Hispotal! Haspitol! I mean, uh, place with the sick people.

OK, so a little while ago I had to go into hospital for a kidney biopsy.  I’m not going to give a blow-by-blow account of the operation itself, which I would list as highly unnerving, nor am I going to detail the six hours I had to lie on my back, not raising my arms, watching daytime t.v.  Lisa has already had to sit through that, and the glassy stare my rant precipitated was a fairly solid indicator that it sucked as potential ‘blog material.

What I am going to say is that anticipation of the event was a mixed bag.  On the one hand, I wasn’t really looking forward to the experience of having a large needle pushed into one of my internal organs, no matter how fine the gauge.  On the other, I was rather looking forward to the offer of “something to calm me”.

I never really got into the casual drugs thing in my formative years, as I was so tightly wound that just the prospect of using an illicit compound paralysed me with fear as I considered all the terrible things that could happen.

So, as an adult, the very reasonable promise that I’d be given something to send me off into another plane of perception was quite tempting.  You have a slight risk of bleeding internally, was the message, and if you do happen to do so, we’ll need to stick a long wire with a bristly tip up a blood vessel in your groin to try and stop it, but it’s okay – whatever happens you’ll be higher than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide.

Sadly, I was cheated on the promising front.  The doctor decided that I was sufficiently calm while discussing both the procedure and the sensations that would be part of it that I didn’t need anything other than the local anaesthetic applied to my biopsy site.  As a result, I didn’t even get the offer of “something” to calm me.  Just a brief warning that, should I move or breathe sharply, it would increased the chance of “suddenly piercing the large artery” and off we went.

By the way, when they stab you a couple of times after applying local, I now understand it’s to check sensation, so gritting your teeth and steadfastly not moving is very very bad because what happens then is they stick the biopsy needle in and you find yourself inadvertantly alerting the doctor, nurses and the corridor outside of your not-quite-anaesthetised state by going “FUCK” very loudly, after which a nurse comes into the room and bollocks both you and the doctor for scaring the next patient who happens to be on a trolley outside.

So that was me in hospital.  No results back as yet, or at least no one has communicated results, which is an entirely different thing.  I’d imagine if it was something terrible they’d get in touch with me sharpish, but maybe I’ll have to phone this week just in case.

3 thoughts on “Hispotal! Haspitol! I mean, uh, place with the sick people.”

  1. So we should take away two lessons from this?

    Take all the drugs you can in your formative years as even clean living people get sick.
    Flinch at the slightest touch for maximum medication.

  2. On the first point, a certain degree of experimentation should be acceptable to the point of finding the optimum level of inebriation/intoxication/whatever required to kick ass at your preferred social activity such as pool, or HALO.

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