I managed to fracture my wrist while out on the razz.
After an hour or so when it had swollen right up, I was persuaded to go the hospital. After a bit of a curfufel having it ex-rayed- I couldn't stop my arm shaking as it hurt like a bastard- the doctor told me it was fractured and offered me a shot for the pain. I told him I was hammered, but he said not to worry, the shot wasn't a narcotic. I got the shot, but was told I would have to wait a couple of hours before they would have time to plaster it. I asked if I could go back to the pub. He said yes. Win.

After a few beers and broken arm lols it was back to the hospital, and plaster on. They then handed me a bottle of pain killers and told me not to drink on them.

I understand now to do what the doctor tells you.

I drank on them, and quickly found myself in the emergency room, linked up to some nice machines, and being given oxygen.

I am a twat.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 20:49, Reply)

Quality drugs...Leeds dental hospital
To cut a long story short...

a: went to dental hospital for an operation..
b: said 'yes' to trainee practice injection on me..
c: jaw clenched shut..back arched as my muscles went ridgid my heart hammering hard as I climbed off the table with the most massive rush ever when the novacaine hit a vein in the roof of my mouth!!!!!

OUTCOME: yay to dental hospital for my free drug experience......
(TROLLING AWAY living under a post ironic bridge, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 19:59, Reply)

I just don't think my doctor really cares any more
In you come!
Sit down, sit down
Chit chat, chit chat.
How are you feeling?
Not so good (clue - thats why I'm here)
Not to worry. Here's some lovely pills to fix you right up. Do you need some pills for anything else? No? Goodo
Off you go then.
Chin up


Every time.
(schrodingers cat now you see me, or not, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 19:50, Reply)

My doctor
is a bit of a character. On the occasions I have had need of his services, he's always been very professional and shown genuine care and concern, but although I do not know him personally in private life, he lives a few miles from here and I hear he's quite, quite mad.

He appears every year in pantomimes, usually as one of the dames. The man has so many children he makes the catholics from "The Meaning Of Life" look abstinent. He also likes a drink, so I hear, and is often to be found merrily whiling away the hours in his local pub.

The best one, though, happened a few years ago. In the village where I live, there used to be a small inn which sits just next to a hairpin bend in the main road, next to a bridge over a small stream. The building's still there but it's now disused, which is a shame but perhaps is safer for us in the long run. One evening, as punters drank their troubles away and enjoyed a spot of pool, my Doctor dropped in for a visit. Shunning the traditional "through the door" method however, he came straight through the wall in his car, having misjudged the severity of the hairpin bend outside.

At least there was a doctor on the scene.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 15:18, Reply)

If my kid was a car...
.. he'd fail his MOT.

When little Mini was born at 34 weeks and managed to avoid SCBU or any major health problems I counted my lucky stars and thought I'd dodged a major bullet. A healthy prem kid. Result! Hah! No chance. His health problems just lay dorment for a few months. So far we've dealt with: reflux, excema, squints, suspected retinal cancer (that came to nothing thank goodness), asthma, allergies and a delightful bowel disorder which still has me cleaning shitty pants 2 or 3 times a day. I know other people live with much much worse but it's been really tough for us, and it's been heartbreaking to see Mini get so self conscious about his poop problem.

However what has made dealing with all of this easier is the wonderful help of NHS staff. From the wonderful friendly receptionists at our local GPs who always recognise my voice and ask after him (especially the lovely lady who called the ambulance for me when I went into labour at 30 weeks in the surgery waiting room!!), to the nurse who phones us once a month for an in depth discussion of the state of Mini's turds to the lovely consultant dermatologist who listened to my ramblings about Mini's excema and the triggers. Every single one of them has been an absolute star and helped us all deal with these complications. It's been wonderful to meet health professionals who talk to my child, and explain his treatment to him, and especially the paediatric nurses who have helped him conquer his self consciousness about his turd-troubles. It can't be fun being a 5 year old who knows he shouldn't be messing his pants at his age, but they've helped him realise it's not his fault.

I also want to say a HUGE thank you to the lovely (and really rather sexy) dentist who took Mini's tooth out. At 18 months Mini chipped one of his front teeth. After 3 years it went all manky (that's a medical term dontcha know), had an abcess and needed whipping out. There wasn't a single tear from my little trooper because of the excellent manner of our dentist.

So yeah, apologies for lack of funnies. I just wanted to say I know how fortunate I am to have such a brilliant team of health professionals to support me and my family. I wouldn't be nearly as good a mummy as I am now without their help, and I'll always be grateful to them.
(mad-mother, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 14:30, 2 replies)

Ginger Transylvanian nurse
I had a rough spell last year health wise, it turns out that I have colitis, which I'd never heard of before but means my bowels will occasionally try to explode. Not the greatest news, when I finally heard it, but vastly preferable to the words 'bum cancer' that had been whispering themselves in the back of my mind for months.

In retrospect, I know that my treatment was mostly very good. After all, I'm still here and no longer in immediate danger of exploding for the moment. A couple of things really stand out, for good and for bad:

1. My family doctor, who had been ace up to that point, said she suspected crohn's disease, and that she could not treat me until a series of embarrasing tests confirmed it. Made sense, except that the waiting list for those tests was six months long, during which time I became very, very ill. Couldn't eat. Slept all the time. Eventually I couldn't take fluids, and at this point went to A and E because I really thought I was dying. When they admitted me, the hospital said I was far too ill now for the confirming tests, and gave me the steroids that my own doctor had refused to dish out, but which might have saved me several months of suffering

2. No vegetarian options in hospital. I couldn't leave until I would eat again, but they couldn't feed me. Thank god for visitors and the local Morrisons.

3. The lovely tea lady who sat up for hours with me that first night when I cried through a box of tissues, telling me that other people had the same symptoms and didn't die.

4. The ginger nurse with a Transylvanian accent who asked me about my eating habits. By this point I was size ten or smaller, weight drops off when your body won't process food any more. I honestly replied that I had eaten very little for months. She looked me up and down, sneered, and said "you will see dietician to find out why you are fat." Thanks love.

5. A ward containing two dozen people with tummy and bowel complaints, and two toilets.

The NHS does a really important job and saves countless lives every day, I know. Like my own area of employment, education, it contains breathtaking stupidities, bizarreness in abundance, and mostly seems to work because there are more lovely people prepared to go above and beyond than lazy, rude or just plain thick people. Cheers to all the b3ta medical types out there, from consultants down to cleaners : )
(magenta may, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 14:16, Reply)

Dental Surgery
I'm 'fortunate' enough to work for a university which has its own school of dentistry. One of the staff benefits is the ability to sign up for a round of free dental treatment - if you don't mind it being performed by an undergraduate.

Most of my teeth were in OK shape but my Lower left six had serious occlusal caries distally AND mesially, and it needed a root canal.

I've had a root canal before, it wasn't exactly hugs and puppies, but it was tolerable and only took an hour or so. At least, that's in private practice.

Because the undergrads have to learn how to do things the hard way, they can't use any of the fancy tools modern dental practices have - so, to make sure they've found the end of each root canal, they essentially leave an endodontic file in the root of the tooth and send me for an x-ray.

This went on for about five one-hour sessions. Each time, I was numbed up, the temporary filling was drilled out, my undergrad would have another go at getting out all the living root with a tiny file, would inevitably fail, I'd scream, we'd run out of time and I'd be sent off with another temporary filling and a further appointment.

After five sessions or so, my undergrad had the good sense to realize he wasn't getting very far, and asked his tutor for help. They attempted the 'brute force' method to get rid of the last of the root (basically telling me to brace myself while they hacked away at it) but I *really* couldn't stand it and ended up a trembling crying mess in the chair.

At least I got some free lucozade.

It was at this point they discovered a there was probably ANOTHER canal which they hadn't spotted which was probably causing the problems. They suggested I could go on a waiting list to see a specialist who could probably solve it, but I could be waiting up to a year.

I politely informed them that I just wanted the gorram thing out of my skull as quickly as possible. They scheduled me for surgery two days later.

I'd already had a wisdom tooth extracted so I thought I knew what to expect. I was mistaken. My tooth was so angry at all the trauma it had endured that it did not want to go without a fight. It took almost four cartridges of anaesthetic to get me numb enough to even start trying to remove it. It was still sore but I figured I could live with it as it would be over soon.

After five minutes of tugging, twisting and tearing with forceps, the undergrad needed a rest. He got his tutor to have a go. They took it in turns - my tooth holding on so dearly to my jaw that you'd think it were a Titanic survivor - until I finally hear one of them (the student I think) saying that he thinks that it's starting to give.

And then - snap.

The crown of that tooth, which at this point had almost no internal structure left, snapped away from the roots. So I was left with this handy little mineral 'cup' below my gum line, just waiting to get full of food and bacteria.

They scheduled me for further surgery two days later...

THIS time, I had an entire operating room to myself - a far cry fronm the open plan cubicles that most of the work is done in. With the application of much anaesthetic, some cutting of my gums, some drilling away of superfluous jaw bone - they were able to slip the tiny metal shoe-horn-looking root extractors down the sides of each root and lever them out. A couple of stitches later and I was on my way.

It didn't end there - for some weird reason, after the gum had healed over, a couple of weeks later I noticed something sharp and hard cutting through the newly healed gum, almost like I was growing a new tooth underneath. I'd had enough of surgery at this point so one night, whilst at a nightclub of all places, I grabbed the 'growth' and just yanked it out. I've had no bother with the extraction site since.

Remember kids, brush your teeth!!!
(theSHALROTH Gaga's tits are on fucking fire!!!, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 14:10, Reply)

Any one heard of this?
With our first born, labour went quite well. (Read, the wife is awesome. When others would moan, she just got on with it!) But when the first 'real' contractions started, I called the midwife to see how it was going. She followed the usual advice, ie it had to be too early, the wife was blatently having the first signs, not the last!
Whilst on the 'phone, Mrs Grinner noticed something "coming out".
I mentioned this to the midwife, probably sounding a bit hurried, watching what looked like a pink balloon coming out her nethers.
"Come in then- NOW!" cried the midwife.
Now this is the fun bit. Her waters never broke. The sack came out in one whole bit, fluid inside like a water bomb. So I'm left holding this gourd shaped bag of straw water wondering what the hell to do with it.

Not a soul at the hospital believed me when I told them. The baby must have wriggled, Houdini style, out of the sack and pushed it out of the way to get out himself.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 12:52, 2 replies)

Dentists.
Since I was 16, I've been very very terrified of the dentist, to the extent that...well...I didn't go for a very long time (about 16 years, to be honest).

My ex husband (that's husbandthesecond) kept telling me how fantastic his dentist was, and I finally took the plunge and made an appointment for a checkup and cleaning. The receptionist was fabulous - when making the appointment I told her I was terrified, and the next day the dentist called me personally to discuss the first appointment and even offered me VALIUM!
Somewhat a little calm (but weeping silently), I sat in the waiting room. The dental assistant came out and took me into a private room. She explained what she was going to do - x-rays etc - and then took me into the dentist.

He was fantfuckingtastic. He looked in my mouth without dental instruments - just used his fingers for a bit of a prod and a poke, and quietly told me what work needed doing (7 fillings, 3 root canals, 2 wisdom teeth extractions).

We did some of the work, no valium involved because this guy was, quite frankly, fucking awesome. A couple of weeks later, I developed a severe toothache - wake up in the middle of the night in pain type toothache and he agreed to go into the surgery on a Saturday to see what was wrong with my gob.
Wisdom tooth infection, he could either take it out there and then or he could give me antibiotics and painkillers and hope that would fix it, but there was a strong possibility of it abcessing. I opted to take it out there and then.

After he yanked it out (painless - like I said, this guy is great), he noticed my molar was very loose. Puts his finger in my mouth and just yanked it out!

After that, I was never afraid of going to the dentist. I went through the process of getting the rest of my mouth fixed up and now quite happily trot off every six months for a cleaning and to catch up with the awesome staff!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 12:36, 5 replies)

I'm now in a Mountain Rescue team.
and would offer this piece of advice.

If you are ever so injured/ incapacitated as to need to be stretchered off and there is no helicopter available, there is a good chance that you will be offered an opiate based painkiller (morphine). You will also be offered an anti emetic to reduce nasuea.

Please, please, please take both. There is nothing more distressing for casualty and stretcher team than someone strapped onto a stretcher having to be turned upside down to be sick, because no matter how "hard" you are being stretchered down a hillside when you can only see sky (or my scary beard) when you are dosed up to the eyeballs is a nauseating as the worst seacrossing ever.

One day I would like to ride on the zero g "vomit comet" aeroplane just to see if it is worse. But I doubt it.
(Littlesirjohn sprung up his head and so amazed them all., Sat 13 Mar 2010, 12:22, 9 replies)

I was working backstage
on a very well known major musical starring a facially disfigured guy in a mask.

Every show, at interval a bunch of us used to convene in one of the actor's dressing rooms for a cuppa and a chat. I would always sit on the floor, and one night (we think), I was bitten by a spider, probably a couple of times. I didn't notice when it happened.

I was fine at the top of Act 2, but by the time the act's opening number was over, I had sweats and chills, severe abdominal cramps, I couldn't speak, could barely stand and my face, hands, tongue and throat were swelling - the last two particularly serious, as it threatened to cut off my breathing. An ambulance was called for me post haste.

The ambos were great. They didn't pre-judge anything, spoke to me like I was human and gave me a good going over. They found two spots where there appeared to be tiny pairs of puncture marks, looking like spider bites, and told the docs when we got to the hospital that they thought that was the cause of my problems.

However, the two doctors at the hospital were having none of it. I was young, I was dressed head to toe in black (a necessity of the backstage gig, but I guess they didn't know that), and I worked in showbusiness - therefore, I must have taken drugs, because that's what all those young louts in the entertainment industry do. They were absolutely determined that that's what happened.

I realise A&E must see an awful lot of fuckheads who take things they shoudn't, but for fucks sake - if two experienced ambos are saying they saw spider bites, and if the patient is ill, scared, but otherwise compus mentis, is pointing to the bites on her arm and is obviously not just having a bad trip - then maybe the problem really is a spider bite, despite the fact the patient is wearing black and works in a theatre.

I was in casualty with no relief for many hours. No attempt to identify the spider (obviously, because they didn't believe me) or give me anything to relieve my symptoms. I simply had to wait until the symptoms (and the incessant questions about what drugs I had taken and accusations of lying) passed. At one point, as I had a little sort of fit where I struggled particularly hard for breath, the doctor yelled at me to stop it, like it was my fault, or I had some control over it.

Sorry, there's no punchline. I was just lucky I wasn't bitten by a funnel web or something, because I wouldn't have been believed.
( HairyCanary as Ann B. Davis as Alice, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 11:59, 4 replies)

As I now work exclusively with doctors and surgeons can I mention one small thing?

At their jobs, within their speciality, they're magic. They know their stuff. But, if they're ever tempted to to get involved with computers more than they need to do their jobs, distract them with something shiny.

Doctors are like cats. They *will* chase shiny things. They can't help themselves.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 11:56, 2 replies)

maybe I should have writen this last week...
Dear Successive governments,
please, please, please leave the NHS the fuck alone! You and your continuos changes for changes sake, endless mountains of paperwork and so called "experts" who draw huge salaries and only manage to piss off the already over burdened staff. The Health service in general and hospitals in particular should be run by doctors and nurses. You can not run a hospitals like businesses - they will not turn a profit that's not what they're about; you seem to have lost sight of that along the way. Having been around this cold world and seen systems from New York to Nepal I can say that the NHS continues to hold a very special place in my heart. It's fixed my bones, healed my wounds and even managed to cure that strange rash which I must have got from sharring a towel - honest. In all that time I have been treated as a person not a number by staff who some how managed to smile, my hat is always off to them.
So politicans let them get on with it, give them what they need to do the job they get paid for and return the NHS to the world leader it once was.
Yours a grateful paitent.
(The kneeling rifleman Is slowly getting there.., Sat 13 Mar 2010, 11:34, 1 reply)

My dog's self-esteem was too high.
We had to put him down.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 11:06, Reply)

Right - my turn . . .
I’ve read 8 or so pages of comments from those who love/loathe the public health system, and now it’s my turn to tell you all what gives me the shits . . . and some people will get a serve here – apologies if I offend.

I have been a doctor for 10 years, all of which have been in the public system. I chose a specialty that has taken a great deal of my life to complete, and thank God, I’m almost there.

Not all doctors are great people; not all nurses care about their patients; not all of us are shiny happy individuals after 10 hours’ sleep in 3 days, or no chance to stop for a meal in almost 16 hours (and no, that’s not bullshit – that’s my last week of work). You will have the dedicated, the incompetent, the apathetic – and they all work in the same place.

What I do daily is in a sense self-inflicted (I chose to follow this career path), but some things are not very helpful:

1. Rudeness – the few incidents I can remember being rude to a patient have all been when they are being unreasonable, dangerous, or when someone else tries to die and I have to leave the conversation about your dogs to fix it . . . now. I really don’t deal well with the following subgroups:
a) I’ve had problems with hospitals before and if you don’t treat me properly, I’m going to sue your ass (actual conversation). Lovely start to the consult – may result in you being seen last by my boss because we will document everything we say to you – twice, and refer you endlessly for further advice.
b) The “I know exactly what treatment I need and you will give it to me.” Feel free to show me case reports, but be ready for me to debunk them if I can show you a randomized study to contradict it; I don’t endorse homeopathy, chiropractic or naturopathy but feel free to discuss with me a trial of it if its what you want – I will disagree with you, but you’re mostly grown-ups, so you can decide some of your treatment for yourselves. Also, would you tell your hairdresser how to hold her scissors or a builder how to lay bricks? Probably not. The training for most of these jobs is long and borders on soul-destroying, and we’re not let loose on any of you unless we are safe.
c) Drunk and disorderly. Someone posted earlier about a metacarpal fracture not being treated because the doctor thought he was an idiot: let me give you some perspective: I call this particular fracture (base of 5th metacarpal) an “idiot fracture” because it usually comes from punching something hard, like a wall. To fix it requires surgery, and not fixing it removes the risks of open wounds and anaesthetics. The other upside to not fixing it means if the idiot does it again, I don’t have to fish out broken metal, as well as fix the fracture again. Drunk drivers and those who don’t know what a seatbelt is really, really, REALLY give me the shits. You damage yourselves and others, all without good reason. Many nights and Emergency lists are spent on you, because you think you’re invincible. Many families have received the “I’m sorry he passed away on the table” talk because that plastic strap you idiots have next to your seat wasn’t fastened firmly around you.
d) The “you sit around and do nothing” patients. I have been told (?7 years ago) by a rather angry young man that doctors sit around and drink coffee all day. The other variation on this is the “you guys are loaded” tune (usually trundled out by some of my family) and "your job is easy". I leave the house at about 5:30 am and return about 7:00 pm, provided I’m not on-call (on-call means no sleep at all for the night, and a theatre list the next morning). I have a mobile permanently turned on to receive calls from my bosses, juniors, and patients. Time not spent at work or sleeping is usually dedicated to studying. My last timesheet says (*quick glance*) I was rostered for work for 130 hours last fortnight (not including some extra hours where we come in early or leave late, but don’t claim it, because admin. didn’t think it was necessary). My job is not "easy".
I’m not bitter about my workload, but I am pissed when someone thinks it all a walk in the park. Oh – and a senior surgical registrar makes less an hour than the theatre technicians I work with.
e) “I won’t do what you tell me” – stop smoking because I have an open fracture and it will heal twice as fast without the fags? No – won’t stop smoking. Fast for an operation in six hours – nope, don’t feel like it . . . patient seen eating crisps 1 hour before start time. Please take this antibiotic for your infection – I didn’t finish my course – I forgot/got better/didn’t think it mattered. Keep this plaster on for six weeks then I’ll take it off when you’re back – patient hacks it off with an angle grinder at week 2. Arrghhhhh!!!!!! Some of the treatments we suggest for you are useful; some of the things we say will really happen if you don’t listen. Please, please follow advice, or tell me early if you plan to ignore it (there may be an alternative, or I might just read you the riot act and insist you do as I say).

2. Bastardisation from within the medical fraternity (notice the reference to the brotherhood of medicine, not sorority – God forbid women could form a group in surgery). We are our own worst enemies – we criticize, we pressure and openly humiliate our colleagues. We tell them it’s “character building” and to “toughen up.” We assess them for training by forcing them to do that “little extra time” (unpaid) ie: stand out from the crowd by staying behind hours to complete work someone else could/should do. Those that suck it up and don’t complain get the references. We have the gall to tell our colleagues that workplace laws state they have to go home after 86 hours in a fortnight, but we expect the dedicated ones will sign off their timesheets for the time, but stay at work – that’s dedication you see. If someone fucks up, we don’t always stick up for them – better to let them burn and save our own behinds (I’m glad to say this no longer happens much, but did when I started training).

I have worked in approximately 18 or so hospitals (at last count) in this time. We get rotated every 3-6 months (and it’s great fun to pack up your life in the boot of the car to move to the next place, usually in the weekend changeover between jobs). None as a whole has been particularly shonky, dangerous or guilty of providing bad service – but there are places where the attitudes stink, and I won’t work there again. I have seen bad doctors, nurses, pharmacists, social workers, admin. staff. I have also seen some great people doing wonderful work, quite often without being obliged to do so, and with little thanks.

Would I do this again, if I knew what I was signing up for 10 years ago? Probably. Would I suggest my children do this for a living? Maybe – depends on whether they have thick enough skin, and an endless capacity for punishment.

I always told myself I should choose a specialty where I wake up in the morning, and 99% of the time I’m glad to go to work. I’m quite lucky I still have that feeling (most) mornings.
( Mrs Legless . . . belongs to, well, you know . . . :), Sat 13 Mar 2010, 10:52, 17 replies)

The NHS is great
I've rarely had to use it, but I've always found the staff helpful and, strangely considering the pressures of their job, quite happy.

Hats off to the jolly hardworking doctors and nurses who keep this country healthy.

(Except my uni gp, who was a grumpy, chain smoking cunt who liked to inflict pain and humiliation on his patients. Swansea University around 1999-2001 if you must know)
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 10:42, Reply)

Spare a thought for the animals

( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 8:13, 2 replies)

My house got dry rot.
We had to take it to the housepital.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 8:04, Reply)

Not funny (well not for me)
Last week my wisdom tooth became inflamed having had the indecency to get trapped under the cusp of one of the other lumps of calcium in my mouth. Went to dentist expecting some painkillers and referral for surgery...oh no...'We'll pop that out now for you if you like?' Two and a half hours later amid much blood and screaming like a girl out came the last fragments of my very much defunct wisdom tooth. It refused to budge when he wiggled the screwdriver under it, the pliers were not much more effective, the drilling to clear a path was pointless. Put it this way after innumerable numbers of anaesthetic jabs which had all now basically worn off I felt the scalpel slice through my gum and the drilling below the gumline, I felt the tooth shatter, I felt each piece being individually wrenched out of my incredibly sore mouth and I felt the needle go in and out for both stitches. They even had to cancel two appointments after mine and shut the door so no-one else could hear me while I was pinned down to get enough leverage.

It was not a good day. On the up side I am going under a general to have the other one out.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Sat 13 Mar 2010, 8:00, 5 replies)

young couple at the doctor's
"we've come to get the morning after pill."

"have you had unprotected sex?"

"no. im pregnant."

*beat* "im afraid that wont work anymore. please... take a seat."
(ladyintheradiator, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 2:25, Reply)

After having a chuckle with my last one
I reckon it's worth posting this here.

A few years back, as I've mentioned before, my mum passed away quite suddenly from cancer of the stomach. I took her into hospital on the 5th of January, and she passed away on the 5th of February. In the two weeks after she was diagnosed, she went downhill very rapidly, and in the final week she was very groggy, sleeping most of the time and had a few wee hallucinations. It was heartbreaking to watch my mum be so brave as the doctors found every way they could not to tell us there was nothing they could do.

In that last week, a nurse came in to.... do whatever it was she had to do, my memories of those times are reasonably vague. What I do remember is how nice that nurse was, how she chatted and joked with my mum who, although she was so weak she could hardly lift her head, smiled and laughed along with her.

I never said anything to the nurse, my mum was transferred home 2 days later so we never saw her again. I remember now thinking how I should get something for the nurses, just a card or something small to thank them for how they cared for my mum in the last days, but with everything going so fast, I just forgot.

Nurses are ace. I'll never know how they manage to do the job that they do.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 2:09, 1 reply)

I've never really taken from the NHS.....
A&E once for a collar bone that I broke quite spectacularly falling off my motorbike as a nipper, the usual dentists etc. (must go again really) but it's always been there when I needed it.

I'm now about to sound like an advert.......

But I do give something back. I have no idea what prompted me to start but about 12 years ago I started to become a blood donor and as I have a fairly rare blood group, B- (about 2% of the UK pop) it's the decent thing to do. I'm also on the organ donor register, I mean FFS if I don't need it you are most welcome to it if it works (this rules out liver, lungs and kidneys tho.)

I reckon they've had had 30-40 pints out of me over the years and I do it just for the biscuits, well that and having 2 pints of Guinness afterwards is a cheap thrill.

If you have an hour spare and are in good health not gay or an intravenous drug user it's well worth doing.

It doesn't hurt (much) and now they have new machines and you can times yourself (personal best for 500Ml is 3mins 28)

www.blood.co.uk


(Speshal, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 1:50, 22 replies)

the prick
almost 2 years ago, i spent 5 days in the rather lovely east riding hospital in not-so-lovely hull. i was in a very small ward, just 4 beds, each with fans and overhead t.vs. very comfy.
there were 2 men and 2 women in the ward, all of us having gastric surgery. the man in the bed next to me was john.
now, john was a good 6ft 6, a bit porky, but only needed to lose a stone or two. as a result, his g.p had advised him not to have the surgery, as he didn't need it.
john did not agree.
it soon became apparent that john didn't agree with anyone about anything. his sneering disdain very quickly pissed on our collective chips. it took less than an hour for the 3 of us to decide we really didn't like him.
the next day was Operation Day. the woman opposite me went first, then me, then the nice bloke across the way(terry), then john.
now, anyone who's had gastric bypass surgery will know that it's keyhole surgery and fairly painless, meaning we were all quite chirpy within 2 hours of waking up.
not john, oh no.
he moaned and complained the entire time, constantly pressing his buzzer to tell the nurses he was in "excruciating pain". this was bullshit. he was full of as much morphine as they could possibly give him and his pain would instantly vanish as soon as his mates phoned him.
when he realised he wasn't getting maximum sympathy, he got sneaky. he pulled the curtain round his bed and, believing he couldn't be seen proceeded to twist his drip tube every couple of minutes, which would set the alarm off and bring the nurses at a run.
eventually, terry told him he could see what he was doing and he'd told the nurses.
john didn't like this, so he started poking and picking at his staples, until he finally managed to open one of his incisions and get his germy fingers in there. cue an emergency call to the surgeon and a second trip to theatre.
as much as i hated him, i felt terribly sorry for his poor, downtrodden wife. now, if your partner comes to visit you in hospital, it's only natural that you downplay how bad you feel so as not to worry them, isn't it?
not john.
he spent every second of her visits saying the pain was so intense that he wanted to die. the poor woman was an emotional wreck.
the final straw came 2 days later, when we were all getting our delightful thrombosis stockings removed. a male nurse came in with soap and warm water, to give our legs a bit of a wash. john refused to lift his own feet 6 FUCKING INCHES off the floor to stick them in the bowl. he just looked at the nurse and said "that's what you're paid for". i'd had enough now. "no it isn't, you lazy shit," i said, "lift your own feet up, you're not a cripple." very grudgingly, he did.
unfortunately, i'd pissed him off, so he decided to make my last night in hospital as unpleasant as he could. he set his alarm off over 30 times, coughed and pretended to snore as loudly as he could, kept his light on all night and shouted for the nurses instead of using his call button.
i spent my last night there sleeping on a chair in the corridor.
as i was leaving the next day, he gave me a smarmy grin and said "keep in touch, yeah?" "not fucking likely, you prick", i replied.
i really felt sorry for those nurses, they were lovely and he treated them like shit.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 1:46, 1 reply)

Oh great. I'd forgotten about this til now.
When I was just a young sack, I didn't like p.e. very much. Although it wasn't the primary reason, the fact that I somehow did myself a rather embarrassing injury while running around trying not to get the ball passed to me added to my loathing of those two hours a week.

I remember we were in the dance studio, for some reason, and I fell. I fell backwards and landed on my arse. I got up, dusted myself off and wondered why my knackers hurt. Being a young pup, I thought nothing of it and waited for it to subside.

Two days of clawing agony later, I told my mum. Acknowledging the fact that I even had knackers to my mum was not an easy thing for a twelve year old me to do, but utilising ventriloquism (don't ask) I managed it.

My dad doesn't like hospitals. He decided in his infinite wisdom that he would have a look himself. Don't be alarmed and think this was some sort of weird "wicker man" style abusive childhood scenario, the shame was tangible in that room as he surveyed my conspicuously uninjured-looking bollocks. As I had had a root around myself and reported finding a "lump", but he could see nothing, he grudgingly conceded a doctor should be called.

So there I am, in the local hospital. They pop me on a table and whip my clackers out. A cursory examination by the much loved family physician (who was another person who was seeing my pods for the first time that week) and a mystery person who I still have no idea why they were there, and the conundrum was solved. I had twisted what he described to me rather horrifically as my "third testicle" which was growing lovingly from the side of what presumably was my second testicle (although until that point, I had never had cause to allocate them numbers). Apparently, half of all men have an extra tadpole factory sprouting from their spuds, a tiny little added extra which is usually never noticed unless, as in my case, it becomes twisted. Then, as your face turns as blue as the air around you, it generally gets noticed pretty fast.

They gave me two options. Or should I say, they gave my mum two options, being that I was twelve. There is a marked difference there, as the option I would have chosen would have been the "wait until it goes away (though it might happen again)" one. My mother, though, in her infinite wisdom, elected to choose the "get dragged into hospital, have your pea-pod split open, your bollocks laid on a table and your newly discovered mutant-power hacked off" - although they worded it differently.

Manly as ever, I fainted.

Cut to however long it took to schedule my divorce from bollock number three, and I'm laid in a hospital bed. Everyone in britain by this point had had a gander at my nadgers, which remained, despite their agonised state, disapointingly twelve-year-old-sized. The fateful hour arrived, and I was wheeled off for my surgery, wracked with fear that the anesthetic wouldn't work on me. Then, suddenly, all the fear evaporated and she was there.

They wheeled me into what appeared to be a cupboard. A man was eagerly shoving a shunt into my little hand when this beautiful nurse entered, and the place lit up. Her golden hair shone as she spoke to me, and she giggled as she popped a toffee in her mouth, saying she would make me jealous as I hadn't been allowed to eat for 24 hours. I was mesmerised. She was, to my terrified twelve year old eyes, the most beautiful thing in the world.

The world which came crashing in a second or so later as she whipped back the sheets and said "lets have a little look then.... aaaaah yes." and toddled off back out of the room.

After that, I am genuinely amazed the surgeon managed to find my bangers to operate.

I got out the same day, which was blessed relief as the little cunt in the bed next to me was attempting to commit suicide by watching bedknobs and broomsticks until he exploded.

I learned something from that whole experience. Dissolving stitches do not fizz and bubble in the bath.

Length? The scar is less than an inch, which provides a unique point of reference down there.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 1:26, 2 replies)

Last year I had to go to hospital to have a mole removed from the end of my penis
Last time I fuck one of them.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 0:44, Reply)

I went to hospital with a sore cock once
Had been wanking too much.

I was 6.
( Ungersven would support SpankyHanky's patreon, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 0:29, Reply)

Hospital porn.
The Woman got ill in India. As we were traveling around the country, we couldn't really admit her to a hospital, so made do with different 'doctors' (imagine Leslie Neilson in Airplane, but Indian) prescribing ayuverdic gel, unidentifiable antibiotics and strange powders along the way. None of these worked, and eventually she was admitted to The Best Hospital In Varanasi. Lizards on the walls, mice on the floor, people sleeping on every inch of floorspace, one English speaking doctor in the whole building. Guards at the entrance hired specifically to stop monkeys from getting into the building. We had a private ward, though: one bin in the room used for needles, gloves, drip contents, bog roll, food waste, the lot. She fucking hated it.
Still, there was a massive widescreen telly at the foot of the bed. Huge it was. And what was on, one Tuesday evening, while she was asleep? Hardcore pornography. Massive, widescreen, uncensored hardcore pornography. Good night, that was. The NHS could learn a thing or two from that.
(rnuk http://flickr.com/rnuk, Sat 13 Mar 2010, 0:28, Reply)

My experience in Stafford contrasts with the Mary Heweston hsopital, Keswick
I fell and badly hurt my ankle on Catbells, near Keswick in the Lake District.

I got down with a little help from my friends and taxied to the cottage hospital.

The receptionist was very nice and asked what had happened and offered me a cup of tea. She then apologised that they did not have any full time doctors, but there was an on call one who would take an hour or so to come over.

The nurse makes more tea, but before I could drink it, a gorgeous young doctor strides in, takes an xray with the help of the nurse, makes the diagnosis, gave me some crutches and sends me on my way.

The moral of the story?
Don't get too ill in the Lakes as they will pack you off to Whitehaven (where people have more fingers, arms and heads etc. than human normal) But if you get a bit ill, go the Mary Heweston, its ace and has free tea.
(Littlesirjohn sprung up his head and so amazed them all., Sat 13 Mar 2010, 0:22, 1 reply)

The recently headline grabbingly shit hospital in Stafford
has been shit for a number of years.

I woke up on the Friday before my wifes birthday, felt dog rough and called in sick to work. When she got home, the light of my life insists that I call our GP. The GP asks some questions and diagnoses appendicitis. She says go straight to the hospital and in the meantime she would fax a letter with her diagnosis to the hospital to short cut sitting around in A&E for hours. (it being a Friday night and all)

I am delivered to A&E and told by the everso polite receptionist to sit down and wait my turn. "But my GP has faxed a letter across" "I don't care, sit down and wait your turn" My wife has to go to the station to meet friends coming up for her birthday.
A&E fills up slowly.
I crawl across the floor to the loo to be sick. Time passes in a fever dream. My wife comes back - "What are you doing here? - You should be in by now." She remonstrates with the receptionist. I am sick again. An orderly picks me up and puts me on a trolley and says "We have the letter from your GP, the consultant will be along in a minute to confirm its appendicitis and admit you"

I am thinking even if it is not appendicitis I am really fucking ill.

I am wheeled into a cubicle and time passes.

More time passes and I eventually croak loud enough to attract someones attention. The doctor sees me, sticks his thumb up my arse, says "Yes, it is appendicitis, we will operate tonight". Time passes. I am wheeled somewhere and smacked up to the eyeballs.

I wake up the next day feeling a bit better and a smiling consultant says, "You were very lucky, we got it out just in time, it was about to burst".

It turns out that from arrival to being seen was about 6 hours (depsite the diagnosis of the GP saying I should be seen urgently) and they left it another couple of hours before cutting me open.

To add insult to injury, after a couple of days when I was on the road to recovery, and after a particularly memorable night when some old farmer in the bed next to me spent the night moaning and crying out in pain "If I was an animial I would put me out of my misery" they would not let me leave until I had a shit.
Cunts.
Moral of the story?
Don't live in Stafford.
Its shit.
The hospital is particularly shit. If you are ill drive or get an ambulance to take you anywhere else. Really, anywhere else (even Wolverhampton or Stoke).
(Littlesirjohn sprung up his head and so amazed them all., Sat 13 Mar 2010, 0:14, 2 replies)

One Friday night
I'd drunk a little too much and ended up snapping my banjo string. Lots of pain, lots of blood. I went to the doctor on Monday morning. "How can I help?" he asked. "I've snapped my frenulum," I said, pointing down. "You're what?" he asked. "I've snapped my banjo string. My banjo string. It's not there any more. I snapped it."

He didn't really know what to say. He didn't take a look, he didn't ask much about it. He did call his mate to check if there was anything I should do. His verdict? "It might grow back, it might not. Don't use if for a while and when you do, go easy eh?"
Thanks doc. I'd worked that much out for myself.
( CowJam, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 22:57, 4 replies)