The Stroke Ward then Care Home

First, I’d like to explain that as bad as I thought my Stroke was at the time, after being taken to the Queens Medical Centre, diagnosed with having had an Embolic stroke, I thought I’d been lucky. Then I was transferred to the Newell Stroke Ward at the Nottingham City Hospital; I soon realised it was not bad at all!

The event took place while I was in the land of nod. I woke to find myself all disoriented, dizzy, and confused. I was sprawled half-in, half-out of the £300, second-hand, c1968, eyesorely-horrendously grungy coloured, haemorrhoid-testing, unfit-for-use, recliner. Unable to sit up at all, I was lolling to my right. Actually, I thought I might be dreaming at the time and sort of waiting for the fog to clear – of course, it didn’t. The most embarrassing thing in my life (Bar one, but I’ll not mention that!)…

Mass Bodily Fluids Flood – The deluge!
Miss this first section if you are queasy!

(A lifesaver, thanks to Nottingham City Homes!)  And the deluge came! Trying to work out what was happening and pondered on whether to press the Medical Alarm Wristlet button…

Every part of my body that could leak leaked! This was without any warning and so rapid, even the tears that eructed out and I think missed the face cheeks it was so violent. The nose ran, sweat poured from all over, I dribbled from the mouth – but the worst two of all – the bowel evacuation almost shot out, and the wee-weeing too! (at The QMC later, the Doctor said that my ear wax turned to liquid?)

Even pressing the alert button was hard work; I was swaying about and fell out of the chair onto the floor as I got to the control and pushed it. Then found out I could not talk to the controller who answered the alarm!

QMC – Then City Hospital Stroke Ward

Yet I was aware of the mess I was in and ashamed! But I was talking again, but so aware of how I must have looked and smelt! A blank spell from then on until I was being pushed into the scan room at the Queens Medical Centre.

Memory went until I was in an ambulance on the way to the City Hospital stroke ward, The Newell Ward. They kept taking me for e-rays and scans for the day, but I can now recall little of the processes.

Sister Jane and Pete turned up later. Having been to the flat and cleaned up the mess I had made – Bless Them!  So many of the patients were in a much worse condition than I was, which made me realise how lucky I had been. Walking again needed some therapy, and since then, I have started stuttering. With Peripheral Neuropathy diagnoses two weeks earlier, walking ever since is a challenge nowadays. But it could have been so much worse!

One morning, a new patient arrived. He looked like the spitting image of Tyson Fury. They had to move some beds to make room for him, which he was wheeled in on.

Then The Wailing Nights Began!

For about ten hours every single night – for fifteen of them, the poor chap would start calling out for his Mummy! No one else got any sleep! But it was not his fault, naturally. The insults being thrown out to him from other patients desperately needing sleep obviously made no difference.

After the first two or three nights, Tyson (I never knew his name, I can’t remember it if I did), who had been placed near the door, opposite the rota board, realised he could see the names of the other patients, and he would go through everyone… ‘Bill, Bill, help me!’ ‘Malcolm, I need help, fetch my Mum, please!’ ‘Dennis, call for my Mum, I beg you!’ And so forth… then start again repeatedly for hours longer!

The insults and lousy language slowly got worse as the frustrations grew in the other occupants. “F’ing shut your F’ing Gob!” and “Oi… shitting nob-rot, shut the F’s up” are two that come to mind, of the many. Although I had sympathy and empathy with Tyson’s plight and had resisted joining in the angry banter… on the last the 15th night, I very nearly did, but I didn’t.

Unfortunately, they gave me Clopidogrel to help prevent any more blood clots. Then found out I had an allergy to them. Hence the ankle ulcer and extra bloated feet and legs.

Move Me To A Nursing Home

I was so relieved when a doctor told me that they were desperate for beds for new stroke victims. Relieved? Ha! Had I known what was to come, I would have refused to go! They would be moving me later in the day into a Nottingham City Homes care home for a couple of months.

The single room, with adjoining WC with a shower, was nice and snug. There were no shortages of residents to come in and have a look around and help themselves to anything they fancied. Amongst the things that went missing were one hearing aid, pens, biscuits and a pair of socks. I later saw a bloke wearing the easily identifiable diabetic bamboo socks. My Get Better Teddy Bear from TFZer Pattie in Canada disappeared, but I found it in the TV room?

The routine went like this:

  • A carer would come in to help me get the ankle strap on each morning. They all got it wrong, nearly crippled me! Hehe! The door would open (no locks), and a mystery voice would yell out, ‘Breakfast in ten!’ Then give me the medications. I missed many breakfasts.
  • Occasionally a cleaner would come in to ‘do’ the toilet and moan if I’d left any shaving foam in the sink or floor.
  • The midday food summoning would be something like “Tea!”, “Food!” or “Nosh” followed by the estimated time I have to be down for. I missed a few meals.
  • Evenings, medications and taking the ankle strap off.

Inchcock with his retrieved Teddy Bear! ♥

I was told not to leave the site at any time. During the nine weeks, I was there, my laundry was only returned to me three times. Sister Jane and Pete kept me supplied with socks and shirts from the flat. They asked me to make a statement for the police when a bloke attacked a woman with a knife.

If nothing else, this experience has made me all the more determined to avoid going into a care home.

In a Repeated Dream

For several weeks after leaving the Car Home, and Jane and Pete returning me to the flats, I had a repeating dream… I would be leaving the hospital… with the Grim Reaper calling me back to the Stroke Ward. I don’t think it got to me badly, but I was glad when they stooped! (Watch it now, the bloody thing will start again!) Haha!

Part of the Inchcock True Tales of Woe & Make E’m Laugh Series!

17 thoughts on “The Stroke Ward then Care Home

  1. A cell in Alcatraz is how I read the location information because those names are more accurate than the official nomenclature. I’ve ne’er heard of a condition that causes all those liquids to emit violently from every possible source. Is there a name for that malady? Wanting to keep that malady at a safe distance, a lightyear perhaps.
    I started to watch Clockwork but the violence proved too strong for my nerves. One Flew is well worth watching, well written, acted, and directed. It’s the default image my mind sends me when such a place is mentioned.
    Great of Janet and Pete to help out with one of the more difficult jobs, and one that is particularly appreciated by the receipient.
    Having a Tyson is more than a lot of irritation when you are trying to recover from a major blow to the system. F’ing awful.

    • Evening Mr. Inchcock. That was really well written. And a very interesting tale. Always enjoy what you write.

    • If there is name Sir, I know it not. I can remember mentioning the event to Sister Jane and Pete, but am not sure if I did so to the nurses? Being in and out of it like at the time. Part of the Stroke methinks?
      I shall have to get around to watching One flew, now you’ve nedorsed.. no, endorsed it, Sir. (Grammarly not working in this new package on the comments, Humph!)
      Poor chap, I often think of him and Brian, in the opposite bed, he fell oput of ot one night, fice minutes it took the nutses to arrive, but him back in, and the poor chap tumbled out again… then they put up the supports ot the full height! Even in my state, I thought it was disgusting! Ofthe ten or so beds, it was only Brian and I who didn’t sear at Tyson! I’d love to know how Brian went on. Grand chap!
      Taketh care all. ♥

      • I once had a room mate who commiserated with me at a time that I was being fed by IV for about six weeks or so. They would only allow me a few popsicles per day and the flavors were only cherry and orange. So after he was discharged, he stopped by to gift me with a large box of multi-flavored popsicles. A kind man is wot he were. Unfortunately, I forget his name.
        I received very few visitors during my hospitalisations that lasted about two months in total. My wife at the time (not an HRH) stopped by twice. I ended up watching soap operas and the like, perhaps a reason that I seldom watch even a minute of TV. Except when viewing shows with HRH Lisa, of course.

      • Yet another linked-coincidence teixt us, Sir. After the stroke stay in hospital and Care (using the term loosly) Home, Jane and Pete were my heros and visitors, over the two-month recovery. Bless ’em!
        Soap operas – how desperate you must have been Billum, my heart goes out to you.
        HRH Lisa, the saviouress!
        The lolli-supplier was kinf thinking. Cherry flavour… Eugh! Lemon, yes! Hehehe!
        As you say, Fate can be flipping fickle, and funless! Har-har!
        Cheers ♥

      • That roommate was a fine fellow, the popsicles were top notch. The soap opera ran for an hour after lunch, I can assure you that nothing worth remembering ever happened. I can also assure you that I haven’t watched a single boring soap since.

      • And I cannot blame you, Sir Billum… in fact, well done! The main use of the TV here, is as a deep enducer – rarely fails, me.
        Hope HRH, your worhtiness ridden selve, and the furries are well. ♥

      • The furries like to join us in watching some of the better stuff on TV. Actually, they never actually watch the screen. Likely they are just humoring us. They are wise that way. I think they roll their eyes at our heights of absurdity.

      • Ah, the furries! I recall Cyril who would plonk himself down on my body (anywhere, knees, chest, neck would do him) the minute I sat down, start purring strongly, and if the TV was on, he’s look in the direction of the scene, giving of odd gaping yawn… Now I know why, thanks Billum! Haha!

      • Good old Cyril, I count him as a remembered and much valued friend. Plopping preferences are determined by the individual furry. Our cat Nibbles likes to rest on my leg, sometimes uncomfortably (for me) pressing a bony knee into the flesh there. Nothing I may have a thing to say about. And they all know that a gaping yawn is what a TV program always deserves. 🙂

  2. Things happen! When my dialysis fistula ruptured, I was drying off from a shower. Massive eruptions of spurting blood from the arterial access point covered the bathroom floor, walls, shower, everything in the room! I tried to apply pressure on the right spot to contain the slippery mess, then tried to make it through the apartment to my smart phone in the front room, spurting blood throughout! Dripping blood and water, naked as the proverbial jay, my right hand over the bloody arterial access, I sat down in the glide rocker and picked up the smart phone with my left hand. (I am right handed). Turning on the phone awkwardly with my left hand, I punched the emergency number into the keyboard: 991!!! Shit! Bloody as hell, naked, wet, and covered in blood, I mistyped the emergency number! I tried again: 911. I told the lady my emergency, asked for an ambulance. When the emergency medical team and the police arrived, there I was, bloody as hell, naked, wet, and covered in blood. What can you do in such circumstances? Sit there bloody as hell, naked, wet, and covered in blood. One of the EMT’s gave me a sheet to wrap around my bloody as hell, naked, wet, and covered in blood body, and off we went to the hospital, where my emergency was dealt with.

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