple act of feeding wise ducks. For those with insight into the real spirit of Christmas it is the only thing left to do. Seek an answer in duck’s eyes and listen to flowing waters. Give generously to ducks.

We know the pull of materialism is strong and overwhelming. Most succumb to drop-dead shopping-malls, only to be taken by howling ambulance to hospital and hoisted into emergency beds, still warm from  previous shoppers still with laden trolley’s frozen turkeys oozing bags of Violent crumble and 2 kilos of acidly sweetened jute bags of Mars Bars. Jingle bells, jingle bells!

We are almost ready to go for our daily walk and meet up with the elderly but true believers at the creek. I know the ducks will be waiting and Milo is respectful, even considerate, seeing we are feeding the ducks food that he normally would receive. Good Boy!

We had a bad fish yesterday. The kitchen still smells even though I cooked the fish on the Webber outside. It wasn’t a good meal. The sauce was far too spicy. I had bought a jar of Sambal Oelek and even half a tea-spoon proved too much. Fortunately Helvi had also opened a jar of Hak’s sweet red cabbage that somehow diluted the chilli taste. Sundays are not good for fish buying. I should have known. Since buying the fish cook book I seem to want to try out recipes. Why are the pictures of food books so alluring? We ended up squabbling because the meal was almost inedible. Yet, the intention was so noble and good.

This morning I discovered the reason for the fish smell. The foil that the fish was baked in was doing its stinking job in the kitchen tidy. I had once again bought a large roll of those plastic tidy bags that never seem to fit the tidy. Either too big, too small or without handles. We even bought a large roll and then went shopping for the tidy so that both would match. Alas, even though they were matched, the bags did not have handles allowing it to be tightened into a bag without any spillage on the floor. The bags just had four flaps that somehow hung listlessly over the edge of the kitchen tidy. It is quite an art to then lift it out of its tidy without a nervous break-down.

We need the ducks this morning. They know and understand!

 

 

A Finger’s journey and our garden.

October 10, 2015
Can it get any better?

Can it get any better?

We are going to the Eco village in Queensland for a week or so. There is an air of High Excitement. Milo will be taken to the ‘ Doggy-Hotel’ of which he is as yet unaware. There are no pets allowed where we are going.

I do hope to be able to use my lap-top but no guarantee, especially not since a finger packed it in.

The finger

The finger

The doctor reckoned it would just ‘go away’ after a couple of days. It would ‘drain itself’, but it did not. I took myself to emergency at the local hospital. Here is my finger at the hospital.

Finger at hospital

Finger at hospital

Within minutes I was taken in and after a few medical inquiries was whipped onto a bed. I asked if I could take my shoes off but that wasn’t necessary. Here I am on the stretcher and you can see my RM William boots at the end of the bed. I was given local anaesthetics  on both sides of the crook finger. I am fine now with the finger having been drained.

Finger seconds before being cut open. Notice my RM Williams!

Finger seconds before being cut open. Notice my RM Williams!

I just felt like balancing this piece by giving you a look at what Helvi has achieved in the garden. It has never been more beautiful.

The garden from inside.

The garden from inside.

Notice Milo tucking into his food.

Just glorious.

Just glorious.

This life of camping out. ( Autobiography)

August 31, 2015

The moving about, even just in the mind can be unsettling. Ten days in Bali, ok, let’s move there. Two days at the Eco-village in Queensland, lets go! No wonder my Helvi is getting nervous. “You will still take your own with you. The black curmudgeon sits on your shoulder night and day”, she says.  “People know that,  they can see it,”  is added for extra impact.  The dream of living in like-wise communities is what plagued me since birth.  And that’s how it goes. The attraction of living somewhere were low impact on nature is shared within a community, does pull. That’s apart from the bonus of a ban on fences, especially colour-bond fences, and  electricity burning air conditioning.

It is true that the social skills of easy laughter and merrymaking in company of others is wanting. A demeanour of a seriously looking  man exudes around, and leaps in front like a warning, well before actually meeting.  It can’t be helped, even when wearing my partial dentures.  However, lately I do go around smiling more which helps, but only in combination when walking with our Jack Russell ‘Milo’. I got a smile back last Tuesday at Aldi’s tying up Milo at the trolley bay. I saw her again inside the shop as she was bending over the carrots next to the capsicums. My H is the opposite. She has a Mona Lisa smile. It comes naturally. She feels the smile. People often talk to her which I envy. She draws in people. I seem to repel but am working on it. It is never too late and I can still climb stairs two steps at a time. That has to be worth something.

With the autobiography or memoirs if you prefer, it seems to have stalled. The moving about has rippled into the consciousness of everyday living. The living in a town- house  of seven others in the compound is magnifying the stark differences between communal design and the exclusive or excluding design where privacy dominates.  People might peer from behind the blinds. Perhaps not even that! A garage door rolls up but the owner is already in the car. We can’t see him as he drives off.

In Eco-village last week we saw people moving about inside their houses. There was proof of life. Some were working in the garden. Children were running about. Kangaroos were lulling about sunning themselves on grass with the black water-hens picking morsels out of the compost bins. A man with binoculars was trying to spot birds. He had lost his wife some time back but he had not given up. He recorded all birds and had bought cameras to photograph whatever he felt like photographing. He was happy.

You know that at the age of over seventy five, the egg-timer is slowly running out of sand. One is not totally without optimism. My mother was 96 when she quit. A good omen. Dad smoked but enjoyed it till the end. At his funeral and going back afterwards, my mum cleaned for the last time his ashtray. He was still alive the day before and drove his car. He hated hospitals and going to the doctor.  No sooner when he was taken to a hospital, he died. He died at 78 but not because of smoking. So all up. If we split the difference, ( one has to be fair) it would allow another ten years before the egg-timer would run out of sand.

I would be happy with that. So much still to smile about.

Emergency Hospital; Give me your Sample, please!

January 3, 2013

cardiff-skate-park

Emergency Hospital; “Give me your sample in this jar, please”…

Getting old is not half as painful as knowing to have been young. The boy on his skate board turns and swivels in mid air and manically loop de loops and survives smiling. After seventy though, a slightly twisted wrong move to pick up a pepper-cracker and some Stilton cheese from the oak coffee table can result next day in a visit to the Hospital’s Emergency Department. That’s what it means to get old.  Ah youth, I remember it so well.

The Triage nurse takes temperature, blood pressure; both Systolic and Diastolic are just fine, with both eye and verbal response pretty well orientated. “Oh fuck, my back, my back.” I can’t sit down, oh, oh fuck, dear fuck.

“You could have a kidney mall function,” the smiling triage nurse announced optimistically and looked deep into my troubled eyes, while handing me a little jar. It had a yellow lid and I became instantly suspicious. “No, not here,” she said. “Give me your urine sample, please, I’ll show you were.” She took me to a toilet and left me closing the door behind her. I somehow thought the word ‘please’ added a rather nice touch to the hospital visit. It took my mind of the pain which was on the left side of my middle back. I peed (carefully) in the little jar and tightened the lid firmly. I did not want any embarrassing leakages back with nurse. I finished the rest (copiously) in the toilet bowl

There is nothing like a hospital visit to get things in perspective. I thought it rather wonderful and uplifting I could still pee in a jar on demand. ‘Things are not that crook,’ consoling myself. I confirmed that during my entire life the ability to direct a stream of piss had never once faltered. Perhaps, from now on, I should take nothing for granted anymore. Stop being so cocky, heaven knows how much longer that directional skill and ability will survive? Some women are jealous of us men.

After handing the still warm jar back to the nurse, she guided me back to the waiting room, “doctor will see you soon,” she added still smiling. The waiting room had only five waiting for treatment, two women with bandaged feet, a couple of large men in thongs and shorts and a very pale looking man with a cap on and wearing very tight dark jeans. He looked tense and was biting a ball point pen. He had a certain mien about him. He had seen better days.

In Hospital Emergency they have tightened security. Since I was there last with a bout of pneumonia, instead of an open window for the new patients to pass their health or pension cards through, they now installed a very narrow opening of just about 7 centimeters…Heaven knows, with crack-ice and all those new lethal meth- drug mixtures what kind of maniacal people front up at the front desk. You would have to admire staff for putting up with so much stress caused by chemicals and people gone haywire. The days of people with ingrown corns, a broken arm or a bit of a pulled muscle at casualty have turned into glassing, knifings, cut off ear lobes, and other horrors of abject violence fanned by drugs and booze. No wonder one sees some staff sitting outside puffing a well earned ciggie. Lucky, I was early and the knifings had not yet started.

A doctor with an Indian name saw me after the ‘sample’ was analyzed. No, kidneys were not the problem he assured me. He left again and after a long period came back with an envelope and a prescription for Panadeine forte. I expected at least an x-ray or some kind of examination. The envelope contained a referral to my own doctor. I was referred to as having a ‘back muscle’ problem. I walked out past the Emergency waiting room which still had the pale man and the two large men waiting for something to happen. I wondered what sort of lives those people all had. I suppose they all have ‘sorts of lives’. Just like all of us.

I hobbled home just around the corner and past the skate board riders, some in mid air. Boundless energy and acrobatic youthfulness. A couple of girls were hanging around sipping from plastic bottles. Some boys reached newer heights somersaulting on bikes as well as skateboards. All biding time. They too will visit Emergency Hospital, sooner or later.

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