My plans for May are perilously close to the fire dumpster. Here’s why

Whinge alert - DON’T sympathise with what follows. I feel shitty enough as it is.

It’s 3.17am. I’m hooked up to an oxygen tank that’s giving a passing impression of a 737 on take off. My disconnected vitals machine beeps languidly every 30 seconds. I can only sit upright in relative comfort. I’m out of hot tea and don’t want to piss off the night staff who come to check me hourly to ensure I’m still breathing. Nor the pain person who dishes out whatever I’m allowed in that time slot. I’m begging it will be morphine at around 4am. That’s here and now. At least I’m not experiencing the excruciating pain that goes with the coughing I had yesterday.

I was looking forward to this month: a visit from a friend I’ve not seen for years, a much needed vacation, and…planting out veggies for the long awaited summer. That was until yesterday. I’m hoping it all survives this tsunami of health related shit.

A day earlier, I’d fallen for the 2nd time in six or so weeks, cracking a rib, exacerbating earlier fractures and splintering my spine. I didn’t know this at the time, I also have COVID and infections in both lungs. This time around I was in a really bad way but being a dickwad bloke, I refused to go to the hospital. It was left to my daughter to surprise me with a full blown ambulance call out. My first thought, “What will the neighbours think?”

On hospital admission, I was taken to the high dependency unit (HDU). My American friends can think ICU. It’s a really noisy and busy place at the best of times. It was here that I discovered the COVID thing which is weird because I’ve been living like a hermit and blissfully COVID-free (I think) for 3 years. Plus, I’ve had all my jabs, boosters etc.

It was in HDU that the crushing weight of NHS resource deprivation roared into view. Getting a ward bed is now a matter of negotiation, threat and pleading plus a race to the assigned spot before it’s taken by another needy soul. In my case it took five hours from first submission of request. What follows is a part explanation I sent to my friend who I may now not see unless things go really well the next few days.

The hospital bed allocation put me in an isolation room with an ominous red plaque. It was also announced that I’ve definitely got COPD. Cherry on the cake I suppose although I should have known from a past diagnosis back in 2017 that hasn’t been updated. Apparently my COVID and lng infection twofer guarantees this special seat in the house rather than on a community ward.

The good news is that the first full day, I got enough morphine to keep me whacked out, and remain relatively pain free most of the night. I even managed to piss in a special purpose hospital bottle without incident. Twice.

I can readily see why they keep that shit on strict rations. Think of this: a well smoothed out hit from a juicy, phat spliff that feels like you’re being gently washed in a warm tidal lagoon under the glow of a tropical evening sunset - probably like you see in Hawaii.

Moving onto the ward meant I’ve had to use my best negotiating skills to get more morphine so that I can sleep tonight without waking up in bad pain. That’s not going so well. I’ve got enough of that dope that the pain is a lot less than it has been, but not enough to be comfortably numb.

To give you an idea of the pain levels involved, if scalding your hand for a few secs is (say) a 6/10 followed by a 3-4 throb over 30 mins to an hour then the repetitive stabbing pain on any sort of coughing in my case is an 11/10 for 15-20 secs followed by a 9>5 gradient over 5 mins and then 3-4 the rest of the day. 

Points are scored for loud explosive, spittle enhanced screams. Fewer points are gained from a stream of expletive consciousness aimed at anyone who attempts to touch the affected body part. Points are deducted for groaning, moaning and whimpering like a toddler whose toys just got tossed out of the pram.

I’m told the focus (assuming they can find doctors with enough time to pay attention) later today is to get a self medicating pain management plan in place. That could end badly but we shall see. 

Any shred of dignity I might have had as they’re taking swabs from my nose, groin and bum crack as part of ward admissions testing for even more ‘stuff’ evaporated in a nanosecond as I strive to roll into positions that didn’t involve involuntary yodelling for the pain gods. Thankfully, and at my age, I don’t care so much about dignity but I do care about pain.

As I’m writing this, I realise I’ve not smoked a cig for close to 96 hours. That’s at least 84 hours longer than the last enforced non-smoking flight I took and at least 55 years since I went a whole 24-hour day without a cig. I have no cravings either. Maybe some good will come out of this pain laden clusterfuck after all. But there’s a creepy thought I’ve had gnawing away at me since that nicotine-infused realisation.

Jocularity aside, this is one messed up health scare. I remember my father having a similar scare at 65. He never smoked again after that. He lived until he was a smidge under 90. I’ve just passed 70. I wonder…