Auckland Hospital

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

My first piece of advice to you, if experiencing an allergic reaction that appears to be rapidly advancing, is to call an ambulance. After having a lie down to see if it would pass, I called my mum (who lives in another city). This wasn’t an altogether bad start, as she does suffer from a deadly allergy to most antibiotics, but I foolishly downplayed it on the phone. Having not eaten or touched anything untoward or out of the ordinary, and being a generally healthy person, I didn’t want to seem like a hypochondriac. By this stage my face had swollen and turned a frightful shade of red, as had my hand, arms, feet (all itchy) and, I am sure if I had thought to look, most of my body. Mind you, this was far less disconcerting than the throbbing in my ears and tightening in my chest and throat. Both dithering and unnecessary modesty can be dispensed with - it is very unhelpful in such situations.

After checking the house was locked, I decided to walk down the road to such the local doctors. Again, not a great idea but the cool breeze was nice on my Violet Beauregarde-style skin. Family medical centres are fine, great for colds and immunising babies, but can be also by-passed in emergencies. The nurse who took my blood pressure did her best to hide her panic but I could see she was rattled, the fear was palpable. What followed was a flurry of action, a shot of adrenaline was stuck in my thigh (no magic marker like Pulp Fiction unfortunately) and an ambulance called and told ‘to hurry.’ All most unsettling. It was about this time that I began to wonder if I should call my lawyer (any lawyer) and dictate a will to ensure all of my not-very valuable possessions were looked after in the even of an untimely departure. It was also about this time, as I was being carried out to the ambulance, that the GP asked if I could pop in tomorrow and pay my bill. A bit on the nose I thought.

Adrenaline is fun. As you would imagine, 0.5 ml of it straight into the muscle is an instensification of the rush you get when excited or in danger or after you have an intense argument with someone. It makes you shake uncontrollably, which, when you are not cold, is a quite peculiar sensation. This aside, St Johns Ambulance staff - I can’t say enough good things. So calm and collected! Drips, ECG machine, oxygen: the work of a moment. A strapping tattooed ambulance driver recorded my personal details, completed my ACC form (wishful thinking) and finally, on arrival, hefted my gurney with consummate ease and skill that comes of much practice.

Emergency rooms are pretty bleak as a rule, full of worried people and flustered nurses. Optimised for efficency and practicality, these are not the most relaxing of locales. Not that you really care when you arrive - what you care about is that this place and these people have the ability to make you better, or at least bear witness to your demise. In my case, thankfully, they performed the former task sterlingly and by the time I was moved off the main floor and into an observation ward I was feeling fine, the shakes had receded to mere tremors, and I began to take stock of the surrounds.

Hospitals in general, but Emergency rooms in particular, provide one of those strange situations were all claims to privacy dramtaically fall away - it is no longer of any relevance or consequence. So, despite not being curious in the least, it did not take long for me to realise I was, happily, in far better shape than most of my invalid companions. A few minutes after my arrival a generously proportioned chap was rolled in with both legs in full cast. From the conversation that took place between his family and unfortunate friend who had witnessed the accident, I managed to glean (or actually couldn't avoid learning) that he had jumped of something for fun and broken both his legs: one shin, one ankle. His parents seemed very put-out about this and proceeded, in loud English accents, to tell the lad just how stupid he was. When he went to sleep they referred to him as the ‘silly stoner’ (he was pretty whacked out on Kedamine), and discussed his relegation to their garage for 6 weeks. Perish the thought. I began to empathise with his reckless antics.

This is certainly not a complaint, as it is of course necessary and unavoidable, but the noise in these places is quite remarkable. When recovering from a not-insignificant shock to the system, hearing a nurse loudly explain, over the cacophony of beeps from all manner of machines, to a diabetic chap over-the-way how his cathater and diaper works, is not the most soothing to the ear. Nor is the muffled snoring of said dare-devil neighbour, or the middle-age Remuera lady telling her elderly mother (whom she calls Mummy in a baby-voice) not to worry about ruining the cashmere sweater as they have a MILLION more at home. And I swear I heard a staff member use the expression 'shit the bed-pan'. Maybe I was just hyped up on meds, getting my colloquialisms and contexts twisted.

Under the circumstances I had a pretty good time, a little unsettling, kind of novel, mostly just boring. I was treated efficently, kept informed of my condition and discharged promptly (after the 6 hour observation period). I mean, I don't really need to sell the Emergency Room - it is not like you have a choice - if you are going there, you need to be there and that is where you will stay until the threat to your person recedes. Noone feels 'at home' here and the percentage of the population that enjoy their visits must be slim. Strange warped-floral curtains and uncomfortable beds aside, who wants to be confronted with the fragility and inevitable mortality of the human race on a regular basis? The ugliness and despair of the sick - not so fun.

And of course in this context details that one might usually fuss over, or discuss in a 'review' seem awfully insignifcant - I mean, I can mention the shy-making size of my gown (which did nothing to conceal any of my underclothing until Debi helped me wrap it around twice), or the fact that the food was gross, or even that the printed label on the brown paper bag that carried my belongings should've had an apostrophe (it read 'patients property' - which would've usually got me very worked up). But who cares? Emergency Wards aren't supposed to be appealing - they provide the minimum comfort to ensure your recovery, and recover I did. Constantly bombarded with new lives to save they hardly want people hanging out, taking up room and distracting their already over-worked staff. So, sure I will try and steer clear, but until the time they discover what substance actually caused my anaphylactic shock (and eating stops being like a game of Russian Roulette) I will continue to feel confident that in case of an emergency, with the help of St Johns and Auckland Hospital Emergency staff - I will be in capable hands.



***