My fugative moment.
All I wanted to do was go home and get my laptop. I explained to the doctor that I wasn't expecting to be in hospital for so long and I didn't bring anything with me to keep my occupied for such a long time. He said I would have to talk to the nurses on my floor and they would organise a taxi for me.
The next time one of the nurses was injecting me I asked her if I could pop home to pick some things up.
No.
Eh? Just for an hour I explained. I'm going to be in here for a long time and didn't bring anything with me.
Can not go.
Only for an hour. I just need to go, pick some things up and I'll come back.
Can not.
The Doc said it would be ok. I'll come back. I need books.
I finally managed to get across to them that I simply wanted to go home *temporarily* to collect some things, and that I would be coming straight back to hospital. They finally see what I've been trying to say and book me a cab. Moments later my hospital phone rings. It was the International Desk downstairs. They wanted me to pay my bill. I'm not discharging I explain. I will come back. I just need to collect some things from my home. But what about the bill they ask? I can't leave until it is paid. I'll be back in an hour I imply. All I want to do is go home, quickly pack a bag, and come straight back. I'm going to be here for a week, I need some personal items. My treatment is not complete they tell me, why do I want to leave? Aaarrgghh. I *dont* want to leave. I *do* want to go home, momentarily, and then I *do* want to come back. I will keep my hospital blues on if they want, I have a canular in my arm, I have a drain in my face, they can keep my passport if they want, they can keep my Visa, just please *please* let me go home, only for a moment, and I promise I'll be back.
Ever so slowly I manage to communicate that I'm not discharging myself. They seem very relieved about this and my taxi, like a golden chariot, finally arrives.
On the journey back to my hotel I feel like I'm escaping from prison. I just know that the taxi driver has instructions not to let me out of his sight. He probably has a gun in the glove compartment and a radio built into his shirt collar. My 'wardy has an exciting life' fantasy is squashed faster than a blackberry in a Ribena factory when my friends back at the hotel die laughing upon hearing what I have in my face. Still, it was nice to dream.
31 May 2006
30 May 2006
Day 3
I found out today that two of the nurses that are looking after me are sisters. Yup, the blood pressure was a bit high today.
I also discovered ?ting tong? means ?crazy? in Thai. I found this out after trying to watch American news programs for an hour, non-stop. It's just not possible. Maybe I was spoiled being brought up on the BBC but channels like CNN and even more so Fox News are just unbearable. Fox News is by far the worst 'news' program I think it is possible to make. They take a mole-hill, dramatise it, turn it into a mountain and then present it as 'fact' with all the flashy graphics and painful overacting they can muster. It's horrible. Although, it has brought something to my attention. We are always having a go at the Americans for being uneducated about the rest of the world. Sure, it's a cheap shot, but for the most part it's true. We like nothing better than to mock them for their complete lack of knowledge about anything further afield than the contents of the fridge and the next celebrity wedding. But now I know why. It is because the sources that they turn to when they want to broaden their horizons do nothing more than make you more stupid. It is the televisual equivalent of hiding Viz inside a Broadsheet. It really isn't Americas fault they have a hard time grasping complicated political issues when by the time they are presented on the news they have been sanitized into glorious three minute dramas with single-faceted characters and situations. Oh, and one other thing for the Americans. Sitcom means ?Situation Comedy?. A black family is a situation. People working in an office is a situation. A Family with a) annoying children b) weight problems c) annoying children with weight problems, is a situation. Comedy is something that makes people laugh. What you have managed to produce in mass quantity are 'sits'. Aptly named because you just sit there through the whole painful show.
Not a lot happened today. I watched a lot of cable television. Really wish I hadn't.
I also discovered ?ting tong? means ?crazy? in Thai. I found this out after trying to watch American news programs for an hour, non-stop. It's just not possible. Maybe I was spoiled being brought up on the BBC but channels like CNN and even more so Fox News are just unbearable. Fox News is by far the worst 'news' program I think it is possible to make. They take a mole-hill, dramatise it, turn it into a mountain and then present it as 'fact' with all the flashy graphics and painful overacting they can muster. It's horrible. Although, it has brought something to my attention. We are always having a go at the Americans for being uneducated about the rest of the world. Sure, it's a cheap shot, but for the most part it's true. We like nothing better than to mock them for their complete lack of knowledge about anything further afield than the contents of the fridge and the next celebrity wedding. But now I know why. It is because the sources that they turn to when they want to broaden their horizons do nothing more than make you more stupid. It is the televisual equivalent of hiding Viz inside a Broadsheet. It really isn't Americas fault they have a hard time grasping complicated political issues when by the time they are presented on the news they have been sanitized into glorious three minute dramas with single-faceted characters and situations. Oh, and one other thing for the Americans. Sitcom means ?Situation Comedy?. A black family is a situation. People working in an office is a situation. A Family with a) annoying children b) weight problems c) annoying children with weight problems, is a situation. Comedy is something that makes people laugh. What you have managed to produce in mass quantity are 'sits'. Aptly named because you just sit there through the whole painful show.
Not a lot happened today. I watched a lot of cable television. Really wish I hadn't.
29 May 2006
Day 2
I'm woken at 6 in the morning by a nurse who wants to take my blood pressure. She asks me how many times I ?pee pee and poo poo?. Gotta love this country.
After breakfast the Doc came back in and told me that in around 30 minutes he wants to clean the wound again. This time without anesthetic. Sans anesthetic. Anesthetic = 0. I'm not over the moon about this decision. There is something about the phrases ?clean deep open infected horrendous wound?and ?without anesthetic? that just don't go that well together in my mind. I have 30 minutes to wait. If an Amateur Dramatic Society was to put on a production entitled Waiting On Death Row, I'm pretty sure I'd have got the lead.
I find myself downstairs getting cleaned up and halfway through the procedure, the Docs phone rings. Like a true pro he stops what he was doing to answer it. When he was done he told me that he has installed a 'Drain' into the wound. A drain for the infected puss to run down, out of my deep infected wound. Ladies, you may start forming an orderly queue now.
After breakfast the Doc came back in and told me that in around 30 minutes he wants to clean the wound again. This time without anesthetic. Sans anesthetic. Anesthetic = 0. I'm not over the moon about this decision. There is something about the phrases ?clean deep open infected horrendous wound?and ?without anesthetic? that just don't go that well together in my mind. I have 30 minutes to wait. If an Amateur Dramatic Society was to put on a production entitled Waiting On Death Row, I'm pretty sure I'd have got the lead.
I find myself downstairs getting cleaned up and halfway through the procedure, the Docs phone rings. Like a true pro he stops what he was doing to answer it. When he was done he told me that he has installed a 'Drain' into the wound. A drain for the infected puss to run down, out of my deep infected wound. Ladies, you may start forming an orderly queue now.
28 May 2006
Day 1
I woke up late, not really wanting to go back to hospital. I ate a slow breakfast as if by taking my time I could make the whole situation go away, and after finishing my omlette I would be healed. I got a slow hot shower. Poking and picking at the wound, pressing around it where it hurt to make sure it was still painful. Testing to see if it was still worth a trip into hospital. It was, it still hurt, it was still open, it still looked gross . . . I was still going.
Upon arrival I asked to see a Doctor and one A4 sheet of paper work and 10 minutes later I was laying on a bed telling the Doc what had happened. Without missing a beat he told me he was going to open the wound again, in the next breath he told me I would be in hospital for about a week.
Balls.
The thing I like about Thai hospitals is the complete lack of pomp and ceremony. If you need to be cut open, they do it right there and then. No making an appointment, no getting changed, no long discussion. I need to cut you, lay down, shut up, here I come. This refreshing attitude found me in my shorts and t-shirt being set upon by a doctor with a knife not 15 minutes after walking in the hospital. I was again injected with anesthetic and he got to work . . . and worked . . . and worked . . . and worked. I could hear snipping. A lot of it. A constant snip snippety snip, the type you would hear if you were making a snowflake out of folded paper. I could feel tugging on my jaw, snipping, pushing, pulling, yanking, probing and snipping. A lot more snipping.
At some far far point in the future he had finished. I got a nice big plaster stuck on my face and I sat up to talk to the Doc. He told me that the lump that had been getting harder and more painful was actually dead tissue. He had removed it all but wanted to keep on checking to make sure no more would develop. He also told me that the infection was very deep, and he would want to go in everyday to clean it. Nice. This meant I was once again left with a large open wound on my face. Freshly cut open, packed with gauze, and no chance of it being stitched closed again for at least a week.
Joy.
Upon arrival I asked to see a Doctor and one A4 sheet of paper work and 10 minutes later I was laying on a bed telling the Doc what had happened. Without missing a beat he told me he was going to open the wound again, in the next breath he told me I would be in hospital for about a week.
Balls.
The thing I like about Thai hospitals is the complete lack of pomp and ceremony. If you need to be cut open, they do it right there and then. No making an appointment, no getting changed, no long discussion. I need to cut you, lay down, shut up, here I come. This refreshing attitude found me in my shorts and t-shirt being set upon by a doctor with a knife not 15 minutes after walking in the hospital. I was again injected with anesthetic and he got to work . . . and worked . . . and worked . . . and worked. I could hear snipping. A lot of it. A constant snip snippety snip, the type you would hear if you were making a snowflake out of folded paper. I could feel tugging on my jaw, snipping, pushing, pulling, yanking, probing and snipping. A lot more snipping.
At some far far point in the future he had finished. I got a nice big plaster stuck on my face and I sat up to talk to the Doc. He told me that the lump that had been getting harder and more painful was actually dead tissue. He had removed it all but wanted to keep on checking to make sure no more would develop. He also told me that the infection was very deep, and he would want to go in everyday to clean it. Nice. This meant I was once again left with a large open wound on my face. Freshly cut open, packed with gauze, and no chance of it being stitched closed again for at least a week.
Joy.
27 May 2006
The Week After.
It's funny how having a large facial wound makes people react. I mean sure, you can see it. It's hard not to see. It sits there on my chin, on a throne of swollen tissue, and almost begs to be noticed. There is no getting away from it. Thai people just plain obviously look. Westerners do the 'flicking eye' routine where they get a sneaky peak in every now and again, sometimes unconsciously, sometimes just when they think you aren't looking. But the main difference I have noticed is that when you have a wound people can see, they want to give you advice on it.
Before I left the hospital they told me to clean the wound daily, and keep it dry. I bought myself some alcohol and iodine so I could accomplish this. Yet when the wound was getting no better, the advice started. All the advice was given with good meaning, and I mean no disrespect to the people that were giving it, I simply want to highlight the vast range of advice that I received.
If I was seen cleaning the wound I was told I was cleaning it too much and should let it scab. If there was slight scabbing on the wound I was told I wasn't cleaning it enough. I should only use alcohol, only use iodine, only use this other thing, not use any of them. Yet by far my favourite advice, to avoid eating chicken and eggs, was brought to my by a lovely Thai lady that saw me struggling with a little mirror to clean the wound, and so sat down and did it for me.
So you would think that with all this advice it would have been getting better. However, there was a definite lump just below the cut and it did look quite angry. I went back to the hospital to get my stitches out, they gave it another clean and sent me on my way. Nobody at the hospital seemed that concerned so I figured why should I be. I bought myself some more antibiotics and got on with my daily cleaning ritual.
Unfortunately for me, it wasn't getting any better at all. In fact, you could even say that it was getting worse. The day after my stitches came out the wound seemed to have opened up again. It was ugly enough looking when it was held together, now it was more a gaping maw, mocking me.
Days passed, the lump got harder, the wound redder, and the pain of the swelling getting further and further towards my throat. I drank a lot of beer, verbally vented my anger at the previous hospital for the lackluster job they did and decided in the morning I would go to a different hospital and see if they could fix the mess.
Before I left the hospital they told me to clean the wound daily, and keep it dry. I bought myself some alcohol and iodine so I could accomplish this. Yet when the wound was getting no better, the advice started. All the advice was given with good meaning, and I mean no disrespect to the people that were giving it, I simply want to highlight the vast range of advice that I received.
If I was seen cleaning the wound I was told I was cleaning it too much and should let it scab. If there was slight scabbing on the wound I was told I wasn't cleaning it enough. I should only use alcohol, only use iodine, only use this other thing, not use any of them. Yet by far my favourite advice, to avoid eating chicken and eggs, was brought to my by a lovely Thai lady that saw me struggling with a little mirror to clean the wound, and so sat down and did it for me.
So you would think that with all this advice it would have been getting better. However, there was a definite lump just below the cut and it did look quite angry. I went back to the hospital to get my stitches out, they gave it another clean and sent me on my way. Nobody at the hospital seemed that concerned so I figured why should I be. I bought myself some more antibiotics and got on with my daily cleaning ritual.
Unfortunately for me, it wasn't getting any better at all. In fact, you could even say that it was getting worse. The day after my stitches came out the wound seemed to have opened up again. It was ugly enough looking when it was held together, now it was more a gaping maw, mocking me.
Days passed, the lump got harder, the wound redder, and the pain of the swelling getting further and further towards my throat. I drank a lot of beer, verbally vented my anger at the previous hospital for the lackluster job they did and decided in the morning I would go to a different hospital and see if they could fix the mess.
21 May 2006
Perspective.
I'd been feeling a little off colour. You know, the appetite goes first, then you start getting drowsy; before you know it. You're lying in bed happily hallucinating your ass off.
Doesn't that happen to everyone?
I'd managed to get the shits again. Lucky me. If I'm not careful I'm going to get a reputation for such things. Although this time it wasnt a long drawn out bout of water loss. It was one night of pure H2O evacuation. If I was wearing rose coloured glasses I wouldn't so much say that I was losing huge amounts of water, so much that my internal water supple was being 'liberated' by the Thai sewage system. Every hour, on the hour . . . . Probably. My body clock was thrown out of alignment due to my brain making up fascinating and colourful visions for me to feast on while I lay in my own sweat desperately trying to make sense of it all.
This time the hallucination was a complicated one. My room was full of amazing contraptions connected by bridges, string and light. My room was one large Mouse Trap puzzle. One move in the wrong direction, knock one of the shaky structures, and a whole series of events would have been triggered. What the outcome of these events would be I do not know. But what I did know was that I didn't want to find out. I couldn't knock the string, don't break the light beams, don't let anything fall over . . why . . dunno . . but it'd be bad!
So I lay there trying to keep my limbs steady so as to not invite calamity upon myself. While periodically getting up to go toilet side in my moments of clarity. It was during one of these moments, sometime close to morning, that my very own ?Series of Unfortunate Events? began.
I was sat on the loo, my temperature began to rise. Now I know full well that when I get a fever, as well as going merrily delirious, I faint. I get a heads up before I faint, my temperature goes through the roof. So as I sat there on the toilet, and my temperature did start going through the roof, I knew this was a bad sign. I controlled my breathing, lowered my head, and just waited till it passed.
Did I mention how uncomfortable my bed was. I hadnt noticed it before but man, it was hard. And cold. I kept on trying to get comfortable but it just wasnt happening. I moved my legs around to feel for my sheets but couldn't find them. Begrudgingly I opened my eyes to look for them.
What the hell is that in my bed? Is my pillow stood on end? Why is my bed made out of terracotta tiles? Where is my sheet? Why on earth am I so cold?
My eyes slowly got used to the light and started to focus.
A toilet? Why is there a toilet in my bed? A toilet . . . in my bed . . . eh?
I lift my head and look around. OK then I think. I'm in the bathroom. Hmmm, strange, but I'm definitely in the bathroom. I don't know why, but I know I'm here. I turn to push myself up off the floor. Oh crap. Thats a lot of blood. My arms are covered in blood, and it has congealed on them like red treacle. I look at the toilet again, then down at my arms, and somewhere in the battleground of confusion vs reality in my brain a carrier pigeon gets through: Eureka! Oh man, I think to myself, I fell of the toilet then.
I feel my arms to see where the blood is coming from. They are both ok, nothing broken, no cuts. I get up and sit back down on the loo. I taste blood in my mouth and when I spit I almost recoil that I could produce such a grotesque concoction of bodily fluids. I sit there on the toilet while the fluff is cleaned away from my brain and normal operating procedures are put back in place. I have no idea what time it is, although it is no longer dawn, the sun is fully out now. I look around the bathroom at the mess and decide I should get a shower, and then get myself off to hospital. I turn the shower on and as I stand to look in the mirror I discover where all the blood has come from. The entire right side of my face is red and I have danging spit/blood streamers hanging off my chin before sticking to my chest. I turn the shower to warm and go about cleaning myself up.
When I arrive at hospital I am immediately set upon by a doctor who numbs my face and then starts cleaning the wound. I cant feel anything but I can hear scraping. I can hear the sound of steel scraping against bone. I can hear the sound of steel scraping against my jaw bone. This was . . unsettling.
By the time the doc is finished I have 8 stitches on my chin and one just under my eye. He wants to keep me in over night to rehydrate me. Seeing as while I was laying on the bed I managed to pass out again, I feel it's best not to question this decision and I get myself ready for a night in Thai hospital.
As I'm laying in my hospital bed, tonging my chipped tooth, a drip in my arm and a huge plaster on my face, I cant help but laugh. Sure, I may have split up with my girl, and my business ideas may not be working out, and to be honest I'm not having that great a time over here . . . . but there is something about waking up on a bathroom floor, deliriously wallowing in your own blood and shit . . . that really helps to put things in perspective.
Doesn't that happen to everyone?
I'd managed to get the shits again. Lucky me. If I'm not careful I'm going to get a reputation for such things. Although this time it wasnt a long drawn out bout of water loss. It was one night of pure H2O evacuation. If I was wearing rose coloured glasses I wouldn't so much say that I was losing huge amounts of water, so much that my internal water supple was being 'liberated' by the Thai sewage system. Every hour, on the hour . . . . Probably. My body clock was thrown out of alignment due to my brain making up fascinating and colourful visions for me to feast on while I lay in my own sweat desperately trying to make sense of it all.
This time the hallucination was a complicated one. My room was full of amazing contraptions connected by bridges, string and light. My room was one large Mouse Trap puzzle. One move in the wrong direction, knock one of the shaky structures, and a whole series of events would have been triggered. What the outcome of these events would be I do not know. But what I did know was that I didn't want to find out. I couldn't knock the string, don't break the light beams, don't let anything fall over . . why . . dunno . . but it'd be bad!
So I lay there trying to keep my limbs steady so as to not invite calamity upon myself. While periodically getting up to go toilet side in my moments of clarity. It was during one of these moments, sometime close to morning, that my very own ?Series of Unfortunate Events? began.
I was sat on the loo, my temperature began to rise. Now I know full well that when I get a fever, as well as going merrily delirious, I faint. I get a heads up before I faint, my temperature goes through the roof. So as I sat there on the toilet, and my temperature did start going through the roof, I knew this was a bad sign. I controlled my breathing, lowered my head, and just waited till it passed.
Did I mention how uncomfortable my bed was. I hadnt noticed it before but man, it was hard. And cold. I kept on trying to get comfortable but it just wasnt happening. I moved my legs around to feel for my sheets but couldn't find them. Begrudgingly I opened my eyes to look for them.
What the hell is that in my bed? Is my pillow stood on end? Why is my bed made out of terracotta tiles? Where is my sheet? Why on earth am I so cold?
My eyes slowly got used to the light and started to focus.
A toilet? Why is there a toilet in my bed? A toilet . . . in my bed . . . eh?
I lift my head and look around. OK then I think. I'm in the bathroom. Hmmm, strange, but I'm definitely in the bathroom. I don't know why, but I know I'm here. I turn to push myself up off the floor. Oh crap. Thats a lot of blood. My arms are covered in blood, and it has congealed on them like red treacle. I look at the toilet again, then down at my arms, and somewhere in the battleground of confusion vs reality in my brain a carrier pigeon gets through: Eureka! Oh man, I think to myself, I fell of the toilet then.
I feel my arms to see where the blood is coming from. They are both ok, nothing broken, no cuts. I get up and sit back down on the loo. I taste blood in my mouth and when I spit I almost recoil that I could produce such a grotesque concoction of bodily fluids. I sit there on the toilet while the fluff is cleaned away from my brain and normal operating procedures are put back in place. I have no idea what time it is, although it is no longer dawn, the sun is fully out now. I look around the bathroom at the mess and decide I should get a shower, and then get myself off to hospital. I turn the shower on and as I stand to look in the mirror I discover where all the blood has come from. The entire right side of my face is red and I have danging spit/blood streamers hanging off my chin before sticking to my chest. I turn the shower to warm and go about cleaning myself up.
When I arrive at hospital I am immediately set upon by a doctor who numbs my face and then starts cleaning the wound. I cant feel anything but I can hear scraping. I can hear the sound of steel scraping against bone. I can hear the sound of steel scraping against my jaw bone. This was . . unsettling.
By the time the doc is finished I have 8 stitches on my chin and one just under my eye. He wants to keep me in over night to rehydrate me. Seeing as while I was laying on the bed I managed to pass out again, I feel it's best not to question this decision and I get myself ready for a night in Thai hospital.
As I'm laying in my hospital bed, tonging my chipped tooth, a drip in my arm and a huge plaster on my face, I cant help but laugh. Sure, I may have split up with my girl, and my business ideas may not be working out, and to be honest I'm not having that great a time over here . . . . but there is something about waking up on a bathroom floor, deliriously wallowing in your own blood and shit . . . that really helps to put things in perspective.
04 May 2006
Everything just gets bigger
When I was 12 years old I really wanted a remote control car.
I mean, I really wanted a remote control car. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than a remote control car. Life without a remote control car seemed pointless, how could I possibly have fun without a remote control car. What was the point of doing Anything, especially keeping my bedroom tidy, if I didn't even have a remote control car.
Christmas was aaaaaages away. I went on and on and on about wanting a remote control car. I would go through the pages of the Argos catalog again and again reading the descriptions of what they could do, what scale they were, how fast they went.
Each day as Christmas drew near was more unbearable than the last. I got louder and louder in my expressions of quite how badly I wanted a remote control car. There was no way that anybody in the house couldn't know, just what it was that I wanted . . . . a remote control car.
The few remaining days before Christmas were unbearable. Would my parents have got the hint, would this just be the best Christmas in the whole wide world ever-for-anybody-for-all-time?!
On Christmas day I unwrapped a remote control car. It was a monster truck. It has massive rubber wheels, fake spot lights on the roof and two speeds; Normal and Turbo!!
I didn't know how it could be possible to be any happier. I was joy incarnate. Nothing in the world seemed important compared to this awesome gift I had just been given. My other presents could wait, they were insignificant.
20 minutes later the batteries had died.
Nothing changes when you grow up.
Everything just gets bigger.
I mean, I really wanted a remote control car. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than a remote control car. Life without a remote control car seemed pointless, how could I possibly have fun without a remote control car. What was the point of doing Anything, especially keeping my bedroom tidy, if I didn't even have a remote control car.
Christmas was aaaaaages away. I went on and on and on about wanting a remote control car. I would go through the pages of the Argos catalog again and again reading the descriptions of what they could do, what scale they were, how fast they went.
Each day as Christmas drew near was more unbearable than the last. I got louder and louder in my expressions of quite how badly I wanted a remote control car. There was no way that anybody in the house couldn't know, just what it was that I wanted . . . . a remote control car.
The few remaining days before Christmas were unbearable. Would my parents have got the hint, would this just be the best Christmas in the whole wide world ever-for-anybody-for-all-time?!
On Christmas day I unwrapped a remote control car. It was a monster truck. It has massive rubber wheels, fake spot lights on the roof and two speeds; Normal and Turbo!!
I didn't know how it could be possible to be any happier. I was joy incarnate. Nothing in the world seemed important compared to this awesome gift I had just been given. My other presents could wait, they were insignificant.
20 minutes later the batteries had died.
Nothing changes when you grow up.
Everything just gets bigger.
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