Catheter, Come Home

By Steve Rudd

We all tend to take good health for granted. Yet we’re all just a heartbeat away from ending up in the Emergency Room, if truth be told. And it’s only when nature pulls the rug from under our feet, that we tend to remember this sobering thought. In July 2010, Steve Rudd, middle-aged, nondescript, writer, publisher and digital print specialist, fell seriously, suddenly ill, and was admitted to his local hospital for surgery to correct a perforated bowel. Despite nearly dying, he recovered, to spend the next six months in hospital, struggling to regain the ability to walk, and ending up by finding out something nasty about his genetic makeup that he would probably rather not have known. In that time, he also faced a different struggle, to continue to try and make ends meet from his hospital bed, stop his own business disintegrating around his ears, and fulfil the commercial promises and obligations he’d made to various people before he keeled over.

This book chronicles that struggle, in all its undignified, minute, day-by day detail; the bowels are probably one of the most unromantic and seldom-acknowledged areas of the human body, yet they are as vital to your continued well-being as your heart, your lungs, your brain or your liver.

"Some people would say that some of the things I have written are probably `too much information’”, says Steve, "But there’s an important point here; when it comes to your health, is there ever really such a thing as `too much’ information? I hope that by writing this book it might demonstrate to other people in the same situation what might happen to them, and help them keep a humorous perspective on things. I also wrote it to pay tribute, in my own weird way, to the NHS,which, for all its supposed faults, was there for me when it counted, and which saved my life. Maybe by chronicling some of the stuff that people working in hospitals have to put up with, while they strive to perform daily miracles, it might help to make discussion on the NHS, and our attitude to it, a little more informed.”

In this funny, brave, candid, unflinching, warts-and-all account, Steve Rudd describes what it is like to be taken seriously ill, (though not taken seriously!) and to go through the NHS machinery, from admission to surgery to recovery to physiotherapy and rehab. At a time when the NHS is at the forefront of the political agenda in the UK, one man’s experience, while not necessarily typical, might yet throw some new light on the debate about what we expect from a universal health service, free to all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kings England Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781909548053

Book preview

Author’s Introduction

We are all just a heartbeat away from illness, in the same way as a musician is only ever as good as their last gig. My time in hospital coincided almost exactly with the opening months of the Coalition, which came into being following the rather botched, ineffectual General Election of May 2010, when the British electorate was unable to decide whether it loathed Gordon Brown more than David Cameron, or vice versa. Almost two years on, with the Tories determined to demolish the NHS in a top-down reorganisation that was never in any manifesto and which is costing billions of pounds, at a time when we’re allegedly so strapped for cash that we can’t keep the libraries open, maybe it might be a good idea to re-run the contest. Best of three, anyone?

The NHS as portrayed in these pages was far from perfect, but it was the best NHS we had, warts and all, maintained on the same principles that went back to Beveridge in 1948.

This isn’t meant to be a political book, it wasn’t me that made health a political issue, and I don’t think it ever should be. But then it wasn’t me who said I had no intention of ever dismantling the NHS, that I would cut the deficit not the health service, and then proceeded to do the exact, diametric opposite.

STEVE RUDD

The Holme Valley, Easter 2012

NB: Names have been changed throughout this book, apart from the people mentioned in the list of acknowledgements (which is only partial) and certain people who are happy with their part in my story being known.

1: Prologue

My name is Steve Rudd. I ate a dodgy stir-fry and almost ended up in a coma. Sadly, however, unlike Life on Mars, I didn’t get to travel back to 1973 and drive Sam Tyler’s Ford Capri through the stacks of cardboard cartons on the corners of the rainy, grimy, cobbled back streets of Manchester; nor did I get to meet Gene Hunt and fire up the Quattro. Not any Quattro. Not even Suzi Quattro. Still, from my own recollections of 1973, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, anyway.

What it did mean, however, was that I spent about five months (give or take a few dreary days) in the care of a major Northern NHS hospital, serving a combined population of many hundreds of thousands of people across the Pennines.

It had all started relatively innocuously. We were looking forward to our annual holiday on the Isle of Arran, and Debbie, my wife, had been busy getting the camper van loaded and ready. She was extra-busy as well, because she was job searching. She had decided that after 21 years being a residential social worker, enough really was enough.

In 2009, despite being very ill herself, she had managed to battle through her course and qualify as a teacher of adult literacy. Now, with the summer holidays approaching, she was looking forward to graduating officially, and after the holidays she was going to come back and put in her official resignation straight away, thus ending her day job after 21 years as a residential social worker, while simultaneously applying for any and every teaching job going, before the start of the new term.

So, change was in the air, as she spent time packing stuff into the camper van, ready for the off, and I, too, was counting down the days until we could load Tiggy on board, settle her down on her special little dog-bed in the back, leave Kitty once more in the tender care of Granny, and set off on our annual trundle up the M6, leading eventually to the ferry port at Ardrossan, to embark for Arran.

We’d planned to go on July 19th 2010. As good a day as any, we thought. On July 8th, Debbie was doing one of her final overnight sleep-in shifts at Beech, leaving me on my own for the night. So I did what any self-respecting, self-catering husband would do, I decided to use up some leftovers. Leftover rice, from the day before, what’s not to like? Add a can of stir-fry vegetables. Some soy sauce, and turn the heat up. Sorted.

I must admit, I had misgivings even when I was eating the stuff. Mainly, though, because I hadn’t heated it through enough, and it was a bit cold. I toyed with the idea of putting it back on the gas, but I knew I was going to be busy later, so I pressed on regardless, and had it lukewarm. I offered my leavings to the dog. She declined. Sensible dog.

The pains started shortly afterwards, shooting pains in my stomach, to be precise. For over an hour, I was completely immobilised by it, just sitting there clutching my stomach, until it eventually subsided a bit. I had no doubt that, somehow, I had given myself food poisoning or something. I managed to phone Debbie on her mobile and let her know I was feeling grim and going to bed, all thoughts of any further work abandoned for the night.

Somehow, I dragged myself upstairs and got into bed, complete with hot water bottle clutched against my stomach. Eventually, I fell into a fetid, foetal, fevered sleep.

The next day, I actually felt slightly better. I wouldn’t say I was back to normal, but there was an important meeting at my day job about a potential new distribution contract being scheduled so I did make an effort, braced myself with a strong cup of coffee, and made the journey to the office. I wasn’t at my best, all day. In fact, on reflection, now, I can see that I hadn’t been at my best for some days, weeks or even months. I managed the meeting competently enough, but soon afterwards I started feeling ropey again, and left work early.

When I got back on that Friday night, I went straight to bed, something which I rarely, if ever do. I didn’t need the hot water bottle this time around, but I did still feel grim, grey and grotty. Saturday morning came and went, unbeknown to me. Eventually, about lunchtime, I surfaced. I didn’t feel at all good. In fact, in the armchair downstairs by the fire, I quickly fell back to sleep again. Both Debbie and I realised I wasn’t doing anybody any favours by just lying around like a drugged-up walrus, so I dragged myself back upstairs again, and went back to bed.

And stayed there all Sunday, and some of Monday morning. Having decided that I was feeling too ill to try and drive, I phoned the local surgery. No, there were no home visits, but if I could get to the surgery, I could see the Emergency Doctor. Whoever he was. I decided to attempt it.

I got as far as the bathroom before I fell. Once on the floor, I found I couldn’t lever myself up, nor could Debbie, a) because I weigh much more than her and b) she wasn’t supposed to be exerting herself anyway. By a process of sitting up and shuffling on my bottom, I managed to get down the stairs and onto the settee next to the fire. It was pretty clear that I wouldn’t be attending at the surgery, so we rang them back. No, there was nobody available to come out and see me. They suggested if it was really bad, calling an ambulance.

I stayed on the sofa for the remainder of Monday, Monday night, all Tuesday, Tuesday night, all Wednesday, and Wednesday night. It wasn’t as much of a trial as you might think, since I wasn’t eating or drinking anything. I just passed the time dozing in a sort of pain-haze. I had several attempts to get up, but couldn’t summon the strength. On the Tuesday, I had rung the surgery as soon as the appointment line opened, trying to get a home visit. Nothing doing. In fact, on Tuesday, all of the appointments at the surgery itself had already gone by the time I climbed from number 47 in the queue to actually speaking to a human being. So that was Tuesday. On Wednesday, the same again – but this time the surgery did offer to send a squad of district nurses round to take my temperature. Or I could call an ambulance. I persisted, and finally managed to speak to the Emergency Doctor by phone, describing my symptoms to him as best I could. He prescribed me some anti-biotics - I can’t remember the name but it began with Endo – oh, hang on, it was Erithromythrin - over the phone, sight unseen. Desperate for any remedy by this stage, I despatched Debbie to the surgery for the prescription, she returned with the drugs, and I popped some straight away. No discernible effect.

Finally, on the Thursday, I had to deploy my secret weapon on the surgery. A phone call from my little sister. Sis was in fact a sister in more ways than one. She ended up as