HEALTH: To people who are never ill, hospitals are as unreal as a TV soaps. They are on the map but have no real relevance. But as Glyn Strong discovered when she found herself admitted for emergency surgery, they have an inner life of their own . . . and it’s not at all like Holby City! When you are you really are OFF THE GRID

A FEW weeks ago I left my London flat to go to a meeting.

I never got there.

Five days later I was home, with a scar, a large dressing on my abdomen and a strong feeling of dislocation. Things looked the same, but they were not. I had been somewhere – mentally, physically and spiritually. I had been ‘off the grid’.

I’m not special; just spectacularly lucky. A single, middle-aged woman with friends, a reasonable income, a rewarding life and all her own teeth. I’m a slim, fit, vegetarian with good eyesight. I swim, travel, write, make films – and generally behave much as I did 30 years ago. The fact that my body has generously allowed me to do this without retaliating is an arrangement I have never questioned.

Then, about a year ago I began to feel unwell. Not ‘ill’ – but definitely ‘not well’. The symptoms were vague; headaches, constipation, bloating, sickness, nausea, lower backache and an occasional burning sensation in my upper abdomen.

I don’t smoke, but like many of my friends am in routine denial about ‘units of alcohol consumed’ so addressing this was my first move. My second was a visit – the first of many – to my GP. During the months that followed I was prescribed medication; proton-pump inhibitors to control production of gastric acid; antibiotics for infections; fluoxetine for stress/depression and paracetamol for pain. Eventually I was sent for an endoscopy.

Fear of this procedure haunted me for weeks. I have worked in war zones, which fazed me less. Sadly it revealed nothing that would explain my symptoms – and probably reinforced the GP’s suspicion that my malaise was nothing more than textbook hypochondria.

The slow erosion of ‘wellbeing’ is hard to describe; like some vital essence quietly draining away. I moved more slowly, I felt sluggish, fuddled, depressed. I slept a lot.

After my last trip to Afghanistan in June (during which I enjoyed an unexpected respite from these symptoms) I turned to Dr Google. At least he didn’t turn a baleful eye and ask if I was worrying about anything . . . but the internet is a fickle friend when it comes to self diagnosis and I was not attracted to what I was finding; a range of choices from appendicitis to bowel cancer.

So I struggled on, convinced that maybe my (very real) symptoms were perhaps no more sinister than indigestion.

But if the medical fraternity was losing interest in me, my friends were not. A collective chorus of indignation, and a bout of sickness that kept me bedridden for a week, prompted my return to the GP’s waiting room. Although the diagnosis was yet another ‘mystery tummy bug’ she ordered blood tests. Weeks passed. I felt a little better – and then the sudden, cramp like pains began. This time it hurt to walk and I became aware of a localised tenderness on the right of my lower abdomen. All the usual suspects arrived – constipation, bloating, nausea, burning pain, headache, backache, sickness – and I resolved, once more, to brave the surgery . . . if only to collect my latest set of test results.

The fact that they were ‘clear’ and described a person in rude health did not auger well for my announcement that I was once more ‘UN-well’. After a brief abdominal examination my GP looked at the clock; already I was trespassing on the next patient’s time.

We had the exchange: The one that goes “Well – what do you want me to do?” followed by “Well – I don’t know, you’re the doctor!”

We locked eyes. I gripped my bag ready to leave. She sighed. “I can book you a scan . . . but that will take 8 to 12 weeks. Or I can send you to A&E.” Apologetic for presenting so many unsatisfactory symptoms I was about to accept the CT scan offer and limp back to work with my ‘hypochondria’ when the doctor made a sudden decision and picked up the phone.

It was a defining moment. Ten minutes later I was in a taxi en route to A&E; 48 hours later I was recovering from emergency surgery.

The time between leaving home on foot for my GP’s appointment and coming home by car five days later was like a trip to another country – one without visible borders, but alien nonetheless.

Already, like the neat pink line on my stomach, the memory is fading, but I will never pass a hospital again without a fleeting flashback to those five lost days! The speed with which I lost my identity when detached from all that was familiar still astounds me.

The ‘this can’t be happening to me’ monologue was a constant accompaniment. It began when I was tagged, debagged and tested in A&E. Our clothing defines us. I arrived in tight black jeans, a figure hugging lycra top and a scarf: I left for X-Ray wearing an androgynous floral gown, a wristband and a canula; what was left of ‘me’ stuffed into a plastic Tesco bag that the triage nurse supplied.

For 48 hours I was Nil by Mouth in anticipation of surgery that was postponed again and again. My reprieves both came in the evening when sympathetic nurses advised me that ‘food had finished’. A slice of white bread and a yogurt scavenged from who knows where or whom kept me going for two days. Only later did I recall that a friend had brought me crisps and biscuits that had disappeared into the depths of a temporarily assigned bedside locker.

This was not familiar territory. I had much to learn.

Large London hospitals feature a lot of waiting. This process involves shepherds and sheep. Sheep far outnumber shepherds and can be identified by their haunted faces, glazed eyes and the flapping floral tunics that reveal their bottoms. Sheep are often cold (it is de rigueur for these tunics to have at least one tie missing making it impossible to secure closure or decency) and uncomfortable. Discomfort is exacerbated by the provision of hard metal chairs whose construction guarantees nothing but striated rumps for those forced to occupy them long term

Sheep loiter aimlessly but rarely stray further than the nearest WC or coffee machine. Those in obvious pain or discomfort are absorbed in their own distress. Some moan, vomit or chat to their police minders. (Yes, one of the flock did sport an ankle tag and a pair of handcuffs). Others play obsessively with mobile phones, sharing details of their domestic lives with all who care (or don’t care) to listen.

Example: “I told you, I’m in A&E; I can’t feed the f*****g cat. Where the bloody ‘ell are you anyway? So who’s gonna pick the kids up from school? Not your mother that’s for sure!”

Shepherds on the other hand wear ID cards, reveal no embarrassing areas of anatomy, and move purposefully and with authority. They greet one another with bonhomie and are a great source of information about other members of staff.

Example (Porter on junior doctor): “You know what he called me? He called me ‘pondlife’. That wasn’t very nice was it. Stuck up git. Swannin round here like he’s somebody. He’ll get his eventually. I was upset, like. Know what I mean?”

 My first stint in the waiting pen had enabled me to identify both ‘pondlife’ and ‘git’ which made the subsequent conversation much more meaningful.

I made a brief kindred connection (‘Chest Pains’) after initial processing from A&E but we were soon separated. (Hey CP – good luck with the photography course by the way! Hope you made it!)

The hours passed slowly. When my turn came to be examined my morale was low. When the doctor who first examined me had finished, it was even lower.

Junior doctors are, in the main, YOUNG. Women over 40 are OLD. Women of my age are INVISIBLE. There was some reluctance to accept that I was on no medication, had no allergies or ‘conditions’ and had never had surgery. My given name has never been used so failure to respond to it with due alacrity was seen as evidence of confusion and I was provided with a second wristband.

While doctors A and B argued sotto voce about whether ‘it’ was, or was not, appendicitis I began to fantasise about food. So did my already rioting stomach until a further discussion ensued about whether to send me for an ultrasound or a CT scan.

Example: “Because of the radiation we don’t usually send younger people for CT scans, but they do reveal more than the ultrasound. I think we’ll send you for a CT . . . ”

In the event I got no further than a holding ward that night, following an (unexpected) ultrasound that confirmed ‘a large swollen mass’ around my appendix area and a definite requirement for surgery. “Although you are rather OLD for appendicitis!” I was told by the technician.

 Safely installed in bed the processing began. I was weighed, asked to answer questions about my sexual orientation and other presumably vital information. Blood pressure was taken and a thermometer inserted . . . in my ear. This was soon followed by squeals of disbelief. “No, no this can’t be, you have a fever – 98.6 – you are burning . . . ?”

I would have explained that this was not spontaneous combustion but what used to be called ‘normal’ back in the days of pre-decimal currency and Fahrenheit thermometers, but my frightened carer was long gone in search of help.

Caught without reading material or laptop my only connection to the ‘real’ world was my iPhone. I watched anxiously as its battery life leached away. My wardmates were either ill or locked into daytime TV; the nursing staff were busy with the intricacies of their lottery syndicate and as news of my surprise incarceration spread the communication situation became more parlous. Every text or email I received required a reply; failure to reassure might lead to panic, Chinese whispers about my death – or even worse, VISITORS!

Now don’t misunderstand me – some visitors played a blinder; brought necessities like toothpaste, wets wipes and books – but I was unwell and in no mood to be sociable. I was also reluctant to be seen in my unflattering grey DVT stockings, monster theatre-gown and paper slippers, but that’s another story . . .

Pain killers and anti-nauseants were offered at regular intervals (in lieu of food perhaps?) but I needed a clear head. Between working ‘virtually’ on my dying phone and tying to make contingency plans for delivery of new bathroom furniture ahead of the arrival of my Polish plumber there was no time to do ‘grape gratitude’ or repeated explanations of how I had got there.

Eventually, like the Stasi, ‘they’ came for me – in the middle of the night. At 2.am a green-gowned figure appeared at the end if my bed. “Number 19?” he intoned. “Prepare yourself. It’s time.”

Prepare myself? As he disappeared down the corridor a nurse appeared and I timidly asked what was required. “Shall I take my knickers off?” I ventured innocently. The look of horror on her face still haunts me. “Of course not!”

My last memory as I was wheeled down to theatre was the sound of my own whimpering as the iPhone that was welded to my palm was removed. Happily I was reunited with it in the recovery room.

As for my Calvin Klein panties? I never saw them again.

Now this is the bit where things should have got better. I was in no real pain; I could smell food the offending appendix had been dealt and I would soon be able to go home. In fact it was some time before I saw a doctor – two females in fact. A hearty Anglo Saxon blonde and a gentle F1 wearing a hijab. I never again met the man who had performed the surgery, or the consultant whose team he was part of. (Another TV myth exploded!)

Aided by a cartoon of a balloon and a wiggly worm the senior of the two junior doctors indicated what had been removed; not just my rotten appendix but a chunk of infected bowel. And no, it wasn’t all over because bowel cancer was still a strong possibility. “This was not a routine appendectomy”

Oh Dr Google . . . if only I’d heeded you!)

When I left the hospital I was still in limbo. Biopsy results took two, three, four . . . weeks. The kindly FI offered to call me at home if they came in any earlier and the news was good, but I had already figured out that this was a dubious strategy. If they came in and the news was bad presumably she wouldn’t call me?

These post op days were leaden. I go out of bed as soon as I could; ate all the ‘soft food’ I was allowed to and drank a lot of water. Posters of ‘Mr C. Difficile’ and ‘Mr MRSA’ reminded one and all to wash their hands. Focused only on escape I was more assiduous than Lady Macbeth in this respect.

The visitors were good value. Not mine so much as those of my neighbours who played out the dynamics of family discord with more dramatic flourish than the cast of East Enders. But underlying it all was fear. Fear that my ‘real life’, outside this place – where nurses arrived and departed with military precision, ‘lights out’ put us to sleep like parrots having their cages covered, and the highlight of the day was the arrival of food – had gone for good.

Pleading and good behaviour got my sentence commuted and I was allowed to leave a day early. I was given a small carrier bag filled with medication and a letter for my GP explaining that she had to ensure ‘my clips were removed’ in a few days time. Having already taken a sneak preview of my ‘wound’ and seen that there were none I was intrigued by this, but loath to do anything to delay my escape.

So – minus some organs, my favourite knickers and (I was later to discover) my phone charger, I ventured back into the world. It was rush hour. As we drove towards Tower Hill I realised how hot and quiet it had been in the hospital.

In the days that followed two things happened. My concierge and Polish plumber got used to the sight of me in some very dodgy pyjamas – and my GP rang. The biopsy result had come back early.

It was clear.

ENDS