With My Tongue Firmly In My Cheek...

As most of us will attest, 2020 has been a memorable year thus far. Bushfires, floods, Coronavirus, lockdown, stupidity unmasked and inspired leadership - these circumstances have brought out the best and the worst in us all. My personal "Year of Wonders" continues to astound, annoy and amuse me.

Take my birthday this year, for example. All was running smoothly for a family get-together, a birthday dinner and a chance to have most of my children with me in Heavenly Beverley, including Miss Imogen Ivy, the grandbaby responsible for my descent into continuing inanity.

All those careful plans of Mice and Men were thwarted on Wednesday. A supposedly routine x-ray of Michael's arm revealed an utterly unexpected and concerning outcome. Finally, all those four weeks of pain had a cause. Michael's ulna had split at the base of the plate after the bone had been shortened. Not only was my birthday thrown into disarray, but our postponed Northern Jaunt was once more on the chopping block.

Worse still, we would have to return to the Mount Hospital, scene of not an entirely satisfactory stay a month previously. In anticipation of my boarding, I rang the hospital on Thursday morning. I was immediately transferred to Bed Allocation and any concerns I had vanished into the ether with confirmation Michael and I would have a shared room at our disposal for the duration.

First possible snag resolved with no reports or injuries. Friday's admission was routine - slow and boring before transferring to the room on Karri Ward. We were ushered into a clean and spacious room, much improved on our last experience. There were tissues on each of the bedside tables. An extra chair for our use. Soap in the bathroom. Day nurse Tina began admission procedures and we were almost immediately visited by Evelyn, who I believed was the new Director of Nursing. We were assured that positive changes to the Mount were afoot.  We were given the opportunity for our feedback on the improved state of the room. All our needs and requests would be promptly resolved.

Once I had lowered my eyebrows from having shot up under my hairline, I began a personal inspection. The room had been comprehensively scrubbed. There was not a skerrick of dust anywhere. The artwork was pleasant. The bathroom had a newer showerhead. A shower chair was insitu. I began to suspect this room would be primarily used for those having hip replacements, thus the extra space and facilities.

However, other issues were still a problem. In all the rooms we have stayed, not one of the toilet seats would remain upright under its own volition. There were no towels in the bathroom, so I whizzed off to the linen cupboard to collect some. The airconditioning was too cold. For the second time in a row, a COVID 19 checklist was nowhere to be seen as we were due to head to theatre. There was confusion about Michael's wearing of stockings. Or not. Pre-op did not have the amusing Eric insitu, so we endured a half-hour wait in the cold and austere setting. However, Michael was provided with a heated blanket that was most gratefully accepted.

The Mount Patient Finder was a great tool to track Michael's progress through theatre and into recovery, however, some carers might be put off by the need for an admission number to begin the process. To the IT department, being able to enter a surname would be preferable in this instance.

By the time Michael returned to the ward, his dinner had been waiting for nearly an hour. Another hour passed before he was able to eat. There was still no microwave in the Patients' Pantry and I had no idea whether staff could access a microwave as this option was never discussed. Thus, Michael, who was starving, was fed by me lukewarm roast pork, veggies and cauliflower soup.

Postoperatively in hospital resembles a mishmash of both extremely close and frustratingly lagging attention. Michael's observations and drugs were all dealt with in a timely fashion. However, there were other less than ideal situations, such as having to find his nurse after two attempts to source pain relief or having a drip infusion alarm beep for well over twenty minutes before we were rescued. The piece de resistance was Michael being handed a pill to swallow after it had been on the floor. We were initially too stunned to react and only afterwards did we ponder what had happened. In my opinion, that action was not satisfactory.

We were slightly overwhelmed by some of the attention. I was asked whether I would like green tea after my supply of teabags was spotted. In a later search, I discovered no green tea in the pantry, so that would presumably have had to be ordered from the kitchen. Michael's drip line was removed early in the morning routine - a task we have always had to request. We were not hurried out of his room and actually stayed until after lunch, so we could enjoy a hot meal before we headed for home. All firsts.

I wish I had thought to check some of the other rooms for tissues and soap. I was embarrassingly aware that our stay had been prepared in advance to our arrival to give a good impression. That the wards were cold and nothing had been done to try and alter the temperature was illustrated by an elderly chap dressed in flannelette pyjamas, a dressing gown and a woollen beanie. I have never been cold in hospital rooms such as Hollywood and Joondalup Private.

Not that we aren't grateful We are so thankful for an improved hospital experience at the Mount after some pretty ordinary stays. However, I hope that our stay becomes standard practice for all rooms in all wards. Everybody has the right to be as comfortable as possible and their needs met whilst at the Mount.

For those of you who wish to lodge comments about the Mount Hospital, I can only suggest being very specific. My observations of the lack of tissues and soap and proper cleaning of the room were seemingly easy to resolve. Certainly, most aspects of Michael's care was significantly improved. We hope that further admissions have similar outcomes.

I wait with bated breath for the promised renovations. The lull in elective surgery over the Christmas and New Year seems a perfect opportunity to work efficiently and speedily on refurbishments.

In the meantime, I can't help an element of cynicism being attached to my thoughts about our latest hospital stay. Hospitals can't be easy establishments to manage, however, if the executive teams become more proactive, I am convinced that these and other issues could be minimised or even cease altogether.

And now, we hope for Michael's uneventful and speedy recovery.

And here we were again (not!) happy as can be...

Hospital gowns are the pits to put on...

Worse to wear...

And are woeful keeping patients warm and comfortable in pre-op!

Sometimes, this is quite accurate...

As is this!

Michael on the evening of my birthday...

Feeling more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed...

Had something to eat and drink...

Following morning, feeling much improved...

And certainly cheekier!

Sunday morning with his beloved Madame Ruby in bed with him.

Happy Birthday to Me (with love from Murphy and Buckley)...

Four weeks ago, we were cooling our heels in the Mount Hospital waiting for Michael to have a major procedure on his troublesome wrist and hand. Our orthopaedic surgeon, Mister Ben Kimberley had identified a number of issues related to Michael's use of his hands as a primary tool for over forty years. There was no cartilage between the base of his hand and his wrist. Painful spurs had erupted from his ulna, which needed to be shortened. Two bones that shouldn't have fused together had...and three bones needed to be fused to keep them in position. We had decided to tackle this operation before leaving on our Northwest Jaunt as driving was becoming almost impossible.

The surgery went ahead and we were duly discharged the following morning, back to Heavenly Beverley for his recovery. Michael was almost immediately in serious trouble. The swelling was so intense that the cast had to be taken down and replaced four days postoperatively. One of his pain meds played havoc with his reflux. He complained of a clunking sensation at the site of the plate. The initial splint was unsatisfactory and had to be remoulded for him. But the unrelenting pain was by far the worst of his symptoms. He was being ground down and became chronically exhausted.

His need for opiates and other strong medication was puzzling to us. Michael has always had a high pain tolerance and I could not believe that he had turned into a wimp. And the carrot of our trip away from the winter cold was drawing tantalisingly closer. Michael was hoping the warmth and sun would aid his stalled recovery. I was steeling myself with the possibility of driving all the way there and back.

On Wednesday, Michael's hand, wrist and arm were x-rayed, followed by a second post-operative appointment. Michael convinced himself that his pain was beginning to ease. We just wanted to have this appointment with Ben and be on our way.

The films were stunning, for all the wrong reasons. A screw was sticking out from the plate. Worse still, Michael's ulna had fractured at the base of the plate. Suddenly, all the pain made sense. Michael had spent the best part of a month with his ulna split in two.

Which is why, four weeks after his initial surgery, we are back in the Mount Hospital waiting for him to go back to theatre. Michael is snoozing. However, this admission has gone extremely smoothly, much to our relief. We have had an amicable discussion with Evelyn, the Director of Nursing. There are tissues on our tables and soap in the bathroom. The room is much pleasanter than that of our previous stay. Some lunch was found for me as I was unable to eat before we left home. Our day nurse Tina was caring and kind. Now, all we need is for Michael to have the operation, pray for a boringly uneventful recovery and maybe be able to still escape to some northern warmth in about three more weeks.

That's the plan. And let's face facts. 2020 has been a year of dashed plans, of utter chaos across the world and of constantly changing circumstances. 2020 has morphed into a combination of a Coronavirus crisis, followed by a collision with Murphy's Law and Buckley's Chance.

Today is also my fifty-ninth birthday. We were supposed to be having a leisurely break with Callum, Bronwyn, Imogen and Vanessa inside our wonderful home in Heavenly Beverley. Instead, we are in the Big Smoke, in a hospital. Cal and Bron transported Immy up on Wednesday and Thursday nights. Vanessa met us at the hospital entrance this morning and loaded all our gear into a wheelchair in reception. Then she will be the dogs, cat and bird sitter until we return tomorrow. Leadlight artist David was already manning the Gallery today with Jan and Gem covering the weekend.

All I really want for my birthday is for Michael to come through surgery relatively unscathed with his ulna secured in place. Murphy and his Law have had a field day in 2020, so I am somewhat sceptical. As for Buckley, I remain hesitantly hopeful that we will have slightly better odds than his and we do actually get away in a few weeks.

Wish us luck!

Michael in the Gallery - Sunday 10 July...

Miss Imogen Ivy - 16 July 2020

Husband and son at lunch, York...

Entertaining Miss Immy - evening 16 July...

Immy with Jan and Daddy...

And what a way to spend my birthday!

Just prior to going to theatre at 3 o'clock Friday 17 July 2020.

The Beverley Hillbillies share their Mid-Year Revue...

I had thought of compiling a review to celebrate the riveting end of the current financial year. But, instead of boring the entire populous (literally) to tears, I decided that a somewhat scathingly upbeat performance would be far more desirable...

Welcome to the Beverley Hillbillies 2020 Mid-Year Revue!

Way back at the beginning of this year, with apocalyptic fires threatening the eastern shores between Brisbane and Melbourne, our heroic PM took off on a "well-earned rest" to Hawaii. When this decision turned to complete shit, he gallantly blamed his daughters, insisting he had no choice but to succumb to their pleas for an overseas holiday. Outstanding...

Upon his return, the Prime Minister then attempted to shake hands with a series of exhausted firies and locals whose world had exploded around them. He was definitely not there to receive a spray from distraught and angry residents and promptly retreated. Way to go...

Way out west, we were also enduring a gruelling summer heatwave and anxiously watching the Emergency web pages for news of infernos in our neck of the woods. We appeared to have dodged a mighty bullet when we emerged unscathed. January was the month of holding our breath. A tad concerned...

The fires eventually took an almighty deluge from above to be extinguished. Parts that had been drought declared and ravaged by the fires were almost washed away. However, other regions remained, frustratingly and miserably, in the grip of the Great Dry. And then rumbles started to emerge from China about a peculiar and very contagious pneumonia. The calm before the storm...

February was the precursor to the announcement of the pandemic. I found a handy phonebooth, performed a lightning change and emerged proudly as Anxiety Girl. This scenario was terrifying. At that time, we had no idea whether this illness would cause the casualties that were being seen in China. My immediate response was to PANIC and prepare to flee if at all possible. Oh, my giddy aunt!

Our West Australian premier actually did me a huge favour by slamming shut both our state borders and intrastate regions. With no community transmission, I was able to take a deep breath, slow my pounding heart and rocketing blood pressure and start to enjoy Isolation. Ahhh...

March and April were gloriously COVID 19 led months of relaxing in Station House. I settled into a frenetic routine of cleaning every morning, followed by some watering, exercise in the cool of the day, tackling those household tasks that had been put on hold and applauding Michal's projects, such as preventing the back fence from collapsing under the weight of rusty metal. Putting on the brakes...

Almost reluctantly, I was issued a G2G pass, so I could travel to the Big Smoke to see the kids and our divine Grandbaby Imogen. I unashamedly used masks and gloves, sprayed our homemade hand sanitiser copiously in all directions and practised social distancing with a vengeance. Michael was not going to get bloody Coronavirus or any other bug for that matter. Sergeant Major is IN...

Restrictions began easing in May. We took the decision to reopen the Gallery at the end of the month. Due to my absence and distinctly laid back lifestyle for more than two months, I was flummoxed by the demands of my previous existence. As a result, I proposed to move a few items around in the Giftshop to familiarise myself with the artists and pieces once more. Which necessitated more shifting. Which resulted in a chaotic circus of copious repercussions. The East End Gallery resembled a bomb hit bazaar for a number of days! Whoops, I did it again...

June was busy. We enjoyed carloads of escaping refugees from the Big Smoke just desperate for a Drive in the Country. We began the countdown for our delayed trip to the Deep North. We saw the orthopaedic specialist, Mister Ben Kimberley, about Michael's troublesome right hand. Two weeks later, Michael went under the knife to solve these issues. Between a rock and a hard place...

At this moment in early July, I wish I could produce a witty retort about Michael's post-operative experience. Not fun. Michael's post-operative pain has been intense. We have dealt with failures to give him enough pain relief on discharge, to inform us of the possibility of immense swelling, to have the current splint becoming less than ideal as the swelling subsides and having very little idea of rehabilitation at some stage in the future. Bollocks...

I believe these issues are a result of our home location. We are regional but not remote. First aid and nursing posts and outback health centres are geared to provide excellent services because the nearest larger hospital isn't readily accessible. Here in our position, an hour and a half drive from the Big Smoke, neither the surgeon nor the anaesthetist can write prescriptions for pain relief once we leave hospital. Regional GPs, such as ours, are meant to provide post-operative crisis care such as prescribing adequate pain relief. Northam Hospital took down Michael's first cast and created another, due to his significant swelling. The hand therapist who moulded Michael's splint is a hundred kilometres away, the splint has become looser and less comfortable and we are trying to avoid using half a tank of fuel to see the occupational therapist for an altered splint. Rats!

This morning, I have launched into decisive action. Sandy Kevill, Hand Therapist to the Stars, is still practising, seven years after I last saw her. And she works out of her home near York. And we need a referral. I rang the surgeon's rooms for a referral, but he is on leave all week! In desperation, I organised a phone appointment at the GPs to gain the all-important referral.

And I thought that living in the country was meant to be dull and boring...

In other news, we have enjoyed a splendid weekend in the Gallery with art pieces off to new homes, additional stock arriving, and you guessed it, further movement within the East End Gallery.

Stay tuned for the next exciting instalment!

First came the "Black Summer" of bushfires...

Then came the flooding rains...

Followed closely by Coronavirus!

Our Local Hero, Premier McGowan closed the state and intrastate borders for a number of weeks. Go, Mark!

When restrictions eased, we christened my Mother's Day firepit with Callum, Bronwyn and gorgeous Immy...

Immy with Grampy...

Immy with Nanny...

Then the boom was lowered on Michael. Post-op Friday 19 June...

Saturday 20 June...

Tuesday 23 June...

And Darth, the bloody splint!

And in light of recent outbreaks in Victoria, I am delighted that our borders are still closed!

Dog Spike Dreaming

Bluntly speaking, Michael has had a dog of a week. We came home last Saturday full of hope after his surgery; that the worst was over and that progress would surely be steadily upwards.

That has not been the case.

Sunday and Monday - instead of his pain decreasing, the level knocked his socks off. I was worried as Michael has always had a fairly high pain tolerance. For him to have a score of eight out of ten was unusual. And just when we figured the pain couldn't get much worse, by Tuesday morning, he was not coping at all.

I rang the Boy Wonder's rooms. The prescribing of drugs had all been done by Anna, the anaesthetist. In hindsight, I probably should have contacted her. Instead, we were directed to our GP. Who was fully booked but rang us for a phone consult. His advice was to hotfoot it to Northam Hospital and have the cast taken down to check for infection.

We set out at one-thirty, without lunch. By two-thirty, Michael had been admitted to the Emergency department. Nurse Monica and Doctor Kylie were thorough, organised and compassionate. The cast was duly removed to reveal a monstrously swollen hand and wrist that were to blame for his intense pain. Plus, Michael's bruising extended from his fingers to his armpit. Just having the cast taken off gave him relief.

We discussed Michael's meds with Kylie. She recommended we stop the anti-inflammatory as that drug had been responsible for an upsurge of Michael's reflux symptoms. Which had only added to his general misery.

Whilst at Emergency, Michael was given Panadeine forte and an anti-inflammatory injection. A sling was fashioned for additional support. A new cast with room for any swelling was applied to his arm.

We left with more pain killers and a sandwich to tide us over until we arrived home. Wednesday we lay low as Michael attempted to comply with his exercises and the ongoing swelling.

We had an appointment with a specialised hand therapy service on Thursday. Situated in the renovated Midland Railway Workshops, where Michael had served the last two-and-a-half years of his apprenticeship, a return to his past helped divert his attention from his pain as we wandered around after his appointment.

Alva, the occupational therapist, moulded a flexible plastic splint around Michael's hand and wrist. As he had chosen jet black for the colour, his splint was promptly named Darth. Michael and Darth are going to be close buddies for the next couple of months. Alva gave us an actual leaflet of his exercises, which was helpful. And told him to lose the sling, which has turned out to be not terribly helpful...

Thursday night, his splint was just pressing in one spot. Michael was over taking any more trips, so armed with a hairdryer, he levered the splint out slightly to give his thumb more space. This solution did the trick and saved us from yet another trek for help.

All week, we have been searching for ways to distract Michael's very active mind, which actually assists with controlling his pain. His favourite phone games, TV and music takes his attention away to some extent. Complete immobilisation gives him the most comfort. Catnaps, often with the entire menagerie on the bed with him, gives his arm a break from gravity. Surprisingly, being in the Gallery by the fire and surrounded by his and other artworks allows a drift of his imagination towards future projects.

Dreaming about visiting his beloved Goldfields once again is pretty close to the most effective non-drug intervention.

We are planning our escape in three weeks. The anticipation for this latest trip is similar to our 2018 expedition. I had just had my knee replacement and was determined to leave on schedule, even if we had to obtain a small crane to get me in and out of Lily, our 4WD vehicle.

Hopefully, Michael will be able to drive once we get to the Goldfields in late August. Until then, I envisage I will do the bulk of the driving up to Port Hedland and some on the way south. We will see, but we are very much looking forward to heading north out of the winter.

Michael's renewed enthusiasm for one of his sculptures has given him much more pleasure. The original name was unsatisfactory and did not tell the story that he wanted to tell. So, the sculpture has been given an updated title. Without further ado, let me introduce "Dog Spike Destinies".

This sculpture was inspired by Michael's love of railways. Even as a youthful yahoo at the Railway Workshops, he was always transfixed by trains. At that time, he never would have admitted this, but the memories have become far more meaningful and affectionate as he transformed from a long-haired dropkick to a pillock of society.

Constructed with all recycled materials, the sculpture features Michael's beloved spheres and circles, with railway "dog" spikes at its heart. The story is of the railways of the Western Australian Goldfields, which initially opened up the region and significantly reduced deaths from thirst and exposure by those afflicted with "gold fever". The mild steel twists and turns represent the vast network of railways that were the lifeblood of so many communities. Residents would dress up in their Sunday best to visit the railway station as a train arrived. A speed record by a train was set in 1903 when divers with underwater gear travelled to Coolgardie to rescue a miner trapped in a flooded shaft at nearby Bonnievale. The train was the deliverer of goods and mail and passengers. The Goldfields railway eventually made its way to Laverton in the east and operated until 1957.

The echoes of these railways are reflected in "Dog Spike Destinies". Along with new artists Val Whiting and Igi Velt, this wonderful piece is available for sale at the East End Gallery. Railway enthusiasts - come on down!

Tuesday evening - with new cast and sling...

Darth the splint...

A bit happier on Friday...

Igi with hiking sticks...

Val Whiting - Three Reds...

Val Whiting - Mauve Rose...

Val Whiting - Foreman's Cottage...

Val Whiting - Emu Study...

Trekking to the Goldfields before the railway...

The arrival of civilisation...

Arriving in the Goldfields...

Michael with "Dog Spike Destinies".

Observations Of The Mount...

Michael and I have both been repeat offenders attending the Mount Hospital on a number of occasions, all under the care of our orthopaedic surgeon, Mister Ben Kimberley. Friday morning, we returned once again, Michael to undergo a major operation on his right wrist and hand. We were resident within the walls of the Mount for twenty-five hours and home in thirty hours. During our stay and now safely back in Heavenly Beverley, I have been pondering this excursion and considering how to toss both bouquets and brickbats. As both views are deserved.

The Mount has been "providing high-quality health care" for over thirty years, according to their home page, with two hundred and twenty-four private beds. The hospital admissions information guide is comprehensive and easy to read. Interestingly, little is said about boarding, which is permissible, as I stay with Michael now for every hospital stay. Prior to admission, a lengthy questionnaire needs to be completed and sent electronically. For somebody with limited or no computer understanding, this task alone could be problematic and would certainly require assistance.

To pay for the privilege of being a patient in the Mount costs an eye-watering nineteen hundred dollars per night. Plus, there is a curious "Prosthesis/Gap" fee of twenty-one hundred dollars. With those figures, one might expect very modern and up-market facilities and a gold-coated plate in Michael's forearm. Upon arrival and after attending the COVID 19 station at the front doors, the lobby certainly delivers an air of luxury. I was initially informed to "leave Michael at the door". That was my first inkling that my boarding was, once again, going to be an issue.

Michael's admission was relatively painless and dealt with efficiently by a very pleasant staffer. My admission as a boarder, as I had feared,  did not go smoothly. In spite of double-checking the situation on Tuesday, my status had not been recorded. There was a harried phonecall to Karri ward to check before I could be processed. I can't remember a single instance when my boarding has been straightforward. This lack of communication always causes us grief.

We were shown to a private room with a pleasant view out to Mounts Bay Road and the interchange gardens. The single rooms are not large and I had to work out where my folding bed would be set up. Michael snoozed in between the donning of the atrocious hospital gown, the application of the sexy stockings and a quick shave of his wrist. Whilst he was sleeping, I unpacked our toiletries and other paraphernalia, such as our jarmies, his alkaline water, my computer and his ugg boots. I gazed around 235 as I attended to this task, noting its condition. There were no tissues in either the room or the ensuite and no soap for the shower.

Thirty-plus years have not been kind to the Mount's rooms. The shelf behind Michael's bed was half-heartedly hanging on at a jaunty angle, screws protruding. I decided that even the weight of a feather might be a bit much. The doors were kicked and scuffed, the skirting desperately needed painting and I discovered dust and a discarded bandaid under his bed, with cotton and old blood still attached. Not ideal.

However, the nurses assigned to Michael were outstanding. Sanna and Tracey were cheerful and efficient during our brief stay in 235. Eric in Pre-Op kept our spirits raised whilst waiting for Michael to enter the inner sanctum of the operating theatre.

Communication continued to be patchy and confused. Due to possible COVID 19 rules, I did ask about accompanying Michael to Pre-Op as the theatre orderly arrived. The nurse answered in the negative, whereas our hero orderly, wearing a fund-raising Spiderman mask on the back of his head, contradicted her and confirmed that I was welcome in Pre-Op.

Rumblings about the lack of boarders' beds had already been raised with me. I was astounded that the hospital only had four folding beds for boarders. Apart from the facts that we are country pensioners, we were both aware that Michael was going to need assistance in basic tasks once his surgery was over. He was obviously going to be behind the eightball with his right arm in plaster and his left hand hampered by IV lines and oximeter for post-operative observations. Michael's routine after surgery was usually eating and sleeping. The eating part would not be possible without me. Plus, he disliked nurses helping him with bodily functions, showering and dressing. That had been parts of my boarding role.

My sleeping arrangements came to a head whilst Michael was in theatre. There were no folder beds. I confirmed, politely and firmly, that I would be staying with Michael and I would not be sleeping on the floor.

Within an hour, we had been moved into a double room - 282/283. The view was the carpark, so I pulled down the blinds. The air-conditioning duct was not in the middle of the room, but straight over the bed closer to the window. Michael had the bed closer to the door and the loo with no airflow. As a result, he spent the night either too hot or too cold, dependent on the master thermostat. For some strange reason, there were no longer blankets on the wards. The wonderful and warm cotton blankets were only readily available for theatre or same-day patients. In their place were thin and decidedly not warm covers.

As expected, Michael returned from theatre with both his arms out of commission. Initially, I held his drinks and fed him. As he became more wakeful, we swapped the oximeter onto his right fingers so he had more use of his left hand. He then successfully negotiated to ingest a sandwich and coffee by himself. 

The ensuite loo caused another headache. The toilet seat would not stay up by itself. That may sound like a trifling whinge, but Michael had to try and hold the seat up with his left hand whilst aiming his willy towards the bowl with his right plastered arm. Not easy. 

Time for another bouquet. The nurses were quick to attend to any needs that I could not do. Obs, drugs and a lightning bed straighten for him were all achieved. We would like to thank nurses Cathy, Yelen, Barry and Elsa for all their efforts, performed with both care and a smile.

Michael's Superman change from the ill-fitting hospital gown into his jarmies was one of my night tasks. A warm and leisurely shower, buttering his toast, making him plunger coffee and helping him dress were all completed by eleven o'clock. Ben came in on a Saturday morning, a child in tow, doing his rounds. Then, with a mountain of possessions (and his discharge summary) on a wheelchair, we gratefully left the Mount and headed for Heavenly Beverley.

My last experience of hospitalisation at the Mount was a five-day stay after my knee replacement. Longer hospital stays definitely test one's resolve, patience and humour. Overnight stays are easier to endure. Even so, I think the Mount needs to spend some money on room refurbishment. Individual air-conditioners, fresh paint and renovating the existing fittings could be accomplished in stages. Toilet seats that stay up or down as desired. Cotton blankets for warmth on the beds. New tray tables that don't stick. Upgrading the patients and visitors pantry on Karri ward and the provision of a microwave would also help.

Cleaning continues to be haphazard. Dust, dirt and soiled bandaids under beds should not be there. After discharge, beds need to be moved away from the corners so the cleaners can conduct a thorough job. Enough towels, pillows and additional blankets should be placed in the rooms ready for the next patients.

More folder beds are required. Boarders should be encouraged to stay, rather than spoken about in quiet whispers, particularly to assist frail or lonely relatives or those patients who wish the extra support a boarder can provide. Clear examples of needs include helping with eating, toileting, showering and dressing. Whilst on a two week stay at Joondalup Private Hospital, I made Michael's bed, placed soiled linen in the correct trolleys and aided him with daily tasks. As a result, he was much happier and I relieved the nurses of a number of the more mundane activities. In the end, Joondalup nursing staff were threatening to keep me there permanently.

This is not rocket science. Attending hospital can be frightening, unpleasant or just strange. Rooms should be modern, comfortable and welcoming. All needs should be met. Not all carers or family want to be boarders, but those who want to stay or whose family member wishes them to remain should be given every respect. Admission with a boarder should be a smooth process. Scrambling about for a folder bed when we were charged thousands for an overnight stay should not occur.

Monday afternoon. Michael is asleep as I write. I will be ringing the Boy Wonder's rooms shortly to begin the next stage of Michael's recovery.

Stay tuned.

Mister Ben Kimberley

The exterior of the Mount Hospital

Hospital fashion statement...

How hospitals make one feel...

A wrist...not Michael's...

Ulna shortening - not Michael's

Pins holding hand bones together - not Michael's...

Back from surgery and needing assistance...

Starting to get the hang of this...

The gorgeous gown...

Following morning in his jarmies...

Get me out of here!

 

The feeling of leaving hospital.