Hospitalised!

Well, that came completely out of the blue. With little warning, I found myself in hospital for only the third time in my life at the tail end of September 2022. It gave me my first real impression of the Irish health service, the people working there, whilst also showing me just how quickly a seemingly normal life can change into something completely different. So, of course, I had to write about that. Hey, what did you expect? I’m still a blogger after all!

Okay, so a bit of background information might be helpful here. Back in May 2022, I had a pretty bad fall on a business trip to Munich, Germany. I fell on my right leg, which I managed to twist in the process, next to a few other injuries. This kept me limping for two weeks afterwards, but seemed to heal off pretty well, at least that’s what it looked like from the outside.

However, by the end of August, that leg had gotten infected, swelling up to the size of a handball and causing some pretty high fevers along the way. A course of pretty strong antibiotics caused the swelling and fevers to disappear within a few days, but there were a few wounds that just wouldn’t heal. My doctor referred me to a specialist clinic at the Mercy Hospital in Cork to see what the deal was and the Mercy promptly sent me an appointment… for November 2022.

After I’d come back down to Earth and repaired the hole in the ceiling, I sent an email with my details, past antibiotics prescriptions and a picture of my leg to the email address listed in the invitation, asking for an earlier appointment as this wasn’t some post-treatment check-up. That was on a Thursday. The following Monday, after a horrible weekend thanks to an allergic reaction to a second batch of antibiotics I’d been prescribed, I received a call from one of the doctors at that specialist clinics. She basically told me “You need to be in here tomorrow morning.” – Yikes! When a doctor calls you and tells you that, you invariably sit up and take notice! So, I quickly threw some stuff in my go bag, gave the apartment a quick clean and told my boss that I wouldn’t be in the next day. After a night that was much too short, I hopped on a bus to the hospital.

At the Hospital

It's not pretty, but it does the job. And the containers are pretty practical as well. The current main building of the Mercy was built in the 1980s. It now houses amongst other things the ICU and the operating theatres.

The Mercy Hospital’s emergency department, which I’d been asked to attend and check in at, is housed in a series of portacabins outside the main building, a measure that was implemented during the COVID-19 Pandemic. Check-In and triage were quick, though not painless in the latter case. The triage nurse, who must have graduated from the Mildred Ratched School of Nursing, focussed only on my weight, completely ignoring the infected right leg. Listen, lady. I know that I’m overweight, I see it every bloody time I look in the mirror, but that’s not the issue here! Although, to be fair, the Emergency Department is probably the busiest part of the hospital, so I can understand how the nurses there can sometimes be more than a little on edge. Thankfully, I’d messaged the doctor who’d called me and a little while later, she picked me up at the emergency department. That’s when it turned out that things were more serious than they appeared.

When she investigated the leg, and the wounds there, it turned out that the wounds were connected to a larger cavity underneath, one that was big. One of the long “Q-Tips” used to measure the size of wounds disappeared almost completely, without any resistance, and without pain. This would require surgery to figure out what’s going on. From that moment, things started moving quickly. Two hours after arriving at the hospital, I had a conversation with the lead consultant in the vascular department, four hours after arriving, I had pre-surgery conversations with the anaesthesiologist and surgeon and six hours after arriving, I was carted into the operating theatre.

On the Ward

The green building in the centre is the Mansion House. Originally built as the residence of the mayor of Cork, it became the first building of what would become the Mercy hospital in 1857.  The yellow building to the left in the picture is the ward where I was accommodated once out of post-surgery recovery.

I woke up two hours later, with a horribly sore throat and that usual post-anaesthesia brain fog. By the time my mind was somewhat clear again, I was on a hospital bed in a special observation room. The room was right behind the nurse’s station and was set up as a special observation rooms for patients coming either from ICU or, as in my case, down from surgery. That first night was actually pretty good, although I suspect that the remaining anaesthetic in my system had something to do with that. The “fun” began the next day.

Apparently, I’d been out on strict bed rest, though I was allowed to go to the bathroom. The only problem is that no one had told the nurses about that little fact, meaning that every attempt to go to the bathroom turned into a fight, with the nurses trying to force me to use bedpans and the like. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen, especially since it turned out I could walk perfectly. It took an intervention by my doctor to resolve that issue and get my dignity back. The other issue, while less of an affront to my dignity, was the food. I’d been put on a soft diet, meaning everything I got to eat was puréed. I mean the food was still tasty, at least most of it, but it was still frustrating. The doctor wasn’t too pleased when I casually mentioned it to her, and the look on her face was priceless. My diet changed the very next day.

I also finally found out what had actually caused all the trouble. Apparently, a layer of tissue had become detached from its surroundings and, once completely cut off from the circulatory system, had died off. This had formed a cavity on the side of my leg that had apparently been large enough for one of the surgeons to put her hand down. What’s more, once they’d started the incision to get to the cavity, the remaining swelling of my leg had been strong enough that they didn’t even need to prop the wound open. “Septic shock waiting to happen” was one of the phrases I heard a few times during my stay when the surgeons or doctors talked about my condition.

I was moved from the observation room to a regular room in another ward two days later. The new room was a whole lot quieter and darker, which was a huge relief. The observation room had never gotten completely dark and due to its location and nature, there was always some device, beeping, humming or wailing. And whilst my bed had had the luxury of being electronically adjustable, I’d also been put on an inflating air mattress, designed to reduce bed sores, whose compressor basically ran non-stop. Not great for a good night’s sleep.

The new room had none of that. It was at the very end of one of the oldest wings of the hospital, so there was not a lot of through traffic. Unfortunately, it also hadn’t received much in the way of upgrades since the 1960s, a couple of flatscreen TVs with questionable reception, and a number of plug sockets awkwardly macgyvered into the room being the only concessions to modernity. In a post on my Facebook page, I described it as the anteroom to purgatory, which sums up the room pretty well. At least there was free Wi-Fi for patients, though that was as sketchy as the TV. No Xcloud Gaming in that room!

Thankfully, the room was the only thing about the hospital that was sub-par in my experience. The nurses were simply amazing, especially once they let me leave my bed. All joking aside, they were always up for a joke and a laugh, something that really informed the mood in the rooms I was in. At the same time, they were also pure professionals. Whilst my arms looked like I’d been shooting up behind the hospital, none of the numerous canules, IV ports or even the completely independent needle wounds for taking bloods caused any appreciable pain. Both the surgeons and the doctor I dealt with were equally great, able to deal with my sometimes off-beat sense of humour and up for a laugh themselves. What was really striking though was the warmth of the staff, I actually felt cared for in the Mercy, rather than just being a patient. They deserve all the pay raises and budget increases they can get, they’re doing absolutely stellar work with nowhere near enough resources!

What really surprised me though was the food. Hospital food has a bit of a reputation for being bland, visually unappealing, or even downright vile. This is most definitely NOT the case at the Mercy in Cork, at least if my experience is anything to go by. Granted, the presentation won’t blow you away and the composition is pretty predictable, with lunch usually consisting of mashed potatoes, some vegetables that have clearly lost the will to live, and a piece of meat of choice served with gravy or sauce, alongside a soup and a few dessert options. However, the taste is another matter entirely. Every single meal I’ve had, with the exception of the porridge for breakfast on day one, was exceptionally tasty. And yes, that includes the pureed chicken breast in gravy on the first two days! They even managed to deliver both a very tasty steak with mushroom and onion sauce on one day, and an equally tasty roast beef on Sunday. Dinner, whilst nowhere near as elaborate, was equally tasty, with three options available for every course every day. This is the first time I’ve had a hospital actively torpedo my attempts at diet! On a more serious note, food plays a major part in patient recovery, both with regards to nutrients and when it comes to the psychological effect that a good meal can have. I find it baffling that so many hospitals just view patient food as a potential source of savings and I’m glad that the Mercy is taking a different approach.

Discharge & Follow-Up

The outpatient department is located across Sheares Street from the main hospital campus. Most of the facilities are to the back of this building.

Nine days after being admitted, I was finally discharged. The wound was healing well, the cavity had begun to close and honestly, I was getting antsy as well. As great as the staff were, I just wanted to sleep in my own bed and rest on my couch, rather than being confined to a hospital bed. The first signs of an upcoming discharge appeared when I was switched from antibiotic injections to pills two days prior, at the same time as I was switched to a more durable bandage for my leg. The next day, my canules and IV ports were removed, which was a major relief. The actual discharge was pretty anticlimactic, with only a signature required and a prescription for antibiotics being handed out. With that, I was a “free man” again and I made my way to the nearest bus stop to head home!

Now, this isn’t over. Whilst I’m no longer on antibiotics, I still need to drop into the Mercy’s outpatient department twice a week to have the bandages on my leg changed. I’m also still under orders to keep my leg elevated as much as possible and to ensure I rest. And make no mistake, whilst I’m back to work at this point, I’ll definitely put my own health first this time around. And if that means closing my laptop and hitting the couch for thirty minutes or longer if things get too intense, then so be it. The very fact that I was able to go from check-in to surgery in six hours as a public patient in a healthcare system that is chronically underfunded and where waiting times for admission can be in excess of thirty-six or forty-eight hours say a lot about the potential severity of the situation. As much as I love my employer, and make no mistake, they have been great throughout all of this, they are not worth my life!