CATHETER, COME HOME
Also by the same author:
Arran Diaries
Loitering with Tin Tent
Two Returns to Arran
Here Endeth the Epilogue
Feasts and Fasts
Zen and the Art of Nurdling
The Domesday Hedge and other poems
Twenty-Three Poems
CATHETER, COME HOME:
Six Months in the Hands of the NHS
by
Steve Rudd
ISBN 978 1 872438 43 6 (Paperback)
ISBN 978 1 909548 04 6 (Mobi)
ISBN 978 1 909548 05 3 (ePub)
CATHETER, COME HOME
is typeset in New Century Schoolbook and published by The King’s England Press 111 Meltham Road, Lockwood
HUDDERSFIELD,
West Riding of Yorkshire
HD4 7BG
© Steve Rudd, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied or stored in any retrieval system without the express prior written consent of the publisher. This publication is issued on the understanding that it may only be bought, sold, lent or hired in its original wrapper and on the understanding that a similar condition, including this condition, is imposed on subsequent purchasers.
The author asserts his moral rights under the Copyright Acts as amended, and under the terms of the Berne Convention
eBook conversion by Vivlia Limited
Dedicated to all the tireless workers of the NHS, who daily perform miracles despite the worst excesses of meddling politicians.
Io non mori, e non rimasi vivo – Dante
[“I did not die, yet nothing of life remained”]
Author’s Introduction
We are all just a heartbeat away from illness, in the same way as a musician is only ever as good as their last gig. My time in hospital coincided almost exactly with the opening months of the Coalition, which came into being following the rather botched, ineffectual General Election of May 2010, when the British electorate was unable to decide whether it loathed Gordon Brown more than David Cameron, or vice versa. Almost two years on, with the Tories determined to demolish the NHS in a top-down reorganisation that was never in any manifesto and which is costing billions of pounds, at a time when we’re allegedly so strapped for cash that we can’t keep the libraries open, maybe it might be a good idea to re-run the contest. Best of three, anyone?
The NHS as portrayed in these pages was far from perfect, but it was the best NHS we had, warts and all, maintained on the same principles that went back to Beveridge in 1948.
This isn’t meant to be a political book, it wasn’t me that made health a political issue, and I don’t think it ever should be. But then it wasn’t me who said I had no intention of ever dismantling the NHS, that I would cut the deficit not the health service, and then proceeded to do the exact, diametric opposite.
STEVE RUDD
The Holme Valley, Easter 2012
NB: Names have been changed throughout this book, apart from the people mentioned in the list of acknowledgements (which is only partial) and certain people who are happy with their part in my story being known.
1: Prologue
My name is Steve Rudd. I ate a dodgy stir-fry and almost ended up in a coma. Sadly, however, unlike Life on Mars, I didn’t get to travel back to 1973 and drive Sam Tyler’s Ford Capri through the stacks of cardboard cartons on the corners of the rainy, grimy, cobbled back streets of Manchester; nor did I get to meet Gene Hunt and fire up the Quattro. Not any Quattro. Not even Suzi Quattro. Still, from my own recollections of 1973, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, anyway.
What it did mean, however, was that I spent about five months (give or take a few dreary days) in the care of a major Northern NHS hospital, serving a combined population of many hundreds of thousands of people across the Pennines.
It had all started relatively innocuously. We were looking forward to our annual holiday on the Isle of Arran, and Debbie, my wife, had been busy getting the camper van loaded and ready. She was extra-busy as well, because she was job searching. She had decided that after 21 years being a residential social worker, enough really was enough.
In 2009, despite being very ill herself, she had managed to battle through her course and qualify as a teacher of adult literacy. Now, with the summer holidays approaching, she was looking forward to graduating “officially”, and after the holidays she was going to come back and put in her official resignation straight away, thus ending her “day job” after 21 years as a residential social worker, while simultaneously applying for any and every teaching job going, before the start of the new term.
So, change was in the air, as she spent time packing stuff into the camper van, ready for the off, and I, too, was counting down the days until we could load Tiggy on board, settle her down on her special little dog-bed in the back, leave Kitty once more in the tender care of Granny, and set off on our annual trundle up the M6, leading eventually to the ferry port at Ardrossan, to embark for Arran.
We’d planned to go on July 19th 2010. As good a day as any, we thought. On July 8th, Debbie was doing one of her final overnight sleep-in shifts at Beech, leaving me on my own for the night. So I did what any self-respecting, self-catering husband would do, I decided to use up some leftovers. Leftover rice, from the day before, what’s not to like? Add a can of stir-fry vegetables. Some soy sauce, and turn the heat up. Sorted.
I must admit, I had misgivings even when I was eating the stuff. Mainly, though, because I hadn’t heated it through enough, and it was a bit cold. I toyed with the idea of putting it back on the gas, but I knew I was going to be busy later, so I pressed on regardless, and had it lukewarm. I offered my leavings to the dog. She declined. Sensible dog.
The pains started shortly afterwards, shooting pains in my stomach, to be precise. For over an hour, I was completely immobilised by it, just sitting there clutching my stomach, until it eventually subsided a bit. I had no doubt that, somehow, I had given myself food poisoning or something. I managed to phone Debbie on her mobile and let her know I was feeling grim and going to bed, all thoughts of any further work abandoned for the night.
Somehow, I dragged myself upstairs and got into bed, complete with hot water bottle clutched against my stomach. Eventually, I fell into a fetid, foetal, fevered sleep.
The next day, I actually felt slightly better. I wouldn’t say I was back to normal, but there was an important meeting at my day job about a potential new distribution contract being scheduled so I did make an effort, braced myself with a strong cup of coffee, and made the journey to the office. I wasn’t at my best, all day. In fact, on reflection, now,