When my Nanna
phoned me at the pub last night, I thought I was in trouble for not calling
her. I went straight on the defensive: I was sorry, I hadn't had a chance, I'd
barely had a lunch break, I'd had meetings all day, then I was at a football
match and now I was at the pub.
And then I let
her speak and she asked me to come to hers and stay the night because she was
getting chest pains.
My heart
skipped a beat, though not in a medically dangerous way that hers might have
been doing.
Just the day
before she'd said she was feeling "permanently under the
weather".
Had she jinxed
herself?
I practically
fled the pub, and was storming the wrong way in Bethnal Green when I got a
reassuring call from my mum. Don't panic. Yes the doctor said to go to
hospital, but she had had these pains before and there are complications with
diabetes that we couldn't know for sure that this was a serious heart
problem.
I calmed down.
My cantankerous grandmother was refusing to go to hospital but she had good
reason not to panic the same way I was.
After a change
of shoes at home (heeled boots are not practical if you need to run around
after an invalid) and picking up my stuff I arrived at hers. She was gasping
for a cup of tea, and it wasn't long until she hit the wine as usual. So far so
normal.
She was
breathless and groaning. I hooked her up to a TENS machine and we watched
Silent Witness. We went to bed at midnight and I got a lie in, as I was working
from home.
She'd slept
fitfully, and phoned the doctors who sent an ambulance. The pain was still
there, and they needed to be sure she wasn't having a "cardiac
episode".
The paramedics
were great. Cheery, pleasant, accidentally turning on the ECG machine with an
automated voice exclaiming they were "starting CPR".
No one outside
of my family appreciates the hysterics we go into when explaining how my uncle
once tipped my nan out of her wheelchair, giving her a black eye. They
transported her very carefully in the wheelchair and subsequently the trolley
bed.
So, we're at
hospital. I'm waiting in the relatives room. It can only be described as a
roomy broom cupboard with a sink and a sofa. I shared with two women whose
parents were in. They were in their 40s or 50s. They discussed Cornwall and how
hard these doctors work. They blamed Theresa May for the shortage of doctors.
One by one they got called to go into their loved ones.
I sat in the
broom cupboard for an hour before someone asked if I was Joan's granddaughter.
A quick
aside: when the
paramedics called my nan Joan I thought she'd given them a false name. I had
forgotten that's her real name, not Alison (her middle name ) or any variation
of Nan I come up with (nan, nanna, nanny, trouble, mischief)
She was in a
gown, on a bed. She has a chest infection (Again? Still?) and she needs to be
admitted for intravenous antibiotics.
This soon
became oral antibiotics because her right bundle branch block wasn't too bad,
and the chest infection was likely causing the pain.
Then there
might be fluid on the lung.
An ultrasound
revealed there wasn't, not really?
And finally
another blood test revealed that yes it was raised (not sure what, something to
do with her heart and her blood?) but not significantly enough to keep her in
and we could go merrily on our way. After I'd waited half an hour to pick up
her two new medications.
As I write,
dear reader, she's drinking tea and being fussed over by her cats. And
granddaughters.
In Casualty everything
is much more dramatic. Because it's a drama.
But life isn't
just a drama. It's a comedy as well.
Back home I
announced Claire would be coming over for dinner. And Nan said "oh, to see
you?"
"No Nan!
To see you! You've just been in hospital!"
