Ward from hell not peopled by devils
If the new coalition Government hopes to cow mainstream news media into softening its watchdog role, it better think again. The stories, columns and editorials appearing in today’s newspapers (print and online) and TV programmes like the doomed Sunday are some of the best holdings-to-account I’ve seen.
They encourage me to do my bit, something that led to a four-month stint on the inside of the census process last year, and to last week’s column. Now I’ve just seen inside something few working journalists experience, one of the most sensitive of secondary health interchanges – that between aged people and the hospital emergency department.
I’ll let my notes, taken during a 10-plus hours stint, speak for themselves. They begin after I went to Taranaki Base Hospital’s ramshackle old ED at 11pm, suffering groin pain following an attempt to drive too soon after my hip replacement.
11.15pm: Report pain level as 6 out of 10. After a short time, I’m asked to come through; measured for blood pressure etc, and told to wait in the main inside corridor. By midnight, my discomfort is 7/10. There are many people in the interior waiting area, some looking particularly sick. A man cries out in acute pain every few seconds for half an hour. I’m told there’s one doctor and a consultant on duty. Someone else says it’s two doctors. Whatever, they’re flat-out.
12.30am: Someone notices I have my leg up on a chair, so they put me on a wheeled bed in the corridor.
1.05am: An orderly wheels me round a corner, saying a doc will see me soon. The orderly is friendly and helpful, gets me paracetamol when the pain intensifies.
1.37am: Cold now. My exposed corner is draughty. People wearing masks remind us Covid still lurks. I’ve forgotten to wear one.
2.15am: A nurse comes to see someone around the corner. Then a doctor. Might be a heart attack. I’m largely ignored, in a place of my own, perhaps for being too talkative. I’m nothing here; just a number. People go about their work calmly and quietly. It’s the only way they can deal with such a potentially over-stressed situation.
I want to interview them, but restrain myself. Alienating people won’t help.
2.40am: I’m freezing in my naughty corner. A kindly nurse says there is nowhere else to put me, but she will fetch blankets. Ah, warmth.
Even more warmth at 3.10am when they find a cosier slot for me deeper in the ward. What a warren this is. Everyone here is warm and friendly, though. There is tea. The ward from hell is not peopled with devils.
4.06am: A doctor has a long exchange on bowel motions with a nearby patient. A tube down the throat to unblock an obstruction may be needed.
4.14am: Another patient calls for an urgent toilet break. A nurse comes quickly.
4.18am: My pain is getting more intense. Will someone shut up that bloody beeper.
4.33am: Two beepers play a song. Staff are accustomed.
5.30am: The night nurse takes vitals and asks for urine. I had a pee half an hour ago. “Don’t worry – it’ll brew up again,’’ he smiles. I’m due more paracetamol. A nurse obliges. The pain has been escalating, but paracetamol gets it under control a bit. The ward is starting to empty. No sign of doc. Six-and-a-half hours gone. The nurse reveals he’s an experienced owl, his every shift for decades a night one. He’s adjusted. He pronounces the urine “clean as”.
At 6.55am, I hear the night nurse giving his handover briefing, and at 7am the change takes place. A new nurse introduces herself. I’m surprised when she offers breakfast; how come we’re training nurses to be waiters? But I take it. Cornflakes and cold toast taste great.
A morning shift doctor arrives at 8.15am.
She examines the groin, thinks it’s tendons, that I’ve strained one. She heads away to consult and returns to explain. Goes to check with her supervisor and comes back to say they’ll need bloods and X-rays. The new hip is intact.
I’m discharged about 9.45am, after more than 10 hours. The hospital report later describes all that in technical parlance. Two words jump out: “no priority”.
The hip is recovering well. Getting old and suffering pain – no matter how we rate it on that arbitrary scale out of 10 – remains a challenge.