Archive for October, 2008

There is a character in Catch 22 who lies in the field hospital, bandaged from head to foot, with a drip feed bag going into his body and a drain out of his body emptying into another bag. When the feed bag is empty and the waste bag is full, an orderly swaps the two bags.

Perhaps fortunately, I was not provided with a closed-loop system. A bag of fluid drained into my arm, and when it was empty they loaded a new one. There appeared to be no variety in this type of food supply. I did ask the nurse if they offered smokey bacon flavoured drip feed, but it appeared to be off the menu.

Anyway, all this fluid going in had to find a way out eventually and, upon request, I was furnished with a pee pee bottle which enabled me, with only minimal splashing, to empty my bladder and present the nurse with a pleasantly warm offering of fluid to do with as she pleased.

The poo poo disposal system was less clear. For the first couple of days it was not even an issue, but I eventually started nibbling at the consistently awful food and it was only a matter of time before poo poo was going to be on the agenda. Some delicate questioning seemed to indicate that the solution was going to be that they would spread a large plastic sheet on the bed, let me do my worst, and then scoop up the resulting mess as best they could. This is not a solution that appealed to an English gentleman like myself, neither did another option which was codenamed “big nappy”.

I decided to face up to this challenge in the same way as I face most challenges; I avoid them. I steadfastly refused to consider any bodily requests for poo poo. If I held out long enough I could be discharged from hospital and safely home to the sanctity of my own loo before having to take evacuating action. This plan backfired spectacularly on the fourth day when I was given a ghastly tasting drink to consume along with my normal medication. “What’s that for”, I enquired innocently? “No poo poo, so laxative”, said the nurse with a look of relief in her eyes given that her shift was about to end and she would not be around for the inevitable explosion. Oh dear.

The disturbances started around 0100, and by 0200 the air was ripe with flatulence and the rumble of a digestive system priming itself to explode. I had visions of a scene from a horror movie, except instead of blood, the walls and ceiling would be splattered with poo poo, while brave nurses struggled to hold back a noxious tide.

By 0400, the Vesuvius of my bum was ready to erupt and I could wait no more; I pressed the call button and explained that poo poo was imminent. I was immediately scooped out of bed and half carried to the toilet where I spent a most satisfying twenty minutes. If they had told me about this option from the start we could have dispensed with the laxatives.

Hospital life, not as much fun as you thought.

Never been in an intensive care unit, but I imagined them to be quiet, clinical places with blinking lights, sober-faced doctors with clip boards and an atmosphere of professional intensity. Not in Thailand.

A central area contains a fluxing morass of personnel who appear to be indulging in a continual party involving the extensive use of handphones and much giggling. Radiating around the central area are the ICU rooms, where those who need intensive care, including me apparently, attempt to rest. Not easy.

Apart from the ICU party going on outside the room, we are treated to regular visits from nurses to check various vital signs. Every couple of hours a cleaner arrives to mop the floor, just in case I have managed to make it dirty. My room features the added attraction of a store cupboard which needs to be accessed every few minutes, presumably it contains ICU party supplies, and a lower shelf houses a stack of periodicals which might be copies of The Lancet but looks from a distance to be a collection of gay porn.

I was expecting to be provided with an electronic button to press should I need immediate assistance, standard issue at every hospital. Not here. Instead they flourish a tiny plastic bell on a piece of string, presumably ejected from a cracker at the party, tie it to my bed, and tell me to “ring it if you need a pee-pee”. Presumably the logic was that I was sufficiently wired up to machines that would sound an alert if my heart stopped beating; but when it comes to announcing when you need to piss, there is no substitute for human interaction with a small plastic bell.

It is therefore of some considerable relief, from both a medical and need to sleep standpoint, that I am released from the ICU after one night and placed in a room with lovely sea views which I can’t see cos I am flat on my back. And it had a proper bell to push for assistance.

To be continued…

One usually careful owner, never raced or rallied, minor scratches and traces of blood on the upholstery.

No reasonable offer refused.

Rain almost every day. Today the storms came from the land and washed across the optimistic building sites on the north side of Pattaya bay.

In her earlier days, she who must be obeyed was a bit of a party animal (or so it would appear from the occasional stories she tells me, which I am sure have already been heavily censored). But years of the crushing boredom associated with living with me have worn her down. She doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks, and her favourite post-work occupation is curling up on the sofa in front of the TV. Naturally, I would rather be out on the town, laying down some extreme dance steps, indulging in a variety of barely legal substances and cavorting with a variety of barely legal women; but apparently the marriage vows do not support such activities. So instead I dedicate hours to searching out suitable entertainment to keep her entertained.
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