My week started with an unpleasant surprise. I'd been experiencing some chest pains whilst walking and had reluctantly made an appointment to see the doctor. The plan was to do some shopping afterwards, but it didn't work out like that. The doctor diagnosed angina and sent me directly to the hospital for tests, which confirmed the condition, and I was told me that I'd need to stay in for treatment.
I was given a pair of hospital-issue, faded-blue pyjamas and told to get into a bed. Then I was wheeled to an observation ward, before being sent upstairs. Being in this situation, I felt ill. Until then, I'd dismissed my pains; now I felt vulnerable. I was given pills and took them without question; usually I'd hesitate before taking medication. I'd seen my doctor at 09.00 in the morning and, after numerous tests, was finally wheeled to a ward at 20.30. I'd had nothing to eat all day and was overly concerned that I'd missed dinner. However, once I arrived in the ward, a meal was produced and I devoured it like a hungry fox. More pills were given and I was told I'd have a procedure the next day, probably resulting in a stent being inserted through an artery.
I slept surprisingly well and it wasn't until 13.00 the next afternoon that I was wheeled to an operating theatre. Throughout the morning, I'd been part of the hospital system, so had my sheets changed (that doesn't happen every day at home!), been given pills, had blood taken and blood pressure checked - all routine for the hospital staff, but strange for me. What surprised me even more was how easily I accepted what was happening. There was a feeling of being institutionalised and I wasn't resisting; the nursing staff were in control and I trusted their judgement without question. I thought of how similar this would be for an elderly person adapting to life in a residential home, or a prisoner locked in a cell. Others take over your life as part of their daily job.
As expected, a stent was inserted and that was really impressive as the beneficial effect was immediate. Unfortunately, the specialist decided that an additional two stents were required and, because of a national fiesta, I had to wait another two days for them. I therefore had longer to be part of the hospital system. I recognised the sound of the meal trolleys and, like Pavlov's dogs, became excited at the thought of being fed. I got used to waking in the morning to see a nurse preparing to extract blood from my arm, to swallowing pills with every meal, and to sharing a room with a stranger.
I left the hospital five days later. They'd done a wonderful job and I was grateful. To them, it was what they do every day; to me it was literally lifesaving. Since then, I've had time to reflect on how differently I had felt whilst in the hospital bed. I was unusually obedient and accepting of the authority and environment I was placed in. My life had been in the hands of the hospital staff and I had trusted them. I have no desire to return there, but thank them sincerely.