My sister, a G.P with two children who are junior doctors, once said 'never fall ill in the first week of August'. This week is junior doctor changeover week across the whole country, where they all move around posts. There's another week later in the year but since I don't know when it is, this isn't much use as a warning. On the 3rd. August, the consultant said I could go home once the Physios had checked my mobility on stairs and walking outside. I brought up the scan I was expecting. He couldn't find any mention of it in the notes so either the junior doctor hadn't written it up, hadn't actioned it or both (see Stroke Diary 6 on the importance of accurate file notes if you're an educational psychologist). We couldn't check with him as he'd already moved on. I don't know what went wrong but a nurse tells me that the scan has now been organised.
The following morning I have another CT Angiogram and on 5th. August I'm told by the consultant that 'Nottingham' (oh no!) have to see a CD of the results. I could go home but it would be better to stay around and find out what they've got to say. On Friday 6th., I eagerly await the ward round. At last, there will be some results. I need to know for myself but I'll also be able to answer some of the questions of friends and family. But when the consultant checks in the file, there's nothing. The (new) junior doctor is asked and I hear her say she sent the CD by post instead of by courier 'because she didn't think it was important.'
People new in post will make mistakes and have to be supported but I hope I'll never hear a new educational psychologist say within earshot of a child, parent or teacher that any part of their concern 'isn't important'. I could get very angry but I know the stress won't do me any good. It is, however, a mistake too far.
During these last four days, I am visited by friends who bring creative gifts, fruit (always in short supply in hospital) and magazines that I'd never have thought of choosing myself and which don't require much concentration. They take me for walks along the corridors with my stick. My gait is wide-legged, like a toddler and my head feels like it's trapped in a wind tunnel. I'm okay as long as I can hold on to the hand rails along every corridor. My husband sensibly visits when no one else is coming and he walks with me outside. My youngest son telephones from India, keen to come home. He had been texting but none of my replies had reached him. Although my husband and his older brother and sister had been keeping him up to date it's important that we talk and he hears for himself that I'm not much different.
The ward has a visit from a petting dog. While he's lovely, a dog is not high on my personal list of ward visitors. A beauty therapist with hot wax, tweezers and skills in stroke-compliant Indian Head Massage would rank a little higher. To signal my intention not to stick around much longer, I start to wear clothes instead of pyjamas, which further confuses my ward companions who think I'm a member of staff.
The Physios finish their assessment and I'm discharged. Driving home, the world seems smaller and more grey. In the house, things lie exactly where I last put them down and in my work bag, I find my mouldy packed lunch box from 22nd. July. But it's wonderful to relax without the company of the confused elderly, to watch television and (very early) to settle into my own, warm bed. My view of the NHS? Everyone works very hard, everyone is kind but lines of communication need some attention.
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