When Paul Met Harry

 

I have suffered Rheumatoid Arthritis for the past four years. The only life-changing thing for me was remembering to take the bloody tablets. The number of times I've snuggled into bed and gotten really comfy, only to remember I have to go back down stairs to take the bloody things.

 

My medication was changed from sulfasalazene, to methotrexate, the latter is for some a great help and relieves their symptoms but for me it was a nightmare.

 

I had no consultation with this new drug, although I have since been advised this was essential and me not getting the consultation played a great part in my now serious and debilitating condition. As the main side effect was breathlessness.

 

I also have been suffering for some time with Emphysema and C.O.P.D. Both these diseases have been taking my breath for years and my family know to expect me to stop and rest while we are going about in the world. This has been a common feature of my personality for years and my wee grandson Adam, who is five, now finds chairs for me in shops etc.

 

The big change happened suddenly. I had been on methotrexate for two months, with ever increasing dosage, when I began to slow down; I put it down to my normally breathless condition.

 

The boys on the taxi rank had noticed the change in my breathing and began to mention it. Some even had the temerity to challenge me to compete against them in the hundred-meter dash. This was the driver over sixty who wished to make a point of how unfit he thought I was. Some other drivers over a certain age would come up to me on the rank and tap-dance in front of me, to somehow enforce their supposed fitness in my face. All part of the taxi rank banter which I knew, was done for fun and the banter, I fully enjoyed.

 

I was now becoming very breathless, especially in the mornings. Theresa, my long suffering Sweetness, took it into her own hands and made an appointment for me with my GP. After a chest examination the doctor immediately phoned my rheumatologist, who advised me to discontinue with the methotrexate and make an appointment to see her ASAP, this I did but never made the appointment.

 

The following Sunday, I was driving back into Bathgate to pick my wife up from visiting her God, when the Mobile rang.

 

“Harro eez rat meester Howrthone?”

 

I thought it was one of those shady calls asking me to buy something; I nearly dumped the caller. Just as I was about to, I heard,

 

“ Ris ees douctar, kooliiwalliieeedooda. I'm carring fram the Waster Geneerul      Hospingtal and I waant to see you as sooon as poosabule. I have mood enn apentment”

 

He was calling from The Western General and was obviously very concerned about my possible medical condition. He wanted to see me on the following Friday, I never made that appointment either. I soldiered on through the following week, my breathing was getting worse, I was informed by my GP that emergency services had been made aware that I might call, and to have oxygen ready, Etc.

 

Even knowing this, didn't really alarm me, I put it down to arse covering on my GPs part. Thursday morning, I was hanging over the sink while sitting on the bath, trying to shave prior to going to work, when I realised.

 

'For Goad sake ya nutcase yir dyin here, git in and see Theresa, tae see whit she thinks' It was 5-30 am.

 

The sweetness was out cold, I walked into the bedroom and she woke, she jumped up and switched on the light

 

“Fur Goad sake You look terrible, sit oan that bed the noo”

 

I, with petted lip, sat down and a tear slipped from my petulant eye. My Sweetness would look after me now. I allowed her to run the show from here. She picked up the phone and called my daughter Jennifer, who is a nurse and worries like hell about everything to do with her mother and myself. She advised NHS 24 and they were called while Theresa informed my daughter Angela who lives in Wishaw who would also be very worried.

 

The NHS 24 operator, when given all the facts, contacted Dr Raj. Who I must say was absolutely brilliant and quickly diagnosed double Pneumonia. He ordered a blue light ambulance and phoned his driver to bring in the oxygen. I was hooked up and we waited the short time until the ambulance, noisily, and with lights flashing and all whistles and bells ringing, arrived screeching to a halt. They wheeled me out to the vehicle, where I was again hooked up to oxygen and examined fully, before being quickly transferred to hospital.

 

At the hospital, I was accepted into A+E where double Pneumonia was verified.

They wheeked the breeks off of me, and a trainee doctor attempted to access my wrist artery with a very mobile and sharp needle, after six attempts and a huge amount of discomfort, I asked the wee soul to stop, and go get someone who knew what they were doing, before I remembered my old karate training and began to practice on her wee nose.

 

They transferred me to medical admissions ward 22 where I was propositioned by a rather easy on the eye young female doctor from Dubai. No sooner had my Sweetness and family left the room while she fitted a cannula to my wrist, when she cheekily took the opporchancity to offer me casual sex.

 

“While your family are out of the room” says the brazent hussy.

 

“Have you had casual sex or used a dirty needle recently?”

 

I was gob smacked, a doctor asking me this. She must have known I would have to decline, I was in no fit state for frolics, especially with one so young, and my family just outside the door for Goad sake, so I diplomatically declined.

 

I was judged to be very seriously ill with Pneumo Cistis in both lungs, a very dangerous, incipient, and serious condition. Which was caused by hypersensitivity to the prescription drug methotrexate. The disease was still actively attacking my lungs.   This condition was very rare and I was One In ten Million, Aye Right.

 

I was taken to the high dependency unit where I met a doctor dressed in greens, who frightened the life nearly right out of me.

 

“I am Doctor so and so”

 

he informed me,

 

“I'm from intensive therapy downstairs, I've been asked to speak to you and get to know you, in case I need to take you down and switch you off.”

 

Whatever he really said has become a blur. I only heard ‘Ventilator,’ a machine that breaths for you and ‘switch you off,’ I was informed that not everyone returns from those depths, so I was petrified.

 

He continued, now in my mind to be twirling his mustachio and rubbing his hands. I'm sure he had count Dracula's hairline, with the face of uncle fester from the Adams Family. He gibbered on for some time but I had switched off. I was on 98% oxygen and could only maintain saturation of 83%.

 

The muscles working my lungs were under extreme pressure and were tiring. I was in a very bad way indeed. An alternative to the Ventilator was the C pap mask or Continuous positive airway pressure mask. The mask is tied on very tightly and the oxygen is pumped in at a high enough pressure to inflate the lungs, allowing the muscles to rest. I was asked to try this for ten minutes. I wore it nearly constantly for almost a week before the doctors prized it away from me.

I would have done anything to keep away from that bloody casket shaped ventilator.

 

My best pal and grandson Adam, came to visit me. When he seen his auld Papa with the mask on, he wasn't happy at all, I tried to reassure him with the divers hand signal of thumbs up but my wee pal wiznae huvin it. He had a wee sad face on the whole visiting time; after I removed the mask he perked up and gave me a wee smile.

 

He went home and came downstairs with his own Darth Vader mask; he chapped the lounge door, my daughter Angela his mum said,

 

“Come in”

 

Adam switched the Darth Vader heavy breathing on the mask and called

 

“Mummy! Your Daddies here.”

 

Wee shite.

 

It was during this extremely traumatic time, my daughter Jennifer introduced me to my very good friend Harry. Harry is a heart shaped and very fluffy and vividly pink cushion. Whenever a hole appeared in my pillows to cause me the least discomfort, Harry had the perfect shape to fit in and fill the gap to relieve my stress, he did this, I believe, automatically.

 

Tom hanks, in Castaway had Wilson, I have Harry. He is at this very moment at my back providing the same level of care.

 

I was moved from ward to ward as I made my recovery and Harry stood by me all the way. People always commented on him purely because he's pink and fluffy but I am secure in my sexuality and so is Harry.

 

 

My saturation levels were now improving, and while on 10litres of oxygen I was holding at 90%. My doctor came in to examine me and expressed his pleasure at my continuing recovery, so much so, that he decided to show the improvement to his accompanying student doctors. He leaned over and switched off my oxygen, he then began a question and answer game with his students, which lasted much longer I believe, than even he expected.

 

I was going blue in the face and began to buck and thrust. My body was being starved of oxygen, I was seeing stars and began to wave my arms about, no one took any notice. I coughed loudly and farted, this caught the doctor’s attention and he began to make his apologies.

 

“Oh Mr Hawthorne I'm terribly sorry ('switch the fucking oxygen oan ya nutter I'm dying here'). I was so busy teaching”

 

(Will somebody switch the bloody Oxygen oan, Hey cummoan fur oany bloody favour') One of the students pushed her way across and switched on the oxygen eventually, saving my life, I drew enough air to fill the Hindenburg twice over, while making a noise like a balloon with a squeezed neck.

 

I gave my saviour a thanking smile; she returned the smile and sympathetically patted the bed. The doctor was still making his apologies, for all he knew, I had died.

 

They all quickly left the room and I, who had been selectively constipated since my admittance found myself, because of my near death experience, in grave need of a bowel movement.

 

I hated the thought of asking the very young nurse for the commode; after all she looked to be about twelve years old. I bit the bullet, I had no choice, it was coming whether I had the use of the facility or not.

 

The nurse left the room to allow me to attend to my ablutions. She had used the lazy option of slipping the bedpan on top of the commode, and not the proper way, by fitting the pan into the slides provided in the bottom of the chair. This has the unfortunate effect of, when one is using the appliance, the pan has no depth, the stool attempts to regain entry to the bowel. It hits the shallow draft and turns around like a walnut whip and tries to go back in, a most uncomfortable feeling, and easily avoided by the more attentive nurse.

 

I shoogled and shook, in a grave attempt to create more space for the five day old defecation, but there was too much material and I filled the bloody thing to the brim. I was so embarrassed I tried to hide its existence from the world with paper towels and body spray.

 

After being thoroughly ashamed of having the audacity to empty my bowels in the first place, I jumped off the commode and began to use the paper towels for their obvious function, when I thought an appearance by the nurse was imminent.

I prematurely pulled up my breeks just as she walked in. I sat on the chair and realised I hadn't completed the wiping job.

 

The wee nurse had thoughtfully brought a basin and towel for me to wash myself with. I was ecstatic. The arse-wiping job could now be completed. I washed my nether regions first, before I suddenly realised, I could go no further, another hard lesson learned in the school of hard knocks. ‘Wash yir arse last, if you only have one basin of water.’

 

I recovered enough to be moved to ward 21 where I, surprise surprise, met a really nice plumber from South Queensferry with exactly the same condition as me, making a lie of the ten million to one theory. Allan being two steps ahead of me in his treatment gave me a base line to work from, so I looked to him to gauge my recovery.

 

Then my eyes packed in, I couldn't see a thing in front of me, all was a blur, The laptop my daughter Ang had lent me was useless to me, I was now cut off from the world of the healthy buggers. My good friend Anton, who brought me in a much-needed roll on sausage from his wife Theresa’s Snack van, thankfully visited me on a regular basis. The roll, on consumption, was rapturous; Theresa makes a mean roll on sausage.

 

Many of my friends from the taxi trade visited regularly which was a great source of comfort to me. My immediate family never really left my side and were attentive to my every need. The Doctor I was under was very holistic in his approach and left no stone unturned, he gave me great confidence in his obvious abilities and expertise and I was grateful to have him as my consultant. I am now at home and suddenly, believe it or not while writing this, my eyes have found their focus and I fight on.

 

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