An Unexpected Trip to A&E
Several years ago I was out celebrating Hogmanay with a few of my mates. There were nine of us in total, three were close mates and the rest more casual acquaintances. We had gathered at Alex's to pre-party a bit and then the plan was to head down to The Street to meet everyone else.

In Orkney, most people under the age of 18 (who are unable to sneak their way into the only club that Kirkwall has) meet in a place in the town centre called 'The Street'. It really is as dull as it sounds. It's just a street about 300 yards long and on Hogmanay about 400 or 500 people turn up to bring the bells in. Once the excitement of the Cathedral's bells chiming has passed, everyone makes their way to any of the numerous house parties that are usually organised afterwards. That was the plan anyway.

The night started innocuously enough. We sat in his house drinking and chatting while watching dvd's and generally just having a normal night in. After a while one of the guys at the house, John, suddenly began giving me dirty looks for no apparent reason. Well, it wasn't for a reason I was aware of anyway. Every so often I'd catch him glaring at me but I ignored him as much as I could. I had known him for several years and he had a reputation for being a bit of a tit when drinking so I decided just to let it go.

A few hours later when we were leaving the house John pulled me up and started arguing with me about something. I can't remember everything he was moaning about but one of the things was that he thought I had stolen his beer. I told him I hadn't but he was adamant I had. I'm not really a confrontational person so I tried my best to get him to leave it be and walk away. After all it was New Year, a time for celebration, and I hadn't actually stolen his beer.

When I thought he had settled down a bit I turned and began to walk away to join my mates who had already started walking down the road. The next thing I felt was a solid thump on the side of my head, causing me to stumble forward a few steps, followed by the sound of glass shattering all around me. When I regained my balance and turned around, John was already running off down an adjacent road.

The next thing I know I'm being dragged back inside the house as I was told there was a lot of blood spilling everywhere. Once in the bathroom this is what I saw in the mirror: (Possibly NSFW)

Image 1

It turns out that John had smashed his beer bottle over my head as I was turning around. The cut on the top of my head was about an inch or so long and there were several more lacerations on my neck and behind my ear. The picture above doesn't show them clearly but you can see a separate trail of blood down my neck.

After this my partying plans unfortunately had to be put on hold as a couple of my mates took me to the hospital to receive treatment. I wasn't too keen on going but luckily my friends had more common sense than I did and took me anyway.

Once we arrived a nurse took me into A&E. She cleaned up all the blood, numbed the area around each of the wounds and stitched me up. It was a long, depressing fourty-five minutes spent lying on a bed, staring at the clock, with absolutely no beer to drink, and I hated every minute of it. After she was done she handed me some bandages and told me to go home to rest. To her credit though, she did an excellent job:

Image 2

I received sixteen stitches in total spreading out across my head and neck and many of the scars are still visible to this day. I made a few more trips to the hospital over the next week to get more bandages and to have the stitches removed. The doctors said that I was lucky more damage hadn't been done to the surrounding tissue and muscles, but there was never any danger to my life apparently.

Say what you want about the NHS, but under some of the circumstances they have to work in, they do a fantastic job taking care of the drunken, reckless idiots like myself who stumble in at god-awful hours needing treatment. I, for one, am certainly glad healthcare is free in this country.

Cheers
( Fat Fred too weird to live, too rare to die, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 0:15, 3 replies)

casualty
being in pain isn't fun, nor is having to wait 6 hours to be seen, whilst the alcoholic tramp who keeps throwing himself to the floor for attention gets seen before you.
it becomes a lot less fun when you go to reception to ask when you can expect to be seen, only for some clearly senile old bloke to stand next to you and proceed to whip out his wrinkly bits and piss on your shoes.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 0:02, Reply)

I'll keep it short.
As someone else has mentioned in a previous post, the NHS in the UK is an excellent idea, and something that as a nation we should be quite proud of. Almost every doctor and nurse I have come across there has been an absolute saint, and deserve alot more respect than people give them.

So on a personal level, to all the Doctors and nurses that have helped me in the past, thank you for being there when I needed it.
(roflwaffle MarpMarp, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 23:57, 2 replies)

Early Morning NHS Fun
"Hello, I've done something to my finger, but its not broken because I've had a broken finger before and this doesnt feel the same... well I've had several broken fingers, look this one is still a bit sideways bendy. Anyway, my hand swelled up and hasnt gone down for 3 days so here I am!" said a very cheerful and high-on-a-friends-cocodamol Mister B.

"Right, can you make a fist" Asked very bored looking student doctor.

"huurrrm....."

*Very audible cracking sound followed by Mister B passing out due to extreme shooting pain incapacitating entire left arm*

Long story short, I woke up several hours later after an operation to straighten my knuckle (because they just "couldnt get it to go right pulling it while you were out").

I was informed by a legal representative for the hospital that although the operation was technically performed without my consent, I had come to the A&E for assistance in the first place and avoided having my finger amputated by having said operation thus I wouldn't get very far if i tried to sue. Turns out I had cracked the knuckle completely in half, trapping part of the ligament and the crakcing sound was the knuckle (which had started to set) re-breaking and scraping the ligament.

Thanks Newcastle General Hospital and all the late night staff I probably chatted utter balls to whilst fairly out of it on Co-Codamol both before the op (my friends prescription) and after the Op (my very own prescription!)




Click "I Like This" if you're laughing at the fact i borrowed my girlfriends car to go to the hospital uninsured at 3am after work and didn't tell her, and then wasn't there when she woke up in the morning, but the nice nurses had left several voicemails on her mobile!

Length, about a month before she let me do naughties on her again.
( Mister B is eating an icanhazcheezburger with lmaonaise, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 23:47, Reply)

Squirrels
My grandad was ill for many years, my first memories are of when I was 4, missing Thursday off nursery to go to hospital and see him and drink barley water. However, he somehow hung on another 12 years. This story is about a year or two before he died.

Having been transferred from hospital in High Wycombe (where he lived with my gran) to Hammersmith - so we only saw him every couple of weeks, even though I was 14 me and my brother were sent away to go buy some sweets so the adults could talk.

As we approached the sweet machine we saw 3 squirrels right next to them, in the middle of the hospital. This was only about 2006! The government and NHS have tried so hard to get rid of superbugs, but done nothing about the bugs the squirrels bring in!

My brother and I rushed off to tell people about this, and how they could chew through the wires and spread, but everyone just laughed in our faces, saying that it was completely impossible for squirrels to be in the hospital, even though we'd seen them come in through a gap in the wall!

Therefore, I hate hospitals and don't trust them!
(deadly_sinners, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 23:41, 2 replies)

I, like other posters
believe that the NHS is something that, as a nation, we should truly be proud of. It's unfair to bitch and moan when, if I were resident of another country, I'd be either unable to afford the necessary care or the level of care provided would be so basic by comparison that I'd be unwilling to undertake it. In addition, I should probably be grateful that this is more or less my only experience of hospitals, having been fairly healthy up until now.

That said, bitching and moaning is precisely what I'm about to do, as I have been in (admittedly intermittent, but entirely unnecessary) agony for the last six months.

I had a gastric band fitted last May. Not by the NHS - I was told there wasn't funding, despite being an ideal candidate under their guidelines. I was healthy, ate well - although too much, obviously, or I wouldn't have been a chubber - and I exercised. Then I came in to some inheritance and thought I'd just go for it - I was sick of being a fat fucker. The op went fine and the weight came off steadily. I felt great - normal for the first time in ages. Then, in September, I woke up one morning with pain in my lower abdomen.

'Weird', thinks I, and thinks no more upon it. For about half an hour. Then it gradually got worse. And worse. I rang NHS direct and they told me not to worry about it, despite being in tears by that stage. Then it got worse again. There was a constant black ache, similar to the sensation you get when you poke a bad bruise or mending-but-recently-broken-bone, but in addition to that, sickening lightening bolts of greasy stabbing agony that left me gasping for breath and unable to move. My boss found me sobbing on the floor of the lab and drove me to A&E like a shot.

I waited six hours. It wasn't even particularly busy. When I finally got called through, I'd been sat still so long that my legs gave way from cramp and the pain of moving. I was seen by a doctor who somehow managed to sound bored and patronising at the same time; he perfunctorarily stuck a finger up my arse and asked me to provide a urine sample. I couldn't; the pain was so bad I hadn't been able to eat that day and I'd been sat in A&E for six hours without anything to drink. (even the vending machine was broken).
Had I taken painkillers, I was asked. No, I'd been unable to eat or drink that day and had been advised not to take ibuprofen - the only painkiller I had on me- on an empty stomach.
Why had I not bothered to eat or drink that day? Because I'm in a lot of fucking pain, you moron, and I was twice refused a cup of water and painkillers when I asked the receptionist at A&E, saying it was against policy. He tutted and wandered off for half an hour.

I managed to squeeze out a tiny wee for him to perform a pregnancy test on, to rule out an ectopic pregnancy. He glanced at my shotglass-worth of wee and told me I was very dehydrated. I felt like throwing it on him and screaming 'I fucking know. I've been sat here for nearly 7 hours and nobody would fucking give me anything to drink'. I didn't say it: I was too sore to shout. He dipped a stick in to my wee, told me I wasn't pregnant and that I was free to go.
'Bu-bu-but. But. But. You haven't DONE anything. I'm still in a lot of pain...' I stuttered. I'd never been unable to believe my ears before - they're my ears, why wouldn't I believe them? - but this had me truly flabbergasted. He sighed resentfully and thrust some ibuprofen at me.
I protested, feebly at first, that you can't take ibuprofen on an empty stomach, to which he scornfully replied: 'what would you know?'. I looked him squarely in the eye and spat back 'I have a degree in Biomedical Science, as it happens, and NSAIDs, of which the 400mg ibuprofen you are offering me is one, can irritate the stomach. Badly. As I'm having a serious episode of abdominal pain, I don't think irritating my stomach is a great idea, do you?'. He stomped off, to be replaced by a nurse who insisted I take them, and that it wouldn't be a problem. I was left in the cubicle for another 45 minutes or so before someone stuck their head round the curtain, and yet again told me I was free to go.

'But the painkillers haven't helped at all; they've just made me feel nauseous in addition to the pain, which coincidentally I AM STILL FUCKING IN.' She flicks through my notes, tells me I'm very dehydrated (yet again, I KNOW, I've been in this cursed place 8 hours by this point and I've barely had enough fluid to wet my mouth) and that I should go home, rest, have painkillers and fluids. She starts to usher me towards the exit, despite the fact that I am barely able to move. I ask her if she's able to give me a prescription for something a bit stronger, as the ibuprofen simply hasn't cut it, and she smiles and tells me she doesn't think it's necessary, before shooing me away. I spent a good 10 minutes in the exit in shock and speechless rage, before trying to make my way home. It took me an hour to walk half a mile. Fortunately, the one mate I have who owns a car managed to take me home. I spend the next four days curled up in bed weeping whilst the agony slowly fades.

Two weeks later it happened again. I managed to get to the out of hours GP service, where I was told I had viral gastroenteritis. I point out to yet another doctor that I have a degree in Biomedical Science, that I have NONE of the symptoms of viral gastroenteritis, and could she go through the differential diagnosis again and come up with something a bit less stupid. She gave me a prescription for fucking ANTIBIOTICS, and when I pointed out to her that they would be entirely ineffective against the virus she thinks I have she got cross and defensive. My sore and sorry sack of guts and I promptly left.

The next time it happened I simply went to my GP and demanded to be referred to a doctor who could tell the difference between their arse and their elbow, and ideally the problem with my guts too.
I was referred to a gastroenterologist and was given an appointment some two months hence. Two months of intermittent agony pass, and I find myself sitting opposite some smug fuck in a swivelling chair, explaining my symtoms. As I lay down on the examining table I mention that I've had a gastric band fitted. He then refused to even examine me, let alone order any tests, until I'd proven that the gastric band wasn't at fault. I protested, arguing that 1) I'd had six trouble free months up until now, and that if there was a problem with my band it would have become apparent sooner; 2) that the pain was not in my stomach but lower down, and that it wasn't affected by eating (or indeed not eating) which you would assume, if it had been a stomach problem, would not be the case; and 3) that I had had X-rays taken of my upper GI tract some 3 months prior as part of my post-op treatment and everything had been fine then. Also 4) what right do you have to withhold investigation and treatment?

He was adamant, however, so I went back to my surgeon, who confirmed that the NHS consultant was a dribbling fuckwit, that he has never seen a gastric band cause the symptoms I'm having, and yes, the pain is in the wrong place for it to be your stomach/gastric band. I relay this to the NHS consultant (omitting the fuckwit part, despite being sorely tempted to keep it in) and wait. And wait. And wait. I start to call fortnightly, then weekly. I have numerous episodes of pain which make my life deeply unpleasant, as nothing I have tried alleviates the pain. Nothing in particular seems to trigger it either, so I can't do anything to avoid it, just endure it when it happens.

Last week I started bleeding, ever so slightly, from my arse. I called the hospital again in hysterics (I know his secretary on first name terms now; we speak seemingly so often that we actually gossip a little) and came home this evening to a letter, three months after I should have received it, saying I'd been booked in for a colonoscopy (camera-up-your-arse-scopy, for those not in the know) and the hospital would contact me with the details of this appointment in due course. Most probably in another month or so. In the meantime, I'm still in pain, still bleeding from an orifice which really shouldn't, and both literally and figuratively shitting myself.

It's probably nothing sinister. I'm probably not dying and I should almost definitely MTFU and be grateful that I'm not living in Zimbabwe and having these problems, but sometimes a lot of information is worse than none at all, and I'm considerably better informed than your average layman. I'm 24, I'm scared and nobody seems to give a fuck. I've been treated with at best indifference and at worst ineptitude, and I hope - I'm sure I am - the exception rather than the rule. Bar one broken leg as a child and one broken shoulder as a teen (which they forget to send me to physio for and is now causing me hassle) this is my only experience of NHS hospitals, so I can't really say for definite.

I'm sure that for a great many people it has been wonderful and it's better than any workable alternative my squishy brain can come up with. But for me I have to say it's been rather shit.
(berk, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 23:04, 3 replies)

Vasectomy reversal
having the snip took 20 minutes under local, whereas the reversal took 5 hours of microsurgery.
The surgeon, top man in his field, only worked at 3 hospitals, 2 private, 1 public - luckily for me I was booked into the best private hospital in the state. On the day of the operation I arrived at the hospital only to be informed that my bed had been taken by an emergency admission (local hero football player for a knee reconstruction) and that they would try to get a bed in the other hospitals. Luckily, there was a bed at the Queen Victoria Hospital that I could have. Unluckily, the Queen Victoria Hospital was a women's hospital. So I was on a gynaecology ward.
Then it got even better. As my surgery was scheduled for 9:00 am, I had to be there the night before. After their handover, the 2 night nurses came in to say "hi". One was an ex-girlfriend, both I had worked with in another hospital - they thought it was hysterical! Particularly when it came to the neck to knee shaving.
I did receive excellent care though. My pre-med pethidine was given 2 hours early and the dose was a bit large as they added 10 kgs to my weight - I was buzzing away without a care in the world. Even to the point that when it came time for the op, and I was laying on the operating table in stirrups with my now bald bits exposed, a doctor asked if it would be ok for some student doctors to observe. I looked up and saw a dozen young asian girls in the doorway and said "sure, why not".
When I woke up in recovery late in the afternoon, the 2 night nurses asked if i needed anything. I said all I wanted was a smoke and a can of coke. Unfortunately, you couldn't smoke in the hospital and the canteen was closed. One of them went down the street and bought me a coke, then they pushed my gurney, with the drain tubes from my scrotum attached, out onto a balcony so I could have a smoke.
That's what I call good medical service.
(wallynothere rnot without protection, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 22:47, 3 replies)

Bollocks
I got booked in for a hernia operation three years ago. Note: if you want to avoid busting a gut (literally), do not try to hump large, ugly old Dell servers on your own.

So it was BUPA, none of this NHS nonsense. I noted that on the afternoon of the operation, there was a film on TV by my favourite director, which I'd never seen before, and I looked forward to the possibility of watching this film in bed afterwards.

Operation was done, brilliant key hole surgery. Woke up in a nice, warm bed, was offered coffee and got to watch my film on the telly. The thing was, I was so off my face on painkillers I don't remember a thing about it.

Things went downhill slightly after I was discharged. My bollocks turned black, so I had to ring them up and explain to the secretary about the bollock discolouration thing, and she said to come round at noon. The surgeon popped round during his NHS lunch hour and confirmed it was normal and due to bruising.
I went back home, but couldn't shit, piss or fart for about four days.
(Bob the Builder killed Captain Alex, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 22:46, Reply)

Senile dementia, the most entertaining of all illnesses
I have only ever been in hospital on one occasion touch wood but the experience was made most memorable by a certain geriatric fellow who I had the misfortune to be put in the next bed to.
This was about 8 years ago and I was 20 at the time when I awoke to a feeling of the worst stitch in my side I had ever felt, I decided not to get up that day as the pain of walking too much to bear but over the course of the day the pain grew & grew of course this was the feeling of my appendix inflaming to the point of rupture so a concerned parent agreed to drive me to Bury St. Edmunds hospital in Suffolk that evening.
The rest of that evening was more or less a blur but as it turned out I was put under anaesthetic almost immediately and had surgery that evening to remove the offending body part.
Now this was my first operation so I was not fully prepared for feeling as high as a kite when I awoke at 2am in the hospital ward after my operation. It was an odd feeling which I can only describe as like a dream about being ridiculously drunk. On awaking (if I can call it that) the first thing that hit me was how much I needed to go to the toilet, the fact that I had a drip tube coming out of my arm attached to a stand and a fresh incision in my torso didn’t seem like a good enough reason to use a bed pan so I began to get out of bed.
On standing next to my bed to my horror I discovered that the gown I was wearing has no arse covering element to it, in fact the back was entirely open. Now being in a room full of strangers I had not yet met and living in fear of anal rape ever since seeing that late night Hollyoaks episode in about 1999 I decided that this would not do at all and that I had to leave this place at the earliest opportunity. I found my clothes in a cupboard next to the bed and began to get dressed. I got my jeans on then realised I had a problem with putting a top on, that problem being the drip tube attached to the trolley stand. Easy I thought so I unhooked the drip bag from the stand and passed it through the arm of the t-shirt and put it down on the bed as I continued to get ready for my escape.
Now almost fully dressed I went to pick up the drip bag and realised something was terribly wrong, the drip bag on being placed on the bed (and therefore much lower than most of my body) had filled up with my blood! Don’t panic I thought, I can fix this as I am an engineering student just don’t let anyone see the mess you’ve got yourself into! A few minutes passed but my situation was not getting any better, the blood had clotted in the tube and everything was going more wrong by the minute, I had no choice but to pull out the drip cord from my arm. Now things were really getting messy so I pulled the white gown back on over my clothes as I was managing to drip blood over most of the area. The drip bag was now back on the trolley stand and to try and stop the detached drip cord dripping any more I had to hold it up with my right hand at about shoulder height. Now imagine the scene, me standing up with a blood-stained white gown on with my left arm holding the trolley stand at arm’s length and my right arm holding the drip cord at shoulder height again at arm’s length (trying to stop the dripping) when the nurse turns on the ward lights to see what’s going on. I froze as the lights came on and saw a 90-something old man in the next bed staring at me with a look of both wonder & bewilderment, there was a silence of about 5 seconds before he let out the immortal line “Jehovah? Have you come to take me Jehovah?”
I am sure the nurse must have seen the funny side but as well as foiling my escape she gave me a right blocking and forced me to use the bedpan.
The next day the confused old man came out with another 2 very memorable classics which made me laugh so much I nearly passed out with the resulting pain from my wound… The first was at breakfast, a rather short & portly nurse arrived to serve the breakfasts, the dish presented to the 90-something old man was only half of everyone else’s portion. On receiving it he said to the nurse, “Oh, that doesn’t look like very much!” to which she replied “no, that’s because you don’t eat very much do you?” which was countered by one of the best answers I could ever have imagined: “No, I don’t eat very much myself, but you look like you do!” which resulted in the nurse storming off in a huff not to be seen for 2 hours!
That afternoon however was when the 90-something old man came out with his best line yet. He had was asleep for his afternoon nap when the sister of the ward arrived with the doctor to see how I was getting on, the pair arrived at my bed and the nurse introduced Dr Kumar who would be monitoring my recovery I told them I was all OK so after this the nurse began to discuss how old man in the next bed losing the plot more and more with every day that past, “He doesn’t even know where he is or why he’s here most of the time” she said and the doctor agreed to ask a few questions and to make a report on his mental health.
Over to the next bed they went where the old man was still asleep, the doctor leaned over and shook his arm waking up. The doctor then said “Hello, I’m just here to ask you a few questions”, “OK” the old man replied “go ahead”. Then Doctor Kumar began by asking “You do know why you’re here don’t you?”, “Yes” the old man replied, “I totally understand why I have been sent here”, “OK” the doctor replied, “and where is it that you think you are?” the old man’s expression was deadly serious as he stared into Doctor Kumar’s eyes and after a pause that felt like it was building for an eternity he replied in a loud and purposeful voice “INDIA!”.
I think I popped at least 3 stitched laughing at that one!
Apologies for the length, breadth, width etc.
(Gus2000, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 22:44, 2 replies)

A fairly mixed bag.
I've comprehensibly buggered up my legs over the years, what with bike crashes and a big climbing fall. Therefore I would like to thank the following:

Westminster, Barts, UCH, James Paget, Chesterfield, Northern General Sheffield, Edith Cavell, P'boro District, Addenbrookes and the Fitzwilliam hospitals.
Also the Royal London for saving my brother's life after he was stabbed, James Paget and Halesworth for seeing my Mum and Dad out of this world without pain and in their right minds, P'boro Matty unit for not throwing me out of the delivery room for trying to cut the cord with a Swiss Army knife.

The nurses, the surgeons, the physios, the poor sod who had to stick his finger up my arse when my appendix blew up (and the locum GP who spotted it).

Last but not least, Nye Bevan for inventing the NHS.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 22:28, Reply)

Orthodontist
The orthodontist I had when I ws a kid was the most tightly wound guy i've ever met. He was openly rude and irritable with patients and staff alike. A heart attack waiting to happen. Fortunately, my teeth wern't too bad so i largely avoided the fucker.

My sister however had to have some teeth pulled which obviously involed a local anaesthetic. But instead of injecting it into the tissue, the moron injected it into a blood vessel. The results were fairly spectacular. My little sis proceeded to have full on spack-out fit (I think becuase of the adrenaline?). This is apparently far from life thretening, but it's scary shit when you don't know what's happening. Less frightening though, than the resulting wave of mum-wrath directed at this so-called medical professional. It was like somthing out of a Manga film. You could almost see his ego buckle. Those teeth got pulled for free in the end.

Go Mum!
(Amos Moses, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 21:54, Reply)

Keep it clean and fresh.
A friend of mine had a holiday accident and burnt her leg on a motorbike exhaust while on holiday in Sumatra. Quite badly.
When asking for treatment she was prescribed a tube of toothpaste.
She declined and instead spent the night with her foot in a bucket.
( Herb Alpert's Taxi Driver I have very beautiful lips, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 21:18, Reply)

Retina Repair
When my left eye's retina began detaching, they used silicone bands to make the eye more oblong, so as to bring the eyeball's inner surface and the detaching retina closer together, then tacked the two together by freezing the eyeball from the outside-in using liquid nitrogen. For a week, I had a 'dead eye' look that frightened children and adults alike. Yup - Halloween in November, as I recall.

The silicone bands are still there, years later, making my left eye intensely myopic. My left eye no longer opens as much as the right eye, giving me that distinguished "pity me, for I have had a stroke" look that the ladies find so appealing.

They used sodium pentothal (truth serum) to put me out for the procedure. When I awoke in the recovery room, everyone there was laughing. "What's so funny?" I asked. "Oh, nothing!" they replied. Then they laughed again.

Later that month, they decided to spot-weld the weak-looking right retina to the back of the eye using 500 laser shots. I was dazzled and momentarily blinded by all bright yellow-green light sizzling my eye ball. Afterwards, I was lost in a purple miasma. When I hesitated standing up after the procedure, the doctor started making fun of my manhood.

Nevertheless, very little pain, so not quite the thing for the dedicated masochist.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 21:08, 1 reply)

Have you ever noticed
How it's usually sick people who end up in hospitals?
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 20:56, 2 replies)

Broken neck...
When I was younger, I broke my neck playing rugby. All very bad I'm sure you'll agree, but it was worth it, as the nurse who had to keep waking me up to check I was still alive was called... Felcher. Brilliant.
(animal252 last activated his kitten hammer on, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 20:40, Reply)

Ill
Me: Morning Doc, I seem to be coughing up blood.
Doc: Lift up your shirt *listens to breathing with stethoscope* Hmmmm, could be a chest infection, I'll prescribe you some antibiotics.
Me: Ok, thank you. I also seem to be having a problem with my leg, it's like the calf muscle has gone rock solid and I can't bend it properly.
Doc: *Has a look, a squeeze and a brief massage of the area* Hmmmmm, you've probably hurt the muscle, take some ibruprofen.
Me: Ok, thank you. I was a bit worried it was a blood clot in there.
Doc: Well, you can visit the hospital if you want and get them to look.
Me: Thanks Doc. Bye.

The chest infection and sore leg was a Deep Vein Thrombosis, leading to pulmonary embolisms (part of the clot breaks, goes through your FUCKING HEART and in to your lungs). I had another enter my lungs whilst in the hospital, more than likely because the bloody doctor massaged the area!

But the worst part, oh the very worst part, was having the frightened and cold Little Smurf exposed to the lovely Student Nurse whilst the Doctor jiggled my testicles around. I still don't know why he did this. Can anyone tell me why he felt the need to caringly manipulate each testicle in his cold rough hands? It was my leg and lungs that were the problem, not the area between.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 20:29, 2 replies)

once I had a pea...
I put it up my nose. then I picked it out. brilliant.
then I put it up my nose again.
I tried to pick it out but pushed it further up my nasal cavity, beyond the reach of my slender fingers.

the size of the tongs were frighteningly large to a six-year-old but they got the pea. I kept it for a day, then flicked it away.

mr doctor, I like to think mine was the only nose you ever had to pick a pea from, I hope I am.
(8allright is praying you've got a cold, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 20:25, 2 replies)

I lost over 5 pints of blood and bled for 19 hours FROM MY COCK! Pearoast Alert!
I was in hospital for an operation on my leg. I needed major reconstruction (the results of which can be seen here i21.photobucket.com/albums/b261/sybaf/P7110027.jpg ) and was going to be out for the count for a long while so they put a catheter in. For women this is a small tube but for guys it’s quite long.

I came round and the operation had gone as planned and I now just had to stay in bed for about a week.
The next day they took the catheter out and gave me a bottle to pee in too.
Three days later I started pissing blood. “It’s just blood in your urine” they said, “It's nothing to worry about. (Lying cunts)
So I’m lying there, not pissing with blood just pouring out of the end of my cock as if I was pissing. A friendly nurse holds the end of Mr Winkle whilst another cuts off all my pubic hair. They tell me to hold tight. It is about midnight. I hold.

It’s now morning. Clots are forming in my cock; they come out like cherries, bloody horrible cherries coming out of MY COCK! It’s horrible. I have filled several pee bottles with blood and still they keep telling me it’s blood in my urine. I am 22 years old and crying for my mummy.

Midday, mummy arrives. I am humiliated. I am holding my cock desperately trying to stop the bleeding, filling bottles with blood clots and crying whilst lying on bed sheets soaked in blood. “What’s going on?” she asks the nurse “Oh don’t worry it’s just blood in the urine” she replies sounding a little more nervous. “We’ve called for the urologist he will be here soon.

It’s now about 6 O’clock. Shift change. Man comes in to take my blood pressure. “Hmmmm this can’t be right he says and scuttles off to find another machine, it says the same. He calls the head nurse and tells her its wrong and all the machines have broken. She tells him that it’s probably right and that they have been trying to get someone up for hours to stop the bleeding.

7 O’clock arrives and finally the urologist arrives. He says “Oh nothing to worry about just a bit of blood in the urine” he does some checks and says “Oh……. Ummmm damn……..NURSE!”

Turns out it wasn’t blood in my urine. In fact he (for it was the same urologist) had had some trouble getting the catheter in and had stabbed me through the walls of the urethra with a blunt catheter tube, there was now a large clot sitting on the cut which had prevented the blleding from stopping. All this time they nurses had been phoning him and he had been telling them not to worry as it was blood in the urine and was quite common, they had relayed that information to me but not really believed it. I had been bleeding as if I was pissing cherries for 19 hours. The only way to stop it was to…….put the catheter back in, so that’s what they did and fuck it hurt. Then finally someone has the sense to ask “How long has he been bleeding like that?”

I remember lying there in a bed soaked in brown thick sticky blood, feeling way too hot and suddenly a cold feeling came over my body, it was wonderful. “I feel cold” I said. Suddenly it was panic stations everyone was running around me and a new doctor I hadn’t seen was literally stabbing a needle in to my wrist trying to find a vein. They started pumping saline in to me and I started to warm up. “I’m to hot! I’m too hot!” I shouted “Don’t worry “They said “Hot is good” all of a sudden the same wave of coldness washed over me and I said “Oh that’s better its nice and cold”

And that’s all I remember.

I woke up in the intensive care ward with a triple tap attached to my elbow crook pumping blood in to me. I felt shit but I was alive. I had lost over 5 pints of blood and if I hadn’t have been in a hospital I would be dead.
They let me out after 12 days but I had to have the catheter for another 2 weeks after that and they are horrible, they get infected and make you feel like you need to pee though of course with one in you never need to. I had to empty the bag all the bloody time and you had no control over how fast it filled up.

I am however happy to report that my cock made a full recovery as this SFW evidence shows i21.photobucket.com/albums/b261/sybaf/5934_103107920769_576375769_2684698.jpg

Length? Not too bad considering what it’s been through.
( Peej, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 20:19, 8 replies)

Nurses
My sister in law is currently training to be an NHS nurse. I don't think people are really aware of how excruciatingly difficult their training is, regardless of what they end up doing in their careers.

She has to work shifts to get her "placement points", while at the same time studying for and taking exams. Since my sister in law has to commute a few hours to her uni, let alone the hospital, this often means she works a night shift and then just stays on at uni to take the course.

They get all the crappy jobs- for example, her first placement involved cleaning dentures and someone's false eye(!) in a ward. She did them one at a time so she didn't mess them up. Apparently the girl who took the placement after her dumped them all in together, washed off all the markings, and ended up giving the jawbone of a behemoth to a little old lady. Also, "if you drop the eye you have to chase it."

Her next placement was in a morgue, and being on duty ready to arrange and clean the bodies of the dead. Apparently there's a VERY fine line where you can do this before they go all icky, and it's not a pleasant job.

She's currently working on a normal ward changing beds, which would be fine... but the hospital hasn't allowed for the fact that she's only just over 4 feet tall, and can't really reach the beds.

Anyway, she works bloody hard, and deserves more than my well meaning mockery. If she gets ill she doesn't get help from the NHS, despite the fact that she's training for them, and if she needs money she's not allowed to work in any other caring facility.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 20:18, 2 replies)

It was the first weekend of the summer holidays.
My mate Ryan said he knew where there was a party and being 14 years old and up for large amounts of drinking we found out exactly where it was going to be and went. The crowd was a bit older than us, they were all in their 20's but as we were both very tall for our ages we were accepted no probs. The party was in full swing and after trying to snog Carmel and quite a few beers we found that the only drinks left were Blue Nun and red Lambrusco. I usually had a glass of red with Sunday lunch at my folks house and thought it was the height of sofistikashun to be drinking fizzy red wine out of the massive and distinctive bottle it came in.
Towards the end of the night and most people had left I ended up in the back garden puking party nibbles and thick red vomit. I was way too pissed to be able to walk home and so found a chair to sit down on and promptly fell asleep. Now this chair was one of those 70's jobs with a chrome frame and I fell asleep with my right arm draped over the side.
I woke up nice and early and only a little late for my paper round. I was only 14 and the paper round was at the time my only source of income. So with my head feeling like it had been split open and vomit poured in and then overflowed all down my face and onto my jumper and jeans I stood up and made my way to the front door. I got to the front door and put my right hand up to turn the latch but noticed that my hand wasn't working. My wrist was all limp and I couldn't move my fingers. I then realised I couldn't actually feel my hand. I thought it a bit odd but told myself that it was just a bit numb due to how I'd been sleeping and that giving it five minutes and a bit of pins and needles it would be fine. I walked to the paper shop, got my round ready (I had the smallest round by far, 16 papers during the week and 20 on a sunday) and delivered the papers. It must have taken me an hour to walk to the paper shop and do my round and my hand was still not working. Being severely hung over and stinking of sick and alcohol I finally got home and jumped in the shower and that was when I started to comprehend the full impact of a non functioning right hand for a 14 year old spunk filled walking hormone.
Anyway I woke up after a little nap and yup, it was still not working. It actually felt numb still. My wrist was slightly better but all of my fingers and my thumb were not listening to what my brain was trying to tell it. It had been a few hours now and I was beginning to get a bit worried. The last thing I wanted to do though was tell my parents. What could I say? Hi Mum, Dad, got wank faced drunk last night at a party, spent half the night heaving in the garden and the rest of it asleep at the house of someone I don't know and neither do you and so no I didn't sleep at Ryan's like I told you I was going to do, and, oh yeah, my hand is fucked.
So anyway, sunday dinner came and I did the best I could eating the roast with just a fork in my left hand as I couldn't even hold my knob in my right let alone a knife.
So monday morning and I get myself up nice and early for my paper round, still no working hand, and then I head to the doctors. I go in and see the doc and explain exactly what had happened (always felt that the best way is to be honest with the doctor as they have heard it and seen it all before). The doctor sits there thinking for a minute and then goes and gets all the other doctors from their rooms and now I have 8 doctors all looking at me and asking questions and poking and playing with my hand when one of them says that they have heard about this but never seen it before. It's called, and I kid you not, Saturday Night Palsy and it is usually homeless drunks who get it after getting blasted and then falling asleep on a park bench with their arm over the back. A nerve near the armpit gets damaged and it gets better with time but there is nothing that can be done to make it better. I should only be a week or two but they couldn't tell me exactly and I should come back in a few weeks if it wasn't getting any better.
Well at least I knew what it was now and it wasn't permanant. It did take about 5 weeks or so to get back to normal with gradual feeling and movement returning first in my thumb and then the first two fingers but the other two and that side of my hand were numb and lifeless for a long time.
People still think I'm joking when I tell them about it but it's there, you can google it, Saturday Night Palsy!

Apologies for length but I was 14 and had to learn how to knock one out with my left hand.
(Wagane, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 19:56, Reply)

Memorable Visit to the Dentist
When a young lad, mom used to take all four of us children to the dentists in one morning. It got things out of the way, she didn’t have to make the drive over and over and we had each other to keep time with. This usually meant it was in the hot, humid months.

Now in those days before the government got involved with everything, there was a certain pride to being a dentist (many years of school while buddies got drunk, lost sleep studying and residency). As such, dentists dressed up for their patients in at least a starched shirt and tie, not the new age hippie clothes, or worse, the SpongeBob scrubs.

Young BC was with his siblings when it was his turn to go behind the desk that demarcated the line of authority. Only special people went behind the desk, unless, by the grace of all things sacred, they were invited. It was like being inducted into the hall of fame. Well, maybe not.

Anyways, I was taken into an exam room where the dental hygienist proceeded to scrape 30% teeth 70% gums with her Marquis de Sade brand torture devices. Following several “rinsing and spitting” blood and the like I was told that according to their records, I was due for some fluoride.

Instead of the brief fluoride “wipings” that they administer now, in those days, they gave you a pint of blue juice and told you to swish for 30 seconds, but not to swallow. Being the good little boy that I was, I complied, perhaps taking a larger gulp than I should have, and sat there agitating the blue fluid in my mouth, combining it with ever increasing saliva. I think the hygienist chose this time to take a break because I was stuck there, my eager whisking my fluoride turning to an amalgamate of spit and blue juice.

Did I hinder the advise not to swallow – I tried, but it was a marathon swishing, so some inevitably slipped down the esophagus. When she finally came back my jaws were nackered and I had no more strength.

Then it was time to see the dentist; all prim and proper, doing the myriad of things that dentists do in order to make us feel our money is well spent. It all went wrong when he used the tongue depressor to do a full examination. He asked me to say, “Ahh”, and due to the overdose of fluoride, I said “Aaaarrrgghhh” and proceeded to empty my stomach: on him, his assistant, myself and the floor.

Ever the professional, the doctor took a moment to assess the situation, looked at his lap and said in a calm voice, “I see you had hot dogs for lunch.”
( BrokenCoccyx doesn't mind if you grope on, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 19:45, 1 reply)

Bonus hangover removal
Well, I may have rambled on about these events before, but I generally have more than one reason to be thankful for the NHS, and despite the fact that they may also have had some mighty problems, they have been fairly good to me so am generally in favour of giving the people who work pretty hard for them a chance.

When I was 18, I had issues with mighty difficult things such as 'standing up', 'laughing', 'moving' and 'sleeping' without blinding head pain and copious vomiting. For around three months. Fun. Then there was the day when I couldn't speak, which is quite possibly the scariest thing to happen to me (trust me, it's not like losing your voice, when you can formulate thoughts in your head, but all that comes out of your mouth is incomprehensible nonsense, it's not nice for you or those around you).

So eventually they figured out it wasn't migraines and got me in for an MRI which revealed massive pressure in my head and which required some fairly necessary neurosurgery quick sharp. So for the following three weeks, instead of doing my A-Levels I spent my time having various things drilled into my skull, varying pipes plumbed into my brain and so forth. And some of the people who did this were working epic twelve hour shifts yet still found the time to make sure that I (being the youngest person in the ward) had a telly to keep me occupied, took the time to wash and dry my hair after it had been left for a week after surgery (clotted blood - not a good look) and also make sure surgeons did not shave off all my hair before thevarying brain prodding incidents (I had a cool old school Sindy doll sort of hair going on - eg a flap of hair at the top, but nothing underneath, a kind of long comb over). That may make me sound somewhat vain, but it was an unasked for gesture which did seem a kindly gesture for a somewhat shy eighteen year old whose world was suddenly going a bit mental.

And speaking of the nice surgeon types - one of them did the most painless blood test I have ever had, and they also seemed to manage th genius trick of saving me from hangover headaches, which wa an added bonus. Don't think it was actually their main priority, but since then I have seemed to avoid the headaches (and this is not for want of alcohol consumption on the night before either).

SO (apologies for length, lack of funny and general rambliness), but A) the NHS have kept me alive, and I have the joy of regular MRI MOTs, and B) they stopped evil hangover headaches. So in my book they win.
(Picotee, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 19:33, 1 reply)

Mongolia
Mongolia, let's face it, is a third world country...I broke my talus whilst I was there and was 12 days from Ulan...

And so, my ankle, blackened, bruised and unbeknownst to me, royally fucked by this point anyway...

I was wheeled on a gurney face down, wearing the SARS mask (Mongolians didn't wear them, but the foreigners had to), with my wife, translator, tour guide...

My leg is in the air, and the doctor comes out...Smoking...Takes my ankle and twists the fucker...Hard...At which point I'm screaming in pain and the remainder of the entourage practically leapt at the doctor to stop him doing it again...

He says something about an x-ray and I get wheeled in to a room, the woman places the film under my ankle and then suddenly, there's the click of the machine...Surely that can't be right? In the UK, there's a screen, me, the machine...That's it...By the time I realise what's happened, that yes, she did do, she'd adjusted the film, and done it again...Fuck...Lovely radiation dose...

After that, there's no way any fuckers touching my ankle. However, they refuse to sign the medical certificate with me paying $50...Which isn't that much, but I was scared about what they'd do damagewise to my radiated, destroyed body next...

The cast they placed on was appalling, but I just wanted to get out...

The worst thing about this?

The fact that I was seen as a priority over a Mongolian woman who had been hit by a car. She was properly broken, bloodied, bruised...And because I paid $50.

Years later (7 this year) my ankle is still not 100% right...As a result of this, I will never complain about the NHS...
(beatpig understands subliminalesbianmessagaying., Thu 11 Mar 2010, 19:30, Reply)

My dentist fears me
About 10 years ago I had 2 teeth removed for braces which needed three injections. The two in the sides were fine, but the one in the roof of my mouth was sheer unyielding agony. An open mouthed swear fest ensued.

Fast forward a few years, Im back getting a filling. This time I was prepared hoping it'd hurt less if I knew what was coming. More swearing and a little white knuckles followed briefly.

Third times the charm. This time the dentist hid the syringe from me behind his back and jumpped me. I ripped the arm off his chair.

No more needles for me now, he just drills direct!
(Spud Diechmann joined in!, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 19:29, Reply)

Genetic Testing
I went to the doctor's office just yesterday for some genetic testing (I have a 50% chance of having that darn BRCA1 gene mutation) and as part of the visit, they informed me ahead of time that it would include a breast and pelvic exam. Now seeing as this was a woman's clinic, I didn't think much of it. The doctor's first name was Raja, which sounded distinctly feminine (of course, thinking about it now, I remember the male tiger in Aladdin was named Raja, so that should have given me a clue). The night before, I checked the address of the place online and noticed all the doctors were male. Drat.

However, my nervousness was completely unfounded as the doctor and nurses there were some of the nicest I've ever met. He gave me a huge discount on the exam because I am a poor college student without health insurance and they're doing their best to get me further discounts on the extremely expensive genetic test. My vial of blood is on its way across the country to be tested now, and I am incredibly thankful to the clinic for making the process so much less stressful.
(Tarana, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 19:11, 1 reply)

My mates cock
So my mate went in for a vasectomy, he had three kids already and was only 23 or something. It was on the night that the republic of Ireland played Holland to get into the World Cup Finals (1998??) I remember listening to it in the car.
Anyway, he asked me to pick him up as he could not drive back home himself, for obvious swollen reasons.He said to be there about 8 and he would be on ward 3 or something. So I parked up, wandered in to a seemingly deserted hospitol, noone was about. After a few minutes I seemed to be in the right place and tracked down a nurse, I tentatively enquired 'Hi, I am looking for Phil Collins, I am here to pick him up' (that was genuinely his name), instantly she replied, bold as brass 'Oh yes love, is he in for his cock? I'll just go get him'
And she did
He had no more children
(robojoel, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 19:09, 3 replies)

Yes, please
I went to the hospital for what I thought was appendicitis (turns out my right ovary was just staging a coup), and the nurse gave me dilaudid for the pain. Ten minutes later I was feeling pretty thrilled about the whole experience. The nurse walks in and, in a moment of professionalism, asks "do you want some more?"

I wasn't in pain any more, but who am I to turn down high-grade pain meds? In my drugged stupor I blurted out a goofy "Ho-hokay!"

So yeah, if you want nurses who play it loose with the pain meds, go to Kauai Community Hospital.
(Exempt OH WOW, VICODIN, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 18:39, Reply)

When I was little
I went to hospital for a few weeks don't rember much
but I got to play table tennis with the nurses and they gave me the TV in there lounge to play Tazmania, fantastic all round.
( Gawain the oven safe flan tin willy bum fart poo, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 18:36, Reply)

I had a vasectomy recently
It makes childbirth look like a walk in the park, they open up your tackle on local anaesthetic (you are offered general anaesthetic but it's not as masculine telling this down the pub if your unconcious during the op) I had also agreed to have a student nurse watch to attempt to learn something as "they don't get to see many of these" this meant everytime a piece was cut out of me it was held up for the student (and myself) to see, add this to the fact that everytime they pull on the Vas tube to get a better grip it feels like your being kicked in the balls repeatedly.

Couple this with the fact that by the time i got out of the operating room to get a lift home EVERYONE in the urology department had gone, even the shutter was down on reception and i was feeling very sick and had a bout of the cold sweats as i shuffled (very carefully) out through to the car park. She also used stronger stitches as she was too heavy handed and kept snapping them as she pulled them through my two veg, this meant that after three weeks (they were supposed to dissolve and drop out after two) i got an inflammatory response as the wound was healed and my body now recognised the stitches as a foriegn object so i had to cut them out with nail scissors.

Bomb disposal experts don't hold their breath as well as i did for those few minutes.
(Boiled_Tater is not the messiah, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 18:30, 6 replies)