There is a character in Catch 22 who lies in the field hospital, bandaged from head to foot, with a drip feed bag going into his body and a drain out of his body emptying into another bag. When the feed bag is empty and the waste bag is full, an orderly swaps the two bags.
Perhaps fortunately, I was not provided with a closed-loop system. A bag of fluid drained into my arm, and when it was empty they loaded a new one. There appeared to be no variety in this type of food supply. I did ask the nurse if they offered smokey bacon flavoured drip feed, but it appeared to be off the menu.
Anyway, all this fluid going in had to find a way out eventually and, upon request, I was furnished with a pee pee bottle which enabled me, with only minimal splashing, to empty my bladder and present the nurse with a pleasantly warm offering of fluid to do with as she pleased.
The poo poo disposal system was less clear. For the first couple of days it was not even an issue, but I eventually started nibbling at the consistently awful food and it was only a matter of time before poo poo was going to be on the agenda. Some delicate questioning seemed to indicate that the solution was going to be that they would spread a large plastic sheet on the bed, let me do my worst, and then scoop up the resulting mess as best they could. This is not a solution that appealed to an English gentleman like myself, neither did another option which was codenamed “big nappy”.
I decided to face up to this challenge in the same way as I face most challenges; I avoid them. I steadfastly refused to consider any bodily requests for poo poo. If I held out long enough I could be discharged from hospital and safely home to the sanctity of my own loo before having to take evacuating action. This plan backfired spectacularly on the fourth day when I was given a ghastly tasting drink to consume along with my normal medication. “What’s that for”, I enquired innocently? “No poo poo, so laxative”, said the nurse with a look of relief in her eyes given that her shift was about to end and she would not be around for the inevitable explosion. Oh dear.
The disturbances started around 0100, and by 0200 the air was ripe with flatulence and the rumble of a digestive system priming itself to explode. I had visions of a scene from a horror movie, except instead of blood, the walls and ceiling would be splattered with poo poo, while brave nurses struggled to hold back a noxious tide.
By 0400, the Vesuvius of my bum was ready to erupt and I could wait no more; I pressed the call button and explained that poo poo was imminent. I was immediately scooped out of bed and half carried to the toilet where I spent a most satisfying twenty minutes. If they had told me about this option from the start we could have dispensed with the laxatives.
Hospital life, not as much fun as you thought.
Comments 🔗
2008-10-31| keith’s baby sister saysreally happy you are home again if not yet 100% - pretty b…. miraculous if you ask me. Is it possible the stiff upper lip protected you in the crash ?
2008-11-01| Spike saysIndeed it was mainly stiff upper lip, with minor contributions from air bags, seatbelts and surprisingly substantial Japanese engineering.