Emergency surgery to repair a blocked bowel and
corresponding inguinal hernia followed by six days on a ward with a diet of
mushy vegetables with dubious sauces, always followed by a somewhat tasty
pudding as a reward for downing the first round. When I was a boy, so it was.
My mum made lovely puddings but traditional English dinners with meat and
salt, butter, suet or dripping were to be removed, so my mum kept up with
the times and widely advertised medical opinion, thinking she was doing good.
The surgery was only an emergency due to my neglect., but since one cannot live
with a blocked bowel, it was classified as emergency. So I was operated on in the
evening and in the hospital ward before midnight (guessing, because I was
asleep). I awoke from the most comfortable feeling, Warm and totally relaxed.
It lasted as long as the morphine did, which was long enough. They then gave me
a morphine drip with a button for self-dosing. I might have pressed that a bit
more than necessary, until I became concerned.
I'm counting my recovery days from the night of my great
escape, when I was also a bit terse with a duty nurse or matron.
I had been discharged earlier in the day, but my medication
wasn’t ready. I walked down to the entrance for a smoke – quite a distance –
and felt exceptionally weak. When I returned to the ward I noticed blood in my
urine for the first time, so I freaked out and the nurse asked me if I‘d like
to see a doctor and stay another night , to which I gladly agreed. Then Andy
came and we went for a smoke. He wheeled me on a chair back up to the ward. He
was going to take me home, but I told him there had been a change of plan. I
wasn’t looking forward to another interminable night on the ward, but there
seemed to be no alternative so I was resigned to it.
But something happened to change all that.
The ward matron and head nurse, neither of whom I greatly cared for, started
ordering patients around and speaking of the need for disinfection on the ward.
New signs were installed and the ward doors were closed for the first time. My
friend Richard was unceremoniously wheeled into a private room and sternly told
not to complain. There was to be no discussion whatsoever. Other inmates were
pushed around a but. These were orders from on high, and no discussion could be
countenanced.
A great bile arose in me coupled with a sense of panic. I have always been
aware of the risk of another lockdown, and getting stuck on a hospital ward for
the duration seemed absolutely terrifying. Suddenly I had the energy to get
dressed, gather my stuff, and get the collaboration of Krzysztof, who was a dynamic
sort of man who liked to talk aloud, although he was hard to understand in
detail because he seemed to only know Polish, and a few simple expressions in English.
The name for going out for a smoke and to hang out in the lobby was “plan B”
(he had invented it) so I called out ‘Plan B?’ and we set off together for the very
first time. Me to freedom, he just for a smoke, because he had a serious
complaint in the gut and also emphysema. The matron called out “Where do you think
you’re going?”, and I felt sufficiently bold to remind her that it was none
of her business. That final point is
actually untrue. She needed to know whether to check me off the ward or not,
but I was in my full Shakespearian flow
and had no time for mere reason, evidence or due consideration.
Down at the entrance it was bleak. It was late, wet and cold.
After a while I was alone with some rough looking coves. I considered going
back inside to try to call a taxi – I was struggling with that simple task
because I had no number and was unable to install the Uber app after three
attempts. I ended up getting my card blocked temporarily.
Luckily, I caught sight of an approaching security guard and wondered if the
doors were locked at night. I sidled out and, sure enough, the fellow locked up
at around 10.30 pm.
A few folks remained outside, some wild, some waiting for a taxi. Finally, I
called Andy and he gave me a couple of numbers for more traditional taxi
services.
I got a guy with a nice older Mercedes – very quick and
comfortable I thought. We chatted about cars and driving. Then, suddenly, I was
standing outside my house. It was very
dismal when I went inside, untidy, strange odours, I had left the heating on. I
felt like an intruder. But I was finally out of that place of torment and
suffering.
I went shopping on day 2. Shon took me up in his car so I
picked up some random supposedly healthy options, strictly organic.
We then went to Spoons for a traditional breakfast, which is
packed with anti nutrients in the bread, sausage, baked beans and hash browns.
Last night's abdominal pain led to little sleep. But during
the morning I received a message, though I clearly failed to understand it or
forgot about it:
Strict carnivore is the healing diet par excellence - most
primarily in relation to the gut.
It was only on the next day that the significance and
provenance of this realisation became apparent to me.
Immediately, I felt great peace and reassurance flow into
me.
I will eat only meat from this day forth. I am at last safe
at the feet of the counsellor, my redeemer Christ Jesus, all praise to His
Mighty Name.
I will give most of the shopping, except for the whole
chicken.
My carnivore diet seemed to be suboptimal a few months back,
so I branched out. Like all paths followed unconsciously and feeding the flesh,
this one was leading me to destruction and pizza, a preferred destination. It
was certainly my poorly baked homemade pizza that finally put me in the
theatre. Centre stage. And isn’t it odd that surgical suites are called
theatres. Perhaps like the public spectacles supposedly held in London when
learned men of science would slice up fresh cadavers for a shew of proud
erudition.
The problems I was experiencing at the time were likely caused
by the hernia, which had become increasingly troublesome through the
years. Even adding the occasional banana, which I did, can greatly impair the
healing action of the fats, not to mention all the stress of an impending house
move, but I think it would have anyway required a surgical procedure to fix
this problem. Carnivore is good, not magic.
What to do with the BP meds is deserving of investigation.
In hospital, I discovered I was something of a celebrity among the medics and
nurses due to my exceptionally high pressure values. They always emphasized
that I was risking heart attack and stroke at my current levels. They often
said "the silent killer" in my ears. It was creepy.
They struggled to lower the values but finally hit on a combination
of pills that did the trick. I shall continue to take them.
