My memories of being ill as a child are few and far between. Probably because of the time that I complained so much about having a tummy ache to my mother, that she actually carried out the threat of phoning the 'Night Doctor' - in my 5 year old eyes, this man was a fictitious but incredibly scary man - who then subsequently did make a real appearance at my bedside, visiting the house in the middle of the night to make me drink this disgusting, pink, chalky mixture that made me gag. The result was that I never complained again and am in Mr H's words, 'my own worst enemy'. Even if the pain really hurts and makes my eyes water, I tend not to say anything.
Now I have nothing against most medical professionals, it's just that my track record with them is not good. In fact, it's a very tarnished, blemished one. I once punched a school nurse when she came towards me armed with my rubella injection. A couple of years later, I kicked the (same) nurse who attempted to give me my BCG...she was big, black and if she wanted to, she could have sat on me to administer the needle (the revenge for taking the first punch would have justified it). I have an insane fear of needles, to the point that I avoided all dentistry during my teens - following a rather unpleasant routine check up with an evil, witch dentist who told me to sit still whilst inserting a rather large stick of metal into my gums. I was told to stop being such a baby, as the tears trickled down the sides of my face. Like I said, she was a total witch.
Apparently 'Belonephobia' (fear of needles) affects nearly 10 percent of the population. My biggest hurdle was whilst pregnant with M. No one told me about the routine blood tests during those first few months. My arm was like a pin cushion. Mr H had to come to each appointment and explain beforehand to the midwife that 'yes, she really is that scared' and 'yes, she can get quite aggressive'. However, come the labour, when I was screeching out for that 'f**king epidural', he did make the mistake of reminding me that needles weren't a part of my birth plan. You can imagine the conversation that followed...
Even after the (long, traumatic, never-wish-to-experience-another) birth, M and I were jabbed with more needles because of medication required to combat the infection we picked up during our stay. My recollection of her ear-piercing squeals as the nurse gave her the daily dose of drugs did little to quash my fear of all things sharp and prickly. More recently, the poor little mite has had to endure 6 injections over the course of just 6 weeks - MMR, Hib, 2 x swine flu and 2 x standard flu jabs. But she took it on the chin, albeit acquiring a few more unscheduled pre-Xmas presents (for services to Bravery, etc) in the process.
But going back to being ill. And I mean genuinely ill. I am lucky to have avoided during my lifetime, serious spells of health misfortune. I have never (touchwood) broken a bone. I haven't even had a nose-bleed in years and only remember getting a few as a child (unlike my sis who used to haemorrhage each time). I spent one night in a Turkish hospital last year with acute gastroenteritis and even then, that was self-inflicted (for someone who has a severe milk allergy, eating something fried beyond recognition at a buffet table is not wise. Especially when it turns out to be the local cheese from a mountain goat...). I laugh nervously about the entire affair now, but it must have been an intolerable experience for my family, who (a) don't speak Turkish and (b) didn't warm to the local hospital where the toilets were covered in excrement (not mine) and the nursing staff sat on their backsides smoking fags. Luckily, I had taken out a rather excellent health insurance policy the DAY before our flight, ticking all the boxes. So within an hour, we were being escorted away in an ambulance with flashing blue lights to a nearby private hospital which was, quite frankly, more bling than the Bellagio (plus the room service menu was divine...only I was nil by mouth...bugger).
I don't particularly care for hospitals in general. I have negative, emotional associations with them - bad experiences etched forever on the memory. Like the time my sister badly broke her arm, had a lengthy reconstructive operation and was whisked off to recover in a room next to the maternity ward (due to overcrowding in the orthopaedic ward). They literally forgot about her ('lost in the system' were the exact words from the receptionist) and left her in such acute agony, I was apoplectic with rage. Or the time spent in the labour/postnatal wards when M was born. I wouldn't wish that experience upon my worst enemy. Without going into detail on this blog (the thought of those times makes me weep still), the care - or lack of - received by those nursing staff was downright shameful. I hobbled into that hospital, a week overdue, desperate to meet my baby. I left, 5 days later, a changed person. No longer the confident, outgoing self. Instead, a scared, humiliated, vulnerable shadow of my former being. Am shuddering now at the brief recollection.
So it's not so much the idea of being in hospital that freaks me out, but more the variety in standard of care that you receive. Getting treated in hospital is a total lottery - you don't know what you're going to get, when you're going to get it, plus your fate lies in the rota of staff that's been allocated for that particular day. But on the other hand, I know plenty of nice, decent friends in the medical profession and once at work, they are all (I am confident in assuming) competent, kind, understanding, patient and professional. Which are the qualities you need to do the job. Surely. I guess I have just been unlucky in my experiences.
As for my present situation, care is being provided by my trusted Mr H and darling daughter, M - a brilliant combination - (some) sympathy and practical care from the former (who hasn't complained once at me hogging the bathroom for the past 4 days, looking like death-warmed-up and contributing NOTHING to the housework/childcare) and entertainment and total bedside devotion from the latter - have just listened to M practising Little Donkey for tomorrow's nativity play - she's finally learnt not to SHOUT the words (stemming from a fear of us not being able to hear her apparently...) and can now sweetly sing the entire verse without reaching a painful level of noise. I actually blubbed my way through the whole 60 second rehearsal. Goodness knows what I'll be like at tomorrow's play (if I actually make it). Perhaps it's the chronic tiredness creeping up on me or ravenous hunger playing tricks on my weary head. But that aside, it was the best medicine I could have asked for.
