Swings and roundabouts really
+ Hospital saves my life at birth.

+ Hospital saves my mums life at my birth.

-/+ GP misses, on three occassions, what later turns out to be classic atypical, severe apendicitis in my mum. The hospital only just manages to save her life after the appendix bursts.

+ Hospital fixes all my broken bones/torn ligaments over the years.

-/+ GP misdiagnoses severe condition in me. The hospital properly debunks the diagnosis, albeit many, many years later.

- GP refuses me antibiotics numerous times, despite glaringly obvious recurrent ENT infection, and despite not having antibiotics even once within the previous decade.

- Hospital/GP fails to do anything whatsoever to fix the soft tissue/cartilage damage in my shoulder and knee.

In short with the NHS, it's about a 50/50, good in an obvious emergency, not much cop for the even semi-difficult diagnosis and treatment.

Not that I would ever get rid of the NHS, it and our protection of it is one of the very few things that makes me proud to be English. What I would do though is quarter the number of managers, only employ managers with common sense, and make qualifications in healthcare a requirement for all managers; a minimum IQ couldn't hurt either.
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 13:59, 6 replies)

I'm not cleaning it up if it explodes
When I met my (wonderful, love of my life, should have told the story in the Flirting QOTW) boy all was well in bed. Better than well. Awesome. Except for one thing. I'm not an expert on the male anatomy, but you know the bit that's meant to go back and forth? It just... didn't. Occasionally it would go back, but getting it to go forth again was difficult. Very difficult. And red. And sore.

Combined with my concern for my dearest beloved and the continuation of his sexing abilities, I didn't really fancy having to deal with blood and viscera should it ever happen to explode. This looked likely on occasion. So, after much cajoling I got him to go see the doctor.

Doctor's response? Bang, no sympathy, booking you in for a circumcision, put your trousers back on.

Cue much worrying (over Xmas) and anxiety and buying of DVDs for the inevitable week of housebound-ness (BattleStar Galactica SE1-4, watched it all in three weeks). The day rolls round. Had to wait a bit, but nothing you don't expect for the NHS, and annoyingly, they wouldn't let me in to wait with him or hear any of the post-op instructions. Did see older couples going in to day surgery together, perhaps they thought my youth meant I'd start stealing drugs and graffitying the screens.

So anyway, he comes limping out, looking a bit green, and we decide he'll get a taxi home while I walk, giving me the chance to pick up some painkillers - yup, they don't give you anything, even if you beg for morphine.

I get in the door about 10 minutes later to the worst thing I have ever seen.

I don't know if anyone here (barring doctors and nurses) has seen a newly circumcised penis before - even if you've had it done, you're told to leave it bandaged for 3 days so unless you're bizarrely fascinated by the sight of your own cock covered in blood, swollen to three times its girth, with stitches all around the head like Frankstein, I doubt many people will have witnessed this. It was horrendous.

The bandage, the amazing techno bandage we were told would last three days had come off in the taxi. The reason? The nurse hadn't taken the plastic off the side that sticks to the wadding. Tool. Luckily, he'd be skeptical enough about the three-day rule (as in "erm, how am I meant to piss?") to get them to give him spare kit, but we were still faced with the oozing, enormous (in a bad way) cock to deal with and no idea how to get the bandages to work.

Cue 10 minutes of practice which, if they were bad for me, must have been 40 times worse for him. Every touch is murder, and I'm mangling away with sticky bandages and tape. Didn't help he'd failed to trim his (luxuriant) pubes - ever accidentally anchored your penis to your body, tip facing up, by catching a pube in tape, then standing up? The force of gravity either rips the pube out or pulls the tape off. Either way, bonus pain to add to your experience.

I don't want to be too down on the NHS but the complete lack of advice and post-op support (phone line was always busy and didn't work weekends so we had to go to A&E when he popped a stitch, who were great) was just unnecessary. It would hardly cost any more to have provided us with a leaflet, let me ask some questions, and to put the fucking bandage on properly in the first place.

We call it the week of the Frankenpenis.
(bolshevette, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 13:54, 10 replies)

Buckets
I'm in an ambulance being taken to a hospital, driving on the hard shoulder, when suddenly we stop.

There was a bucket in the middle of the road and the crew had to move it out of the way.
(Spy is dead., Fri 12 Mar 2010, 13:42, 6 replies)

False Economy
this is gonna generate some hate and disgust.

i had, for some years, had a problem with ingrowing toenails. both big toes suddenly made the executive decision that down was the new forwards, and off they went, causing me undue pain and torment.
i'd had em removed before, lefty one time, righty twice. buggers just got worse.
so eventually finding myself in a job where i'd get paid for the week or two i'd be unable to come in due to bigass bandages, i opted to get em done for good.
the procedure is NOT a fun one. especally if you're resistant to anaeshtetic like me. THANKFULLY on this occasion, the nurse listened, and after some prodding, explained i had unusual nerve layout in my toes meaning i had essentially an extra nerve. they then compression tape your toe to get the blood out, ram somethign akin to a tiny devil's pitchfork under your toenail, prise it off, sever the root, and then slather the nail bed in phenolic acid. woo yay fun times!
once this is done and rinsed, in theory, there will be six to eight weeks of walking about with an open chemical burn on a nail bed (it's EXACTLY as comfortable as it sounds)changing dressinngs that are stuck to aforementioned raw nail bed, and soaking in saline solution. oooh, fun-filled times ahead.
on leaving, i raised the issue of infection- as they were swollen and infected when i came in, i questioned whether should be given antibiotics as well as pain relief, only to be told it was unneccesary and the body would heal itself.

so after a couple of days of pain, and swelling, i became concerned. after a couple more days of pain and swelling, i was woken in the night by agonising throbbing pain, and upon removing my bandages, discovered these beauties:
i133.photobucket.com/albums/q47/gonecompletelysideways/fun%20stuff/fuckedtoes.jpg" /

they smelt like out of date steak, and took weeks to heal.
thankfully now i'm devoid of pointless big toenails, and the others are shit right up so they're behaving, lest they get slash and burned.

sorry if you're eating btw. especially if you're eating microwave deep dish pizza or a lasagne ready meal.

so in future, nurses, take note. if something is ALREADY fuckin infected, sod your damn targets and guidelines, gimme some feckin penicillin so i don't end up with creepy, undead toes.

length? when they pulled the nail off, it was nearly 25% submerged each side, so near double the width it should be.

EDIT: image linkified for the weak of stomach. happy?
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 13:26, 5 replies)

Australian public hospitals.
I was in hospital recently, and the attitude of the nurses is digusting. For example virtually all of them wear flat shoes rather than proper high heels. Their skirts are too long as well.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 13:16, 4 replies)

Oh, you've got to see that boy in room 209
When I was around 10 I had a hernia. The symptoms included one of my testicles vanishing from my scrotum and retracting somewhere into my body, especially when i was jumping on one leg (don't ask how I found out). This seemed to be of great interest to the majority of the medical staff, and possibly some patients. At least twelve people came separately to visit me, have me undress and jump on one leg until my ball was gone. Some scribbled something on a piece of paper, others were just staring in amazement.

I'm glad if I contributed something to the education of young doctors, but to this very day i fear my ball will vanish if someone looks at it. "Sure we can fuck" i have to tell the ladies, "but don't look at my privates."
( BringYourOwnParachute Meet me here on, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 13:13, Reply)

Not me, but my Stepdad
He was carrying carrying some bottles out for recycling, and he tripped. One of the bottles broke into shards and slashed his wrist.

Mum and I took him to the local hospital, who sent him to Greenock to have a proper look at it.When he got there, the nurse came to change his dressing. She said, "Lets get that cleaned up, Mr Slater, we don't want you to catch anything whilst you're here".

Good old NHS hospitality.
( RossThePiper Stretch Armstrong is my Father, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 13:09, Reply)

Face-raped?
Many years ago I had an ingrown toe-nail pulled out and, as I'm a great big fanny, I opted to be knocked out.

I woke up minus a toe-nail as expected - along with a sore throat, the oddest taste at the back of my mouth and bruises on my chin in exactly the same pattern as three fingers and a thumb - as though my mouth had been prised open with some force and something shoved down my throat.

I can only hope it was some kind of breathing apparatus.
(tinpixel, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 13:07, 1 reply)

Hurrumph!

I was visiting a member of my household staff in the hospital who was having a large brass doorknob removed from her vagina due to an unfortunate accident with a lawnmower on my estate. You may recall one of my recent communications (here) which explains how this shocking incident happened.

She was recovering from a clungependectomy operation to remove the door furniture which had wedged itself firmly between the toilet pipe and eggbox about a quarter of a yard inside her rumpytunnel. Arf! I shouldn't laugh. *snorts* Get a grip man. Now where was I? Good job I didn't make her laugh. Her fanny had been sewn up like a cricket ball and she had to lay motionless and piddle through a straw for the next two weeks. Seriously though, the poor girl was in some discomfort and was very upset. I should imagine this is because she is, and I have this on good authority, a nymphomaniac and she was going to be 'out of the saddle', so to speak, for over a month. Arf! I do apollogise. Terribly bad show. Really not funny.

It was the Bentley Owners Club ball the previous night and we had it at my place this year. Chef had managed to get hold of half a dozen swans from somewhere. Probably orf my own bloody lake, but to hell with all that. It was a bloody good do and absolute top class nosh. I was suffering from a touch of heartburn which was giving me gip and so I popped orf to the restroom to take a few of my indigestion tablets which would sort it out. Well the most stupid thing happened. I swallowed three of the damn things before I realised they were not indigestion tablets at all but three of those bloody tablets the quack gave me to help get some blood in the chap. Niagra or something. Now should a fella ever get an unplanned and unstoppable stiffie you would be wise to be in safer and more appropriate location than a hospital ward for folk with broken geitals.

The effect of the drug took effect as I returning to the ward where the poor girl was still in serious pain and not exactly feeling like all her birthdays had come at once. She offered to show me her wound which I have to say, I really did not wish to see. Well not in that state anyway! *snorts*. Before I could avert my eyes she had pulled down the bed sheet to reveal her ladyfanny which had tubes coming through the stiches and looked like a medical experiment which had gone horribly wrong. Just at that exact moment my chap went from flacid to maximum bar in literally a heartbeat. I was wearing my plus fours and to be honest, after that period in time where I became a tad incontinent, the stitching had rotted a bit and they couldn't take the strain. The entire crotch panel and zip tore open and my chap which now looked like a crimson jack handle sprung out with great force and stood there proud at a 45º angle throbbing like a horses heart after the hunt. What made it worse is that it must have looked like I got a jolly on from seeing my member of staff's broken mimsy and this caused her to scream very loudly. Her twat bust open like something out of Alien which caused my wife to faint, the nurse throw up and an auxillary nurse carrying some bedpans to slip in the vomit, throwing back the pans over her head striking the ward sister violently between the eyes, and as for the contents, I don't really wish to elaborate upon this as it was far too horrid to publish. Let's just say they got a tad busy in the laundry that day. *snort*

She is back at work now although we have moved her to the kitchens as she finds the stairs a bit of a hurdle. She walks a bit like John Wayne these days, except I doubt if she will be riding any horses for a while. Arf. Shouldn't laugh. I'm told her legs will eventually become closer together and I should think by next year's shooting season she will be right as ninepence.

I better get a move on. We're going to the ward sister's funeral this afternoon. I have checked I have the correct medication with me.

Pip Pip

Captn Horatio Clutterbuck Hood-Butter III (ret) _{VC VD & Bar}
captainhoodbutter.co.cc

( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:57, 1 reply)

I too am a nurse
I'm not sure why (possibly because I've got a face for radio) but during my training no patients or staff ever thought I was gay. I'm not unahppy about this you understand *adopts gruff, manly voice to be sure*. In one humerous instance, I was giving this old dude (must have been about 70 at the time) a bed bath on an orthopaedic ward and his little fella became, not so little. The HCA who was helping me at the time later said "Straight or not you gave a 70 year old guy a hard-on, you'd make a fortune down at the docks."
( Funkenschlag still likes dogs more than cats, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:51, 3 replies)

A graphic description
800 words, so in the reply.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:44, 4 replies)

The Jesus Doctor
Drugged up on fentanyl, gabapentin and all the other delightful little goodies that were pumped into my arm, I looked up to see a vision. It wasn't very beautiful, but it was pretty damn holy. Jesus was leaning over me, surrounded with white light.

Then I blinked and came to my senses. This wasn't Jesus. Jesus was definitely not early sixties and while he may have sported a beard it certainly wasn't such a smug one. It was however the next best thing, the closest thing to God in a hospital. The top dog of neurology consultants. This man had nurses and junior doctors cowering at his every word, it was surely not unreasonable that he believed he was this important.

However although I had got the memo about this doctor not actually being Jesus... it seemed he hadn't. Due to shit treatment I was transferring from what was acclaimed as one of the best neurological treatment hospitals in England to a small hospital in Ireland, and he was here to persuade me otherwise. After pretending I wasn't really paralysed, he pointed his hand at me 'Stand up and walk.' He was pretty impatient. I thought he was joking and laughed, pointing out the paralysis. He shrugged, and said it again 'Stand up and walk towards me.' When through some obstinate will of my own (or perhaps the actual paralysis) I failed to miraculously heal, he literally turned and walked out of the room.
( Amberl was stripey and dominated Europe, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:42, Reply)

Do dentistry
Not medicine.

It's a much nicer life and you don't have to talk to the bastards.
(SSSSS, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:32, Reply)

I don't get on well with blood tests...
...so I took my girlfiend at the time with me, for support. Oh dear...

(My first post by the way - hello all!)

I had my first blood test done when I was about 12. I got up too quick afterwards, and after feeling like I was walking on the moon as me & my mum were leaving, I woke up on the floor in the waiting room with one of the doctors leaning over me. Ever since, I've been petrified of them.

I had one four years ago, back when I was 18. My Dad dropped me & my girlfriend off outside the doctors, and waited in the car park for us. Waiting inside, I was pretty nervous, a little shaky. After what seemed like decades, I was called in. We went in to a small room, I sat in a chair almost like a dentists. I told the nurse who was going to be torturing me (he actually looked like a small goblin, made me even more nervous) that I was a little shaky about it, so he asked if I'd rather lie down - yep. So we moved to another room, with a bed, two chairs and a sink. It was a tiny room, only just big enough for the three of us really. Anyway, I lay down, he took the blood whilst chatting to me. He switched a fan on to keep me cool afterwards, and left the room to give me a minute to relax, calm down from it. I felt fine actually. Well, I did....

Her: "I feel dizzy...."

Oh god. Please no....

Me: "Go tell the nurse then."

So she gets up, leaves the room... Walks in a few seconds later, sits back down.

Her: "No, I feel really, really dizzy..."

Fucksocks.

Just as the nurse walks in, I turn to my girlfriend, who promptly passes out, smacking her head on the wall on the way down. I've never moved so fast... I jumped straight off the bed, out the door, and into the empty doctors room next door and sat down, while the nurse called for one or two of the doctors to come & help. I started feeling really feint, dizzy, sweating... I grabbed the bin from under the doctors desk, and proceeded to fill it with vomit, while they're putting my girlfriend on the bed next door, and checking to see if she's ok. After 15 minutes or so of calming us both down, they ended up going to the car park & getting my Dad to come in and help us both out.

The girlfriend ended up with whiplash & concussion from smacking her head on the wall, and ended up going to hospital a couple of days later for xrays & things.

My results came back fine, though.
(smazio, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:18, 2 replies)

MEDICAL ACCEPTANCE GATE
I worked for future salary the nightshift
in Spalding Street. The respect is worth it.
1.AM at the front gate it had just been
sunday night stood this man, tall and twisted back.
He spoke loud and said Come out of there that
grill on the wall contains a crowd and
that twisted shape you call the laundry
post reminds me of my origin.
Your criss-crossed fences are avenues.
Paid for by the NHS, you need it more than
the patients for mortgage fees and medical pranks.

but you wont fix my quartz chip
or repair my broken kind
kindness borne of mousey brain
twisted with kin of bitter world
Vicious dreams of EC1
and lapland girls and green purse
with tall and chaste inducements

the porter went to move the man
and we got back to practice time
but his hands went through the man
he was made up of liquid pitch
his legs two propeller sticks
crisscrossed fence posts were his eyes
his mouth red like a twisted reich
his mouth like a twisted knife
he reeked of bleach and hospitals
he reeked of bleach and hospitals
the porter swears this is true
he reeked of bleach and hospitals
the porter swears this is true
and drinks too much in his brown and white hut
but the thing clings to the acceptance gate
the thing clings to the acceptance gate
the thing clings to the acceptance gate
the thing clings to the medical acceptance gate
and nobody says he's seen it
It only bounces young MDs
we are dedicated to fight disease
to fight disease
disease
disease
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:13, 4 replies)

Another tonsils one
I had my tonsils out just a few months ago, and at the tender age of 22, the operation was more of a big deal than it is for children. It went OK, pretty sore for a good couple of weeks, but nothing exciting.

What did make it special was the surgeon. He was hilarious, and looked like Dr Fox. After I had woken up from the anaesthetic, and was moved back to my room, he came in and congratulated me on the "biggest tonsils I have ever seen in 20 years". I had a little laugh, was disappointed I couldn't keep them, and then said goodbye.

As he walked out the room, he turned to a nurse and said "seriously, they looked like bollocks in his mouth"

Thanks Doc!
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:11, 2 replies)

Tonsils
At the tender age of 9 I had to get my tonsils out. Scary enough at that age, but was well looked after, and as it was close to Christmas Santa was good to me that year.

The reason I'm writing though, as I was wheeled into the operating theatre there were a number of people standing watching, who crowded round me as I was being told to breath through a big mask and count down from ten. To me they were all adults, but thinking back they must have been medical students.

Just as I started going under I felt a weird pressure on my leg and the last thing I heard before going out completely, was,

"Hey, don't lean on the patient."
( Cheeses of Nazareth Where's Captain Kirk? www.whereiskirk.com, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 12:02, 1 reply)

Two for the price of one.
This is a pearoast. Normally I don't do these, but I think I fucking deserve to share my pain with as many people as possible. Yes, it's a long one, so if you have a short attention span, just skip on to the next one...

(Originally posted on "i hurt my rude bits" QOTW in July 2006)

All true BTW. (Except the bit about the £10)

Story contains bums, willies, flexible tubes and lubricant.

=========================================

It’s 1994. I’m 17.

After nature taking its course one day, I found I was in slight discomfort. Inspecting this discomfort was the obvious course of action to take. Due to the awkward positioning of this pain, obviously I had to investigate by touch only. Some people would have used a mirror, but I had no particular wish to see my own hole. When my finger touched what appeared to be an unexpected protrusion, for a split second I almost collapsed with fear. Then, I thought “ahh fuck it, it’ll go away”. It did go away after a week or two. I didn’t tell anyone.

Wind forward a few years – 1999. Again, I got lovely bits of protruding anal vein.

So that time round, being obviously more mature (ahem) I decided to pay a visit to the GP to ask him what to do, expecting to receive some medical advice and maybe some tablets or cream to make it go away.

What I should have prepared for was the examination. It’s not every day you’re in a strange room that smells funny, sort of lay on your side with your legs sort of spread apart whilst a man you don’t know that well covers an appendage with latex, lubricates it up and inserts it in your body. But that’s what happened to me. What sort of conversation is suitable for the duration of the probing? Silence? Smalltalk about trivialities in the news? Or forgetting the taboos completeley and asking “so, do you do this often?”. Me attempting to add some amusement by saying “If I pay you an extra tenner, do I get extras?” did not help however.

But piles haven’t bothered me since then. Oh no. Something MUCH worse.

One Wednesday a few years ago was an interesting day for me. Initially, it went pretty much the same as any other day; arrive at the work car park, stand in the lift and glance an awkward semi-smile at someone who i don’t really know, go into workshop, throw bag into drawer, check out the diary to see what I had planned for the day, sat down, carefully chiselled a gelatinous nugget of snot out of my nose and sat down with the usual plastic cup of freshly poured machine-cooled water. How very normal.

After an hour or so, my body informed me that I had an excess of water in my bladder, so, choosing not to ignore this warning, I sensibly walked down the corridor, commenced the usual ritual of not saying hello to anybody else stood at the urinals, then performed the act of the wee-wees. Taking a cursory glance at my liquid stream to ensure that i wasn’t pissing over the shoes of the guy stood next to me, my eyes were attracted to an unconventional sight. I appeared to be urinating Vimto. It took a few seconds for my brain to actually realise that dark red piss was not actually a sign of a healthy digestive system. This was strange. Weeing didn’t actually feel any different than usual, so why did i appear to be emptying my heart out of my genitals?

Post-pee, I relayed the story in lurid graphic detail to a couple of work colleagues, who suggested that I actually go and see someone about it. Which was probably the best idea. So off I trundled to the Occupational Health department, with my mind working overtime, creating wild ideas about the reason my body was malfuctioning in such a colourful way.

The Occupational Health department where I work is just like a Doctor’s surgery. You know, walls bedecked with numerous posters and leaflets promoting various ailments and diseases, describing symptoms so vague that it’s possible to convince yourself that you’ve had every single disease known to humankind. I’m sure that most of the diseases promoted on surgery noticeboards are completely fictitious, made up for the sole purpose of frightening people. But, jumping off that tangent, the Doc called me in, I described what had happened, though I chose to replace “Fucking hell, I’ve just been pissing blood!” with “I went to the toilet and noticed that my urine had turned red”

So, I pissed into a jar for the doc, and, although the hue was less vibrant than before, her test concluded that there was indeed blood in my urine stream. After a couple of doctors appointments, I ended up going to the hospital for a “flexible cystoscopy”. I don’t know how many of you are unfortunate to have experienced one of these, but if you haven’t, it’s not an experience that I’d undertake voluntarily.

I got into the examination room after taking off my pants and putting on this delightful hospital gown, and lay on the examination table thingy. For some reason the doctor felt he had to put his finger up my bottom as well, tunnelling deeper than on my previous arse-examination experience. But that was nothing. Fucking zero compared to the main event.

Picture a long, thin, flexible tube. Picture yourself lying there in a hospital gown watching a man advance his way to your genitals whilst two women watch. And then close your eyes for the rest of the fucking experience so you don’t have to make eye contact with the painbringer.

So anyway, he grabs hold of my cock, holds it one hand, holds tube in other. Informing me to brace myself, he then begins the oh so very unnatural experience of sliding a foreign object the wrong way up my pisspipe, scratching its way along my tubes. Then the real REAL pain came. The tube was about to go through my sphincter. The closest experience I can actually compare this feeling to, is like that of the straw puncturing the seal on a Ribena juice carton. Pressing against it and then…… ooop! It just burst through on to the inside. How very pleasurable. After much poking around, he withdrew his long shaft, and I limped out of the examination room, and straight into the toilet. The first piss was reasonably interesting. Standing there, in the usual position, my willy started what I can only describe as "sputtering". Like I was pissing air. Strange, very strange feeling. But as the first cascade of urine commenced, a delightful stinging sensation burnt it's way up my tube. I said something along the lines of "Ouch. Dear me, that was rather painful indeed, I don't wish to experience that discomfort again". Or something similar.

So anyway, the hospital analysed all the information they got, and everything was ok. Just a bladder stone or something lovely like that. Apart from it feeling like I was pissing broken glass for the next day or so after the cystoscopy, that ailment hasn’t bothered me since. So people, the moral of the story is drink lots and lots of liquid! I know I fucking do now.

I’m taking bets over which part of my body is next on the list to go wrong. Who wants to see my chart?

=================================

Full version (yes there's more detail) on my website.
( Mike Fishcake teamfishcake.co.uk - better than your mum's face, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:35, 2 replies)

Just like to say
I'm a nurse and work long hours and put up with lots. Too much work and not enough people to do it. Rude sometimes violent patients. Being covered in bodily fluids.

And most people automatically think I'm gay because Im a nurse. Which isnt bad at all actually because I am gay :-)
(Gulliver, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:35, Reply)

Catheters.
I used to be a nurse, so I have a multitude of poor treatment stories which I'll talk about in little doses (see what I did there?). I just left because I was sick of the shit hours and pay, by the way, I wasn't struck off or anything.

Anyway, catheters, for those that don't know, are little plastic tubes that go along one of YOUR tubes to drains something. The most common use is for urinary drainage, they'll go along your urethra in that case, which of course runs along your cock (if you have a cock). The tube has a balloon on it, which is inflated with sterile water to hold the thing in place in your bladder. This balloon is about the size of the end of your thumb if it's inflated properly (but more often than not it's over inflated, maybe even up to ping pong ball size). The tube coming out goes over the side of the bed into a bag that collects the piss. Lovely.

When I was a student nurse (and occasionally after my qualification, too) I would have to lift a patient up the bed, because they had slipped down and couldn't breathe properly or something, and the best way to do this was a two-man lift called the Australian, which involves you and a colleague putting one knee on the bed, one arm in each of the patients armpits, and hoisting him up. You're supposed to put the piss bag and tube out of the way, but I almost always forgot and knelt on the tube... With the result that that balloon that might be the size of a ping pong ball would travel, with force, down your urethra, which is about the diameter of a ball point pen refill, and one of the most sensitive places in your body. OUCH!, in fact: JESUSCHRISTYOUFUCKINGBASTARDSYOU'VEPULLEDMYFUCKINGCOCKOFF!

More things about catheters:

Sometimes you'd forget to put out the sterile water in the kit, so you'd just use whatever was to hand - tapwater from the jug, or OJ or tea.

I once pinched a drainable catheter bag (it had a little tap on the bottom) to fill with vodka in order to smuggle said vodka into a Pixies stadium gig. It worked beautifully - I had worn it slung under my armpit, under my T-Shirt, holster-style. When I was frisked, the bouncer felt it, but decided just to leave it alone.

You can't really have a catheter in permanantly, as there a considerable risk of infection (and not just from clumsy nurses and doctors) so elderly men in long term care tend to sport a 'uridome' which is a condom with a tube to a piss bag attached. Of course no man can resist the occasional wank, so quite often these bags would have a 'head' of congealed spunk floating on top.
(suckfake Frisky biscuits, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:20, 2 replies)

One night I was at uni and started having an asthma attack and my inhaler wasn't helping
so my mate took me to A&E in a taxi since we figured it would be quicker than waiting for an ambulance. By the time I got to the reception desk I could barely talk and literally had to hold onto the desk to stop myself collapsing. The receptionist then proceeded to play 20 questions with me asking if my contact and next of kin details were still valid etc all the time it was getting more and more difficult to talk. I then got left sitting in the waiting room for a full hour with my breathing getting worse and worse watching people who looked like they didn't have a thing wrong with them going to see the triage nurse and being sent back to the waiting room. In this time my mate must have gone over to the receptionist half a dozen times telling them I couldn't breath. When the triage nurse did eventually see me I'm pretty sure the first thing that went through his head was "holy fucking shit - they left her in the waiting room for an hour in that state?". I've ended up in hospital many a time with asthma and I think this was the first time I've ever seen a nurse or doctor actually panic. About 30 seconds later I was hooked up to a nebuliser, so they were pretty damn good once I actually got seen by someone with any medical knowledge. So I'm not complaining about the medical staff who were pretty damn good, I'm complaining about the receptionist who really should have used her common sense and put me to the front of the queue to see the nurse - who leaves someone who can't breath sitting in a waiting room for an hour? Do the NHS not have guidelines for who gets seen as a priority? Asthma attacks are pretty high up the list of emergencies and most asthmatics will only go to A&E when they actually think they're going to die if they don't. I consider myself very lucky that I was in Dublin a couple of weeks later when I had an asthma attack that put me in intensive care despite the fact that it cost me about £300 that I could ill afford at the time - if it had happened here I probably would have died in the waiting room.

If I ever have another asthma attack in this country I'll be calling an ambulance despite the fact that I live less than five minutes drive from the hospital and have two housemates that could drive me there.
(mmm....beer, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:14, 7 replies)

Advice for surviving childbirth
8 months ago, my partner gave birth to our first child. Neither of us were truly prepared for the experience, it’s both a beautiful and disgusting thing at the same time. I feel I should write down my tips for survival for any fathers-to-be, who don’t know first-hand what really goes on:

- Labour is boring. Very boring. Some women are lucky; they feel a slight twinge, push, and your newborn slips out like a lubed-up eel. Others will go to the toilet with stomach pain, look to see the damage they’ve caused to the porcelain, and realise they have given birth in the process. This will not happen to many woman though. Some woman can be in labour for up to 4 days. If you’re one of the lucky ones, like me, labour may last about 13 hours. However, be prepared to sit and wait for what seems like an eternity. Be prepared to watch your partner go through pain like no other, whilst you sit there helpless, offering meaningless words of comfort. Men, think. If you had a bowling ball making its way out of your sphincter, would the words ‘You’re doing really well’ make the experience any easier, or the pain more bearable? Of course not. My advice to you is to (try and) stay calm, sit still, and not to say anything. This all goes out the window however, if your partner demands you speak to her. This brings me onto my next point…

- Whatever she wants you to do, make sure you do it. The whole childbirth experience will be made a lot easier if you listen you partner. If she wants you to rub her back, rub it; even if she has got sick coming out the side of her mouth, that she gently covers your face in every time she speaks and/or breaths. Don’t fuss over her though – they’ll be hell to pay. I found taking a packet of cigarettes helped my experience somewhat. When the pain got to much, I simply nipped outside for a quick fag until I was felt able to return to the firing line. Once you’ve calmed yourself, return to the delivery room, wash your hands, and continue to remain silent. If your partner calls you a tosser, smile and say ‘I know I am darling’. Do not quip, ‘I will be for a few weeks, won’t I?’

- If you don’t like blood, try not to be brave and watch the midwife insert any tubes into your partners arm. You will feel lightheaded. On the upside, it isn’t your own blood. On the downside, it gets a lot worse than this. On a similar note, do help your partner to the toilet if she needs it. Don’t, whatever you do, look into it once she’s finished.

- If you can, make sure you eat before you leave your home and take food to the hospital with you. Both of you will need energy for this experience. Sandwiches and fruit are the easiest options here, it’s probably not best have a curry beforehand.

- Listen to the midwives. I was lucky; I had 3 fantastic woman around me who were reassuring and calm throughout. The midwife will know what she is doing – she does it every day. Don’t question why she is fisting your partner, even if you mean it as a joke. Don’t say ‘can I have a go’ and don’t ask you partner if ‘it feels nice’ or ‘can I try that once you’ve recovered?’. The women will gang up on you and make the experience even more difficult. Don’t panic if you and you’re partner are left alone for a while. If it wasn’t safe, the midwife would remain with you throughout. You need time to talk and be shouted at, alone. One last thing, don’t ask ‘Is it nearly there yet’ after just 3 hours of labour. Oh, and when she says, ‘You are 3cm dilated’ don’t ask what the equivalent in inches is. Listen to that advice and it should be enough to get you on the good side of your midwives. You need them – remember that.

- Gas and air is your friend. Help your partner hold the device and watch as she transforms from a raging beast, into a docile little burrowing creature, that wants patting and stroking. I found the gas and air also helped me deal with the situation. I was spaced out, but in a good way. Use this to your advantage. You can now get away with your ‘funny’ comments. Like all good things though, do not have to much. It is not funny to ask the Chinese midwife if you can have some noodles. If you feel you are taking a little to much gas and air, return the device to your partner, so she can continue to enjoy the benefits. Apparently, when removing items from a bag and placing them on a shelf, you can look like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever to your drugged up partner.

- For most of the labour process, you should get through on the above. However, when it gets down the real nitty gritty, you’re going to have to be a lot braver. Luckily for me, my partner didn’t need a caesarean, an epidural or any other pain relief – so I can’t advise on that. What I can tell you is nothing prepares you for the next bit; the big push. Take your partner by the hand and let her squeeze the life out of it. Your fingers shouldn’t break even if they fell like they might. This is where you can offer a few words of support. Do not shout ‘Push like you’ve never pushed before’ or ‘I know it hurts but you’re nearly there’. Instead, help your partner concentrate on her breathing, and even count down from one to three, so you are both braced for every push.

- Don’t look down. Whatever you do, just don’t. It’s not worth ruining your sexual appetite over. When the midwife says she can see the head and asks if you want a look; it isn’t worth going right down for a full on up-skirt view. You’re better off peering over from above, and seeing you’re baby’s head appear as if by magic. If you are tempted to venture south, they’ll be both blood and shit. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. Remember to keep calm – by this time your body will be emotionally and physically drained, but the euphoric event should be enough to see you over the final hurdle. Your partner will also be tired.

- All going well, your baby should be delivered into the hands of the midwife, and your partner will lay back, exhausted but happy. Feel free to cry. It’s natural. Your baby will have blood on it, but you’ll hardly notice. Look at the tiny feet and hands. Look into your baby’s eyes and watch how it instantly follows what you do. Hold your partner and congratulate her on the magnificent job she’s done. Hold your baby for the first time and feel a feeling which words can truly not describe. If you want to, you can cut the cord. The only advice I can give here is that it feels a bit like squid.

- The worst is done. All being well, you can help the midwife dress your baby. One last tip, do not turn and face your partner during this process. You will see a stingray like creature being pulled from her. This apparently is the placenta. If you do make the mistake of catching a glimpse of this creature, merely look your partner in the eyes, mouth ‘I love you’ and return to your baby.

That should be it. Of course they’ll be a day or two of recuperation. Try and get rest whilst you can, and remember to visit your partner and new baby in hospital. Take a present for both; you’ll get stick if you don’t . Finally, enjoy it. Enjoy everything about the experience. You’ll look back afterwards and say, ‘that was easy’.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:12, 9 replies)

Have a repost, almost relevant.
I had my appendix out a few years ago and while in the ward there was this old guy in the corner bed you gave me the fucking rage.
He would constantly interrupt conversations with stuff like "Are you talking to me?! Who are you?! Who's that?!" etc etc, I just figured he was a doddery old git who shat the bed twice while I was there.
The morning after my op and I was laying in bed bored to tears. A young girl from the shop came in selling papers so I bought one and got myself comfortable. She then headed to the guy in the corner and every so nicely asked "Would you like to buy a paper my dear?"
"No thanks" came the reply... "Wouldn't do me any good, I'm blind".
Well, fuck me, there's no fear like that you feel when you're trying so hard not to laugh that you're terrified you're going to burst your stitches.
I covered my face with the paper and shook silently with laughter, slipping down the bed a bit and leaving myself in agony. It was worth it though.
The young lass just made a quick exit while I writhed in pain/pleasure.
( Maffers I flow kinda strange like Spina Bifida footprints, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:10, Reply)

Mmm nurses.
male are nice.

I have been intimately linked to a male nurse. Back in them days I was sharing a house with an exceptionally nosy woman (shall we call her Binsey), indecently he lived in the on site hospital accommodation. Every evening Binsey would ask “Are you staying here tonight or at the nursing home? I got bored correcting her (it’s nurse’s home a home for nurses not a nursing home is something very different) So, I would cheerily reply ‘nope’ then do what ever the f*ck took my fancy.

Ah nurses are great – kinky NHS sex is the cure of all ills.
(Free pens 100, 101, 102 is still counting on, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:09, 4 replies)

When I Was A Student

I moonlighted as a security guard. Most of the time I was stuck in some god-forsaken hole where the only danger was dying of boredom. But, occasionally, I was sent to places I really didn't want to be. Especially on less than minimum wage. On of these places was Caz Guard (Local casualty department) at the hospital.

The worst night I ever dealt with was the end of Ramadan traditional fight between the Muslim kids and the black kids. It's an open secret in Britain's multi-cultural society that the Muslims look down on the blacks and the blacks despise the Muslims. ( And I'm going to cop *so* much flack for this)

But anyway, the end of Ramadan in an inner-city area was fight night. The local Asian gangs would invade the black end of town and kick the shit out of a few random passers-by and the black gangs would do the same in the Asian enclaves. Eventually, they'd all work themselves up into a frenzy and would meet in some huge bloody free-for-all. People would get hurt, people would get cut and then the casualties would be shipped off to the local hospital which is where I came in.

As the injured arrived they by-passed the waiting room (ambulance victims always get seen first) and were quickly seen by the docs and nurses. Then their mates started to arrive to see how their friend was. The waiting area filled up with psyched-up Asian kids who I moved down to the bottom of the waiting room, and then by black kids who I kept at the top of the room. Both groups were looking daggers at each other.

It had to happen. One kid said something and both groups surged to their feet. It was going to kick off. It was going to kick off and the only thing standing between them and a bloodbath in casualty was me in my ill-fitting crimplene uniform.

Did I mention that I was on less than minimum wage?

So there I was. Horatio on the bridge. Just me keeping these warring tribes apart. They all looked at me. They all saw what was in my eyes. And they knew.

They doctors knew. The nurses knew. The Asians and the black kids knew.

And they all took a step backwards.

'Cos they all knew that, if it kicked off, I was going to *seriously* shit myself and nobody wanted to get covered in poo.

Cheers

After 20 minutes, that felt like 20 hours, the Police in numbers and full riot gear arrived and I went outside and threw my ring up
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:05, Reply)

A few years ago on the French exchange , , ,
It was the hottest day of the year, and we were coming back to England the next day and so in our teenage wisdom we spend all day half naked in the sun, jumping into the sea and smoking cheap cigarettes on mopeds.
That night I could not sleep as it felt like my back was on fire, I touched my face to find that it felt how i'd imagine greasy bubble-wrap would feel. Low and behold the next morning I awoke, as captain scarlet with second degree burns and blisters like golf balls over my back, neck and shoulders.
When our School group came together ready to leave it was decided that I couldn't get on the ferry home because I needed medical treatment. I said my goodbyes to the French, goodbye to my classmates and hello to a French hospital with my languages teacher who had stayed behind with me.

Two attractive French lady nurses (I know, I KNOW!) eventually saw me, after waving passports at the front desk and leaving the talking up to Mr.P. He discussed the situation and I was told to lay my un-continental self on the table while these nurses used what can only be described as a knitting needle to burst my puss filled blisters.

Turning to my teacher, the nurse with the needle rolled her eyes and muttered something.
My teacher de-coded for me . . . "She is just saying, 'I love my job'."
Probably the biggest cultural learning curve I gained from that trip was the French attitude from that situation. And that not all teachers are nonses...alone in a foreign country with Mr.P. was alright, I got a longer time in France than any of my classmates and a free ice cream on the ferry home.

Still got a scar or two on my back as well, merci mademoiselles.
(MattCD, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 11:02, 1 reply)

A few years back…
I started waking up in the middle of the night with earache. I thought nothing of it and just bought some eardrops from Boots, guessing it was probably just earwax. After a week or so the pain was still there, only now accompanied by a ringing sound. I duly booked an appointment with my GP for the next morning and went to bed as normal.

I woke up at my normal time, wondering why my alarm hadn't gone off. I then wondered why I couldn't hear any traffic on the main road outside my house. Then, more than a little panicked I realised I could barely hear anything at all. After a frantic phonecall to my dad (with me shouting to hear my own voice and hearing nothing from him in return) I got picked up and taken to A&E.

After waiting for what felt like hours, wondering how easy sign-language was to learn and if I'd eventually start sounding like a deaf guy, I got the see a nurse. After getting me a drink, and calming me down she asked me the describe the symptoms. I told her "They're all yellow, Homer's fat and Marge has got blue hair."
(mark schmark, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 10:56, 1 reply)

Blindin'
About sixteen years ago when I was but a fresh little thing of twenty one, I woke up one morning with "wiggly lines" in the vision in my left eye - meaning all straight edges were warped like something out of the X-Files. I went to the hospital, who took note that I am pathologically short sighted but thought no more about that, and told me I had bleeding in my retina in that eye and to basically "keep an eye on it" and that my sight would return to normal within six weeks.
It didn't. It got worse, it began to not only be wiggly but get dimmer and dimmer. Went back to them.
"Go home, it'll return to normal within another six weeks."
Went home, it didn't. Getting dimmer.
Went back - guess what they said ? Rinse, repeat ad nauseum.
Eventually after about nine months I lost all but light perception in that eye. They offered no explanation as to why it happened or why they thought it would get better by itself.

Two years later the same thing happened in my right eye - drying my hair one day and then pop ! wiggly lines and weird shit, with loss of central vision. I lived in a different part of the country then and was told at the local hospital that the sight that was gone would stay gone, and would continue to get worse, and that I should give up my drivers license and get registered partially sighted. Oh, and you can forget working (I was a bingo cashier at the time, which needed me to be able to have enough sight to recognise denominations of coins and notes at a glance) as now everything was distorted and growing dim. No explanation as to what caused it though.

A year later at another hospital in another part of a country (Southampton this time), I went to the local hospital when a huge chunk of the remaining peripheral vision in my right eye disappeared in literally a couple of seconds. Finally I saw a man who knew what the problem was - I had something called myopic macular degeneration. He rushed me into surgery to try and save my remaining vision and told me if the folks at the first hospital had done that, I would very like not be nearly completely blind as I am today. As it was, by the time someone who knew what they were talking about saw me, there was little to be done but patch up and hope for the best.

The moral of the story ? I don't know, really. I've been registered blind for ten years now. I have only light perception in my left eye and very spotty vision in the peripheral of my right, plus a host of other problems with my eyes like cataracts that go hand in hand with the condition. In no way does that meet with the original diagnoses of "It'll return to normal within six weeks" !
(womanwhocanonlylivewithdogs, Fri 12 Mar 2010, 10:46, 5 replies)