Tag Archives: st bartholemew’s hospital

Training

My requirements on Monday were not restricted to signing my life away. Some people work out before a marathon, my pre marathon training is something else all together. In order for Transplant Number 2 to go ahead, I had to have a collection of tests done, the purpose of which, I think, was really for me to get used to the grounds of St Bartholomew’s Hospital and not for the Medically Trained People to see if my heart, lungs and kidneys are tickety-boo. Okay, maybe checking that my body is up to the challenge of an allogeneic transplant had a lot to do with it, but the morning meant five reception areas and their accompanying waiting areas, four medical technicians, one nursing assistant, one doctor, a room of Clinical Nurse Specialists and one trip to the loo. Essentially, I went into a lot of rooms. For me, it significant energy usage and exploration. I have somewhat expertly denoted this on the map below, each dot represents an area requiring my attention. It does not include the lift journey that came to a sudden halt inducing panic among everybody in it that the day out to the hospital had taken a sinister turn.

  Medically, I was required to have an echo, an ECG, a plethora of blood tests, a urine test and something called a spirometry test, which included something called a gas transfer. Sounds exciting right? Just a walk in a maze.

The blood tests, all eight vials of the stuff was straight forward. It’s as familiar to me as cleaning behind my ears. Part of me would like to have had the chance to have caught a Sexually Transmitted Disease since my last transplant, but alas, the bald head, lack of socialising and general lack of any resemblance of physical attraction put paid to that, and still, the hospital was still required to check my blood was ‘clean’ as it were. the hospital tested my paraprotein post transplant during my last transplant, and thus, I doubt I have anything to worry about with these set of tests. My paraprotein was less than five by the way, which the doctor said was fine. I should add that when I say I do not worry about these results, what I mean is that I worry about them the least. My superstition has gone absolutely nowhere.

The blood tests, which were the third test I had done on that windy day were immediately followed by me urinating into a cup and then me leaving said cup on a shelf in a toilet. Again, I am used to peeing, so this was no great shakes. 

Before I gave away my bodily fluids, two Medically Trained People looked at my heart. As the hospital is in a state of change, the tests were not done in the same building. The echo took place in a building that resembled the set of 28 Days Later (Big Sister is there as I type and described this building as a “dump”), whilst the ECG on the other end of the refurbishment scale occurred in a room with newly painted walls and a chatty technician. In defence of the technician doing the echo, it is probably difficult to be chatty when he was required to lift up my left breast like he was opening a cat flap. Apart from that specific indignity, I could have fallen asleep whilst he pushed the ultrasound into my chest and throat. I did arrive at the hospital at 09:00hrs after all, so by 11:00hrs, I I was waning. The sleepiness was not due to me likening an echo to a massage. To be doubly clear, I did not find a stranger touching my skin relaxing. I have had an echo before, as well as an ECG, so Monday’s tests were nothing out of the ordinary.  I am surprised I have managed to write a paragraph about them.

I do find it strange that the tests Bart’s require differ from those I had to do pre Transplant Number 1.  It’s easy to assume that two hospitals in the NHS, two miles apart would approach a transplant in the same way. You would be wrong. In March, I had neither test for my heart, instead I was placed in a machine and pretended I was a human toastie.  I also had a tiresome test on my kidneys, which in the City is replaced by a simple urine sample. One thing I have not required before is a the test on my lungs, also known as the spirometry test. In My Myeloma life, my lungs have never been tested, unless you count the peak flow meter for the return of my asthma.  
On the fourth floor of the King George V Wing, I went to a reception medically entitled ‘Lung Function’ and proceeded to go through a few doors via an irate woman lacking in manners, to a funny looking machine that required me to put a peg on my nose and blow. I blew a lot. The woman overseeing the test would have made a great motivational speaker. “Keep going, keep going, you’re doing great, keep going. Wonderful.” In fact, maybe I just need her around to help me out of bed everyday… Of all the tests I have ever had, this was probably the least intrusive. Like all the tests before it on Monday, it was nothing to write home about, except it is,  because I had never had to do it before. In my days of same old, same old, it was noteworthy. Plus, having a peg on my nose whilst placing my mouth about a large cylinder was a sight to be seen. A sight to be seen. And, it beats telling you what Bruce and I got up to on the sofa yesterday, because you can be damn sure it is exactly the same as what I did last week/month/year.

  
As with everything, I now get to wait for the results to be processed and reviewed and hope that everything really is tickety boo. Something big is afoot.

EJB x

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Something Old and Something New

And now to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you breaking news. Not breaking news exactly, but news of a hospital new. Not a new hospital built in the 20th century exactly, but a hospital that is new to me.* According to my friends at Wikipedia, the hospital in question was founded in 1123. For the reason I was there, thank goodness technology has progressed since then.

IMG_1539
Exhibit A: A building not built on 1123.

Yesterday was Wednesday 11 February and yesterday I have travelled Eastward to the place they call the City, just a stone’s throw away from the place where a lady once fed some birds, to the hospital called St. Bartholomew’s. If you are not familiar with the place, Benedict Cumberbatch seemingly jumped off the hospital’s roof in 2012.

I have been referred to St Bart’s (we’re on a first name basis now), ahead of my proposed allograft transplant. I have known for sometime now that an allograft at the place where everybody knows my name was not going to happen. I had hoped I could get transplant number 1 out of the way before I was sent to meet a new team of Medically Trained People. I like to compartmentalise, but having had to wait for two hours packed tight in a tin of elderly sardines yesterday morning, it is probably beneficial that I got it out of the way, whilst I still have hair to have pulled out in frustration.

I heart the NHS and I understand the why patients need to wait. In the cancer business, my previous sentence is called a disclaimer because I am about to bad mouth the NHS. Not all of the NHS exactly, but specifically the St Bart’s waiting areas and their waiting times. I must be rather spoilt at the Macmillan Cancer Centre, because I found two hours of the waiting too, too much as evidenced by Exhibit B.

.

IMG_1544
Exhibit B: A chair with no view

You cannot see because Mamma Jones failed to photograph what she was asked to photograph, but there were not enough seats for the amount of humans on the floor. Nor was there sufficient room for people with walking sticks to safely navigate their way around the chairs. Nor were the seats sufficiently space apart to allow any form of privacy. My biggest bugbear? Very comfortable chairs. I believe at one point I described the waiting area on the first floor of the West Wing as ‘oppressive’. I am allowed to make sweeping statements like that because I have a really bad type of cancer.

Despite my first impressions of the hospital being damaged by the aged crowds and the customary, bright coloured walls designed to bring much cheer to those affected with cancer (exhibit C), the Medically Trained People were exactly how I like my Medically Trained People to be. The people redeemed the space.

IMG_1551
Exhibit C

The main doctor, Mamma Jones and I spent a good hour with, was informative and spoke to me in my sort of language. I almost understood what is going to happen to me. The head of the clinic, who popped his head round the door greeted me with ‘are you who I think you are?’… Well, personally, I just love that sort of notoriety. He had me at ‘you’.

Once that appointment was complete, I was sent across to another building, in the maze that is the hospital. The building had a meagre seven floors to UCH’s 17, but that did not prevent it from having a nice view when I was finally taken through to a treatment room. I say finally, for I had to part take in a little bit more waiting in another busy and cramped waiting area. In the small treatment room, I met another Medically Trained Person who have me reading material and in return, I gave her a cup of my pee. I then went on to give somebody else six vials of my blood on the ground floor. I failed to win the phlebotomist over in our five minutes with my wit. Unfortunate.

IMG_1547
Exhibit D – A Room With A View

All in, my trip to the City took six hours of my life away. I will say that the two hours of medical interaction was worth all the sitting staring into space and listening to other people complain. I’m allowed to complain, but anybody else who does so is just ungrateful… Anyway, in conclusion at some point in my future St Bart’s is going to be my hospital for around 100 days. Let’s say approximately 114 days based on the collection of papers resting in my hallway. I’m going to have to get used to the waiting and I’m going to have to get used to the seats, because I have a sneaky suspicion the Medically Trained People I saw know what they were talking about.

EJB x

* Apart from the time I went to the sexual health clinic because I thought that that was a thing grown ups should do.

Tagged , , , , , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: