Article by
Sarah Burge:
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The National Hearse Service...
a day in the life of a patient
Forget euthanasia - just take yourself off to your local NHS hospital if you’re feeling really sick of life! So what exactly is our NHS celebrating in its 60th year? It’s most certainly not 60 years of excellence! More like 60 years of fast-tracking its way to long waiting lists, staff shortages, medical negligence, incompetence, lack of communication and lost records, not to mention patients dying in corridors and of course full accreditation for the development of the super bug MRSA.
Following our recent Botox Barbie Party I became one of the latest in a long line of victims to fall into the hands of what I have re-Christened the “National Hearse Service.” I developed an acute orbital cyst following an accident at home! Being the clumsy person that I am sometimes, I turned all the lights out, only to miss-negotiate the stairs on my way up to bed (you know how you do?). Resulting in a forward lunge that any dancer would be proud of and a wall/head collision, complete with re-bound into the banisters that almost knocked me unconscious. I was cut, bruised and you could have been forgiven for thinking I’d done 10 rounds with Mike Tyson! Believe it or not, it got worse - with the onset of an acute infection (the size of a golf ball), just under the brow bone, that set in through the wound and proceeded to track its way halfway across my face - leaving me looking something akin to Quasimodo!
It was time for a trip to the Doctor, who hastily recorded the incident with pen poised and pulsating and wrote out the script for that familiar course of antibiotics, hastily telling me to take myself straight to A&E if symptoms persisted, worsened, or started to track down my face further. Which is of course exactly what they did. The agony was unbearable (and believe you me, I probably hold the world record for having the highest pain threshold) but this, well! It was fast taking control, which set my alarm bells ringing, knowing full well that this was not normal and could very quickly become very serious indeed! As far as I was concerned, incision and drainage, with intravenous antibiotics, before I developed septicaemia or worse meningitis and loss of sight, was needed asap!
So it was off to hospital. Doctors and hospital receptionists!!!!!! Never fail to disappoint do they? Always claiming to know best, they set about “putting me down” (excuse the pun) to see the GP (although I argued the toss) and held no regard whatsoever for my diagnosis! All the same “they know best” so I let myself be ushered over to join the never-ending queue of people on the GP’s list - you know the one - a bit like that song, “Hotel California” where people always seem to go in but no one ever leaves. You all sit there, terrifyingly close to dying of boredom, utterly convinced that you really MUST be next by now, but somehow it’s never your name that rings out over the tannoy system.
Finally it really was my turn and, at the sight of me, the Doctor stared in disbelief at the poison fast absorbing my face like something out of “Doctor Who,” which was by this stage making it hard for me to breath. He wondered why on earth (Yes! You’ve guessed it) I wasn’t being treated by the surgical team in A&E. Apparently I needed immediate incision and drainage! No? Really?! He phoned through to the dummies who’d put me there in the first place, then mumbled that I couldn’t be treated at this hospital as they don’t deal with anything above the neck! God forbid anyone involved in an RTA that happens to have facial injuries should come in. Oh dear! - “I’m sorry, you can’t come in here, we can only help if your injuries are below the neck!”
It was like Carry-on-Doctors and I was suddenly thrown into the 7th circle of hell in hospital politics. The GP, trying hard to mask his frustration, proceeded to phone around another hospital (which took over an hour) to evaluate who and which department could in fact rid me of the ever increasing risk of contracting septicaemia. I was near to passing out at this stage and couldn’t breath very well. Eventually, after speaking to every Tom, Dick (being the operative word) and Harry, I was told to take myself 15 miles away to the next hospital, where it was arranged for me to be seen immediately by the surgical team who would supposedly rectify my misery and hopefully save me from a fate worse than death. Well! At least my husband was with me and could drive me there quickly.
On arrival we were once again met by a stern looking, frigid old battle axe, with a strong Scottish accent and absolutely no recollection of the GP’s insistence that I needed urgent medical attention. I was again ushered to a seat (which I eventually stuck to), to again go over the same old nurse assessment routine. “God! I’m going to die here!” crossed my mind more than once! I was quickly developing a high temperature, my breathing was laboured and I couldn’t see properly. My husband was now beginning to panic, frightened by the rapidly increasing risk that he might become single again! When my name was called, (Hallelujah!) The nurse with the strong Scottish accent immediately jumped to the defence of the NHS at my husband’s frantic request to get a surgical doctor to see me asap, stating that “Och! There are people out there that can’t even breath you know.” Which was ironic as I was now trying to convey my distress through an oxygen mask myself. It was only when my own personal physician (Dr Syed Haq) was called that they noted the severity of the illness. That these people had to be told what to do was not in the least bit reassuring - I was seriously beginning to worry that perhaps I really was on the set of casualty, or with the Carry-On team!!!!!!! Eventually, after a lot of palaver with doctors coming and going, they decided to squeeze it! Yes! Squeeze it! I could not believe this - this was not a pimple that you could just squeeze and it would disperse, or I would have done a DIY on it!! This was a cyst the size of a golf ball! So following several non-eventful (bar the agony) “squeezing” attempts, they just decided to up the dose of oral antibiotics (because the NHS would not “pony up the dough” to give them intravenously) and sent me on my merry way, stating, “If it gets any worse come back.” The whole event was totally distressing and indescribably frustrating, leaving aside the fact that I was deteriorating by the minute.
Back home and in a terrible state, from my worsening condition which was now causing impaired vision in one eye and numbness to my throat, I felt that if something wasn’t done, and fast, I would end up in serious trouble. The only action that I could resort to was what I knew had to be done from the very beginning - incision and drainage - which I carried out myself (BUT DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME - don’t forget I’m medically trained). I drew out infection the size of a golf ball of jelly.
I’m on the mend now and a 2nd lot of antibiotics will kill off the remains of the infection. Believe it or not the 1st lot were the wrong ones to treat my particular condition anyway and should never have been prescribed!
If you have a National Hearse Service story and would like to share it with others please email sarah@humanhi.com
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Sarah Burge, Practitioner of Aesthetic Medicine
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