The news of the pregnancy had us pretty concerned at first. The fact we were having a baby had us pretty excited but the fact we would be out of the country for the first trimester did not. Our doctor, who conveniently lives across the street, assured us that women have been having babies since long before there were doctors. Just to be on the safe side, after we’d been in the UK about a week and had a chance to settle in, we found a general practitioner—a GP as they call them—and made an appointment. The earliest she could see us was a week and a half out, which put us to Friday, the 27th of July. We already had that appointment when we went to the ER on Tuesday, the 24th. From our perspective at the time of the emergency room fiasco, that would be just perfect. We had a three day supply of cyclozine, so if it was working, we’d need a refill right about the time we went to see the doctor. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.
By the time Friday rolled around and we got in to see the doctor, Jen was back in a black spin. She was throwing up every thirty minutes and was once again dehydrated and malnourished. The appointment with the doctor—or consultant as she was called—was scheduled for 10 minutes. Since we were being seen as a “private patient”, the charge was 30 pounds. I wish I made $360 an hour. Ten minutes was about how long it took for her to test Jen’s urine and send us off to the hospital. This time it was St. Mary’s where there was no “accident & emergency” department, but there was a gynecology ward. This time they admitted her.
We arrived at St. Mary’s at roughly 6PM. It was almost ten by the time they got Jen started on a drip and moved into a bed. I went back to the flat for a nap and returned about half eight (or eight thirty for those of you in
He switched Jen to a drug called Maxolon and set us up for an ultrasound on Monday morning—to rule out the possibility of twins. Then he told her she’d have to stay in the hospital as long as it took to get her hydrated and eating. That was a popular decision with the patient. To ease her suffering, I went to go find her some ice, something that so far in this country has proven challenging.
I went through this exercise at Queen Alexandra to no avail. This time we were in an obstetrics and gynecology wing. What better place to find ice than a bunch of rooms where pregnant women hang out. I went to the nurse’s station and asked her if they had any ice. She looked at me as if she’d never heard of ice before. I was about to explain how it’s that cold, hard, slippery stuff you get when you freeze water when suddenly the light bulb went on and I could see now she understood my request.
No, they didn’t have any.
Is there a cafeteria in the hospital? Again with the deer in the headlights.
I decided to find out for myself. I went downstairs to the main reception desk and asked if there was a cafeteria in the hospital. So far my exposure to the hospital was limited to the parking lot, the main foyer, and the single flight of stairs that took you from the foyer to the gyn ward. I guess I was under the impression that was more or less all there was to the place. Hell, they didn’t even have an ice machine, how big could it be? How big indeed.
To get to the cafeteria I was to walk past the reception desk to the end of the hallway (which I could easily see was about 50 feet in front of me), turn right and the cafeteria would be about halfway down that hallway on the right. Talk about going down the rabbit hole. I made the right turn and found myself walking down a hallway that I’m pretty sure eventually led right back to our flat. This hospital was massive. It was about a five minute walk down this hallway to the cafeteria. They didn’t have ice. What the hell do they do in this hospital if someone bumps their damn head?
Jen was released from St. Mary’s Saturday night, which was a relief for me because I’m pretty sure I was a dead man if she had to spend another night there. The previous night she shared a room with three other women, one of whom was an overflow patient from the psych ward. I kid you not, this lady was in her 70s and she was loopy. Several times during the night she got out of her bed and starting poking around. She tried to disconnect one of the women from her I.V.’s. The nursing staff was afraid to make her do anything so when they were able to coax her back to bed she would just be up again in a few minutes. She kept everyone in the room awake most of the night. For those of you keeping score, that’s another mark in the “con” column for socialized medicine.
Monday Jen had an ultrasound. I’m still not sure why it was necessary to wait until Monday, the gal who did the ultrasound didn’t seem any more qualified than the rest of the nursing staff. We’re not complaining though, one of the women rooming with Jen has been waiting for an ultrasound for weeks. She waited for her operation for 18 months. Imagine if she’d bumped her head while in the hospital.
The ultrasound showed everything to be fine. They say there is only one baby in there but—and I admit I took medical school pass/fail—I swear there are two. It’s just as well, I was beginning to worry about having to decide on two names. We’re having enough trouble generating an agreeable list for one.
So where does all that leave us? Besides miserable, it leaves us with a handful of drugs that are moderately effective at subduing Jen’s nausea while we wait for my company to get us an appointment with an honest to God private gynecologist. That’s the good news (at least she isn’t getting dehydrated). The bad news is she still feels like crap all day, which means there won’t be any visits to London (I still can’t wait to ride the Tube), tours of castles, drives to Stonehenge, or hovercraft rides to the Isle of Wight in the foreseeable future, weather permitting or not.
As for the dishwasher…well let’s just say that, man or woman, God must be British, because I certainly don’t get the sense of humor.
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