<parenthesis>That's right, two not to mention the dozen or so I've been in in the past, though only once overnight...<autobiographical-note>
Tonsillectomy in the King Edward Memorial Hospital, Mattock Lane, Ealing W13. As I was a larger than usual rising 11 year-old, and they had me down as plain '10', they found that I didn't fit in any of the pyjamas in the children's ward. So, it being 1962 and all that that implied in terms of awareness of PTSD, they put me in the adults' ward rather than move the pyjamas (which was probably more than someone's job was worth). It was not the happiest fortnight of my life, and is it any wonder that I'm not perfectly house-trained?
</autobiographical-note>... The one where I first went to A&E didn't have the facilities to deal with my subdural haematoma...
<autobiographical-note>
Details are a bit vague, but I've said before that, whereas some people are ambi-dextrous, I am ambi-sinistral (and don't bother looking that up, unless I've chanced on a real word for two-sided cack-handedness – a result, perhaps, of the Wrong Pyjamas [see above])
</autobiographical-note>... so they kept me in there for 48 hours' observation...
<autobiographical-note>
The 48 hours expired on the afternoon of the Sunday before Bank Holiday Monday...<parenthesis>
(non-UK readers need know only that Bank Holiday is when nothing happens [except in the NHS, which soldiers on with more than usual under-staffing] )
</parenthesis>... and it took the diplomacy and tact of my daughter to spring me from 'durance vile' , when they threatened to keep me in for another night.
<autobiographical-note>...and they sent me home until the head-aches got worse and I went to A&E again, who gave me a second CT scan and blue-lighted me to the John Radcliffe in Oxford, where they have the appropriate nut-crackers.
</parenthesis>
...I'm home again and sleeping soundly (not at this very moment). While I was banged up I reflected on how there's an arms race between more and more urgent-sounding alarms and the way the nursing staff (with only one pair of hands) react; but I don't feel like writing about it just now. There's a possible update to come, but don't hold your breath.
b
PS my post-operative stupor was interrupted by an email saying that I'd been shortlisted for the u3a short story competition (which, appropriately enough, had the theme "Escape" – though hospitals didn't come into it when I wrote my entry). If it wins, it'll be published in the next edition of Third Age Matters.
Update: 2024.10.03.20:50 – Added PPS
PPS
Man proposes and clerical errors dispose. The short story short-listed – read it here if you like, but don't believe the byline...
<inline-ppps>... – isn't mine. Mine is here. In my – not entirely unbiased – view, it's better; though I'm not too disappointed, as I wrote it about thirty years ago and just added a phrase or two to make it fit the 'escape' theme.
They've now updated that page.
</inline-ppps>
In other news, those nutcrackers missed a bit; and a second haematoma on the other side...
<guess type="untutored">
(preumably a contrecoup injury that didn't show up on the first CT scan)
<guess>
... needed to be drained as well. I'm home again after a second operation, and on the mend.
Update: 2024.10.04.10:50 – Added <inline-ppps />
