Heavenly Beverley : The Consequences of Being Handy...

Waiting...waiting...waiting...

Hospitals are a law unto themselves. Take the passing of time, for example. Either one is inundated with all manner of staff coming out of the woodwork at once or feeling as if one is resident on a desert island, anxiously waiting for a largish vessel to wander past and wave frantically. Then there is cognitive ability. Obviously, we all become village idiots once admitted as medications taken with gay abandon at home are removed from our control and placed in a locked drawer with no access to the key. I understand the rationale of safety from theft. However, why can't the patient or companion hold the key? And information. We are trickle fed bits and bots, but only if we ask. Yesterday morning, in our attempts to discharge at the official ten o'clock blast-off, we were told that we were stuck there until Michael had the last dose of IV antibiotics. At eleven o'clock. There went another great plan of Mice and Men.

Some git of a Federal Treasurer had once suggested that we could all happily work until we were seventy. In whatever profession we were trained. He had in mind spending the entirety of our working lives pushing around a very light pen and seated in a very expensive and comfortable ergonomic chair. I think the same idiot pontificated that all first home-owners needed was a Very Good Job That Pays Well. I believe that the thought of sixty-five-year-olds still engaged in employment other than pencil-pushing was way beyond his comprehension.

Unlike this geezer, who was also seen smoking cigars with the Finance Minister on Budget Night and moved onto a cushy post as Ambassador to the United States, Michael spent the entirety of his working life in somewhat more physical roles. Which also required critical thinking, problem-solving and desired outcomes. All this intellectual stuff was done by his brain. The actual doing was with his hands.

Hence, Michael's hands have copped nearly fifty years of consistent and repetitive movements. Plus, random but regular thumps, whacks and knocks haven't helped his overall situation. His discomfort levels eventually reached the point of incapacitation. Most movements of his right hand were resulting in intense pain. Not to be outdone, his left hand developed"trigger finger", a humorously named condition that was anything but. His ring finger began imitating an ancient gearbox with clunking and grinding, the "pulleys" weren't frightfully operational so his finger could change directions without warning, rather like a bizarre Quickstep.

A cortisone injection, although unpleasant, made the world of difference to his left hand. Sent off for an MRI of his right wrist and hand, the extensive damage caused our Orthopaedic Surgeon to the Stars to exclaim "What a mess!".

Michael's tale of woe included the lack of cartilage, bones fused that shouldn't have, an ulna that had grown spurs to rival the spiky parts of that famous throne in "Game of Thrones" and was rubbing bone on bone with the next set at the junction of his hand and wrist. Dem bones...dem bones...

Ageing is definitely not for the delicate, the squeamish or the cowardly. Bits of us stop working, need removal, drop, sag or grow in the wrong places. Take hairy ears for blokes or witchy-pooh hairs on girls as a case in point. Some of us, like my beloved Michael, end up with multiple health issues and as many specialists. Pill taking, after breakfast and at bedtime, gains notoriety as Second Course.

Thus, the concept of working until the age of seventy never (thankfully) gained any merit, as the human body tends to be prone to more problems as we grow older and give up the ghost in a variety of ways.

Diagnosis of his troublesome wrist was last Tuesday. Michael had had enough. He was very anxious about his freedom of movement. He voiced his ten-year desire to produce more artworks. We were also looking down the barrel of having to postpone our Northern Jaunt again. First COVID, now this. We decided to go for gold and repair his wrist as much as possible. So, we headed for the Big Smoke's Mount Hospital on Friday morning to enter the surreal world of admission, surgery and overnight "accommodation".

Until Michael went to theatre, he was my only focus. Leaving him in the safe hands of Ben Kimberley and anaesthetist Anna Negus was as good as I could have hoped. Ben had been part of our lives for ten years, putting us back together again on a fairly frequent basis. We have referred to him as the Boy Wonder due to his youthful appearance and his ability to care for five children, whilst also being a surgeon who can actually talk to his patients. Anna had been my anaesthetist with my knee replacement surgery. A great and compassionate communicator, a very gentle and caring medico, Anna rescues and homes mutant sheep in her spare time. Apparently, she has just added a rather scrumptious ram to her flock. Being slightly unusual and a bit quirky definitely qualified her as one of the Good Guys.

I travelled up to Pre-Op with Michael and talked to both Ben and Anna. Returning to Karri Ward was hard. As usual. I downloaded the Patient Tracking app and waited. Cal was journeying down from the wilds of Butler to collect a flannelette shirt of Bron's and his Year 12 folio ( which I had neglected to give him for fourteen years).

Meanwhile, another drama was afoot. There was no folder bed for me. In a major city hospital, I was told that there were only four folder beds and they were all in use. I looked at the nurses square in the face and confirmed that I would not sleep on the floor and that I was staying with Michael. They needed to sort this challenge.

Callum arrived and stayed with me for a coffee. We caught up and then I waved him goodbye back to his family. Time was marching on. A double room was produced for Michael and me and I moved our belongings.

Michael eventually was returned to Karri Ward around six. He alternated between sleeping and eating. I was shattered. By eight o'clock, I was in the other bed, knowing I was in for a disturbed night, so choosing to grab slumber whenever possible.

I was absolutely correct in my reasoning. Hospitals are not renowned for their restful qualities. Over the next twelve hours, I was woken to help Michael or just be disturbed five or six times. The machines went ping or beep or brrr. Bed coverings had to be removed or added according to the airconditioning over which we had no control. Michael decided he wanted to change into his jarmies at some stage of the early hours. His pain levels dictated further attendance of the nurses.

And then, suddenly, the machinations of the ward began for another day. We were both sound asleep as the kitchen attendant barged in with our breakfast at eight o'clock. GOOD MORNING (whether you like it or not...)! Individual routines have no credence in hospitals. We were utterly shell shocked, but compliant to the rules.

What a difference a day makes. This post began on Friday afternoon. Now, on Sunday morning, the dogs are engaging in their typical shenanigans, after being hysterically delighted to see us. Jan and Greg deserve our undying gratitude for holding the fort, exercising the Canine Clowns on a frequent basis and preventing wholesale carnage of our worldly possessions. Michael is still asleep, having only woken for pain relief twice.

The surgery is done. Next, come the recovery and rehab.

Stay tuned.