I’m sorry to hear about your coming hospital stay. The only consolation (and this is bigger than your prostate) is that it is one of the most curable forms of cancer. I suppose most people find surgery painful and slightly menacing – having been through the it, you’ll get your life back, and it’s a good life and very much worth living.
Your wife Is not a “Hysterical Harriet” who would add to your emotional burden at this time: she’s the very best person to have around now, and I’ll tell you why:
Pity the hospital patient who goes in unsupported. No matter how good the hospital, no matter how brilliant the doctors and nurses, no matter how miraculous the medicine and technology, EVERY HOSPITAL PATIENT NEEDS AN “OUTSIDE AGENT” to lobby on their behalf with doctors, staff, “the system”, the medical aid, etc, to bring you nice little treats, shaving equipment, fresh pyjamas, make sure your phone is charged, make sure you have soap and toothpaste (and eye shadow, skin creams and mascara if so inclined). Don’t forget nail clippers. And fresh underwear.
Bear in mind that your family and friends are going to be feeling more sympathy and goodwill towards you at this time than at any other time. Ask for anything, and ye shall receive. Need a new laptop? Subscription to an e-publication? Book? Electric shaver? Biltong? Pumpernickel bread? be ruthless! You will be forgiven!
You’re talking to a veteran here. You will get no better advice than that which I can give. Listen to me!
This is crucial: you need to get to know the first names of your nurses. It’s amazing what a difference it makes to the relationship which is going to be your lifeline. You know how to force yourself to remember a name?
Ask for it, then work it into your speech 3 times in the next few minutes.
Equip yourself with a clutch of new ballpoint pens before admission. EVERY NURSE NEEDS A BALLPOINT PEN – they spend their lives writing in the wards and they end up with these kak, broken pens and you will save them embarrassment and inconvenience if you can give them a pen. The best ballpoint pen is not a Month Blanc: it’s a Bic Click. Best pen ever. TELL THEM THEY CAN KEEP IT. They’ll love you. People offer them sweets + chocolates etc but in SA there are rules that they aren’t allowed to accept those things + anyway it’s not useful. And their seniors won’t notice if you just pop them a pen! It’s a cheap trick but it works. Of course, you’ll still get the occasional a-hole who’ll take the pen and then you’ll never see her again but mostly, it’ll work.
Sleep on your phone. Literally. Phones have legs and that’s your lifeline. Do you have a power bank? Get one. Your wife can charge it up and let you have it at every 2nd visit.
It doesn’t always help to complain to the nurse, the sister, the matron or even the hospital management when something goes wrong. But if you have the hotline to your medical aid, they are in a powerful position to shout at the hospital, if you can argue that the hospital is dragging things out and thereby wasting the medical aid’s money. That’s the equivalent of a nuclear weapon in that system. Use it sparingly. But I have used it, to breathtaking effect. The hospital won't know what’s hit them and no-one will know the source of the action. The secret is to get leverage from outside the system.
Get your wife to re-stock your supply of ballpoint pens when you run out.
When it comes to painkillers, don’t be a hero. Remember – heros die. You want to live. You have never realised just how much you want to live, till now.
I could write a separate essay on painkillers, but I’ll try to keep it short: if you get even the tiniest opportunity to get a word in before the needle is inserted, TELL THEM YOU’RE ALLERGIC TO MORPHINE – even if it’s a flat-out lie and you’re not. You have created some doubt and opened a tiny crack in the time continuum and now they are legally obliged to stop and check.
And in that little time-space, perhaps you can persuade them to give you something else, like Pethidene. Morphine is a terrible, terrible drug. It will give you horrendous delusions and hallucinations. Trust me on this. You will have what the druggies call a “bad trip”.
Pafalgen is really just liquid Panado. But it punches above it’s weight because of how it’s administered. They run a whole bottle into your arm, real fast – you can actually feel the cold running up your arm, and it also works quickly. But if you have chronic pain it’ll be back in a couple of hours.
But Pethidene is beautiful. You will see scenes of indescribable beauty. You will walk with the gods, sail the seven seas, fly with the eagles, climb Everest and Maccu Piccu, sleep like a baby in the lap of your wonderful old grandmother who died so long ago and has now been resurrected. Just remembering these things now brings tears to my eyes.
I remember that after my Pethedine experience I came round and just lay there, absolutely stupified by all that had been revealed to me by the angels, and then a nurse popped her head round the door and said, “Oh! You’re awake now! Are you OK or do you still have pain?”
“I have no pain at all” I said, “but can I have another one?”
“No!” she said, and disappeared immediately.
Never admit that you have no pain. Before you check in, practice a grimace in the mirror.
Well that’s it I guess.
Let me know when you go in!
Behatzlacha!
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© HARRY FRIEDLAND, November 2022
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