It was the evening of Saturday 27 July. I was spending a relaxing weekend in Norfolk on my own, or at least that was the plan. At 7pm I went next door to catch up with out neighbours, Howard and Diane. We sat in their garden having a few drinks and some rather nice Waitrose canapes and bites. As it started to get dark, I bid them farewell and went back next door. I was a bit hungry so heated up a M&S Lasagna.
And then it started. I started to feel distinctly unwell. I went to bed but couldn’t settle. I had a tummy ache which was getting worse. I began to feel nauseous and rushed to the bathroom where I was sick in the toilet. I did that twice more. And then I got a real pain on the right hand side of my stomach. I rang John and told him I thought I had food poisoning and had maybe bruised a rib while I was vomiting. Having been diagnosed with Osteoporosis last year I wondered if my ribs would bruise more easily now. As the night wore on, I found it impossible to sleep. Whichever position I rolled into, the pain on my side prevented any prospect of falling asleep. I rang John twice more during the night, not that there was anything he could do. It crossed my mind that maybe I should go to A&E, but the Norfolk and Norwich was a good 25-30 minute drive away, and frankly I was in no state to drive. I found some Nurofen but for once, they didn’t help.
I assumed things would improve during the course of Sunday, but if anything the pain in my side worsened. By this time I was self-diagnosing all sorts of terminal illnesses. I knew I needed to get home to Kent, but was in no fit state to drive. So my friend Daniel offered to drive up from his house in East Sussex to collect me. He arrived around 10pm on Sunday night, and off we set on the two and a half hour journey to Tunbridge Wells. I hadn’t been sick again during the course of the day and luckily I avoided doing it during the car journey. I went straight to bed and although I was still in acute pain, I think I did get a little sleep.
But I knew I was in no fit state to work and rang LBC in the morning to say I wouldn’t be able to present my show that evening. The pain got no better during the course of the day and at 8pm I told John I needed him to take me to A&E. We only live a mile from the local hospital. I was triaged after about an hour and then seen soon afterwards by a doctor. He immediately diagnosed an infected gall bladder, and said they would need to keep me in. I was moved to a temporary ward area where they kept doing lots of blood tests. They said I would be moved to Intensive Care, but in the end I spent the night in a reclining chair and didn’t get to Intensive Care until around 9am.
I had been told by the doctor I saw in A&E that they would operate within 24 hours to remove the gall bladder, but the consultant I then saw on Tuesday morning said that I needed a CT Scan and they needed to understand the extent of the infection and inflammation. Various tests, including an Ultra Sound proved somewhat inconclusive and it wasn’t until I had an MRI scan on Friday that they were able to confirm I didn’t have any gallstones, but the bad news was that the gallbladder was perforated and leaking bile. It was massively infected and any operation at this stage would be too dangerous.
At this point, I had been expecting to be discharged for the previous 48 hours, but it was not to be. They wanted to monitor me to see how the antibiotics were combatting the infection. By this time the pain had certainly lessened and by the time I was eventually discharged on Sunday afternoon I was in no pain at all.
On Wednesday lunchtime I was told I would be moved to a ward, but there were no beds available. Eventually, at midnight I was transferred to the Short Stay Support Unit, a ward of only nine beds. When I was wheeled in, the whole place was in darkness with no sign of any nurses or any other form of human life. I got into bed and texted John that at least it was very quiet. No sooner had I sent the text than it started. It sounded like Mount Vesuvius was erupting. I’ve never heard snoring like it! I know I can snore loudly, but this was on a different scale. In went the airpods, but the snorer even managed to drown out Meatloaf, let alone any podcast I tried to listen to. Another rather sleepless night lay ahead.
Anyway, me being me, what did I do first thing in the morning? Why, of course tweet about it!!! One of the nurses told me that contrary to my expectation, my very loud neighbour was not a twenty stone builder, je was 18 years old! No sooner had I tweeted than the snorer poked his head round the corner and profusely apologised for keeping me awake. I was slightly mystified, but it turned out he has seen the tweet. “I know who you are as I’ve just done my politics ‘A’ Level,” he said. We both laughed and had a lovely chat. Later on he told me he’s a fellow West Ham supporter and that his Dad is a reader of my West Ham blog too. Small world.
And with that a new consultant turned up, who informed me that while I could go home, he’d rather keep me in for a bit longer. I replied that I don’t tell taxi drivers how to get to their destinations, so of course I would do as instructed. I then explained that I was due to appear the Edinburgh Fringe. He almost jumped out of his skin and exclaimed: “Absolutely not!” So that was that. I phoned my former LBC colleague Matt Stadlen and he agreed to present the shows in my place. I was, of course, gutted, but I knew it was the right decision. The previous say I had thought I would still go, and just stay in my hotel room and rest when I wasn’t on stage. It was a fool’s errand.
As the consultant went to leave my bedside, he turned and asked if it was me who had been in the Metro newspaper saying nice things about the hospital. I knew it had been reported that I had been in intensive care under the headline “GMB Star Rushed to Intensive Care in Medical Emergency” and that these articles were based on a couple of tweets I had done and in one I had said how great the care in the hospital had been. “Thanks for saying that,” he said. “So few people ever do.” It is so sad that as a society we are too willing to complain, but rarely point out when things have been done well.
Tunbridge Wells is quite a new hospital and has lots of individual rooms, as well as normal 4 or 6 bay wards. In the SSSU they normally only keep people there for 24 hours or less. So on Thursday evening I was moved to another ward, but this time to an individual room. While I appreciated that it would be quieter and I could spend all day watching the Olympics, I quite missed people-watching and observing what was going on.
I cannot speak highly enough of the quality of care I received, under the direction of Fazal Hasan, and the nursing team in each ward. Nothing was too much trouble, and without exception, every single person I encountered, whether a porter, nurse, care assistant or doctor, was polite, friendly and helpful. If this is the NHS on its knees, I’d love to see it when it’s all guns blazing!
It is invidious to pick out individuals, but I would like to pay tribute especially to the team in the SSSU. My bed was opposite the nurses station so I could observe all that went on. Kim, the CSW was magnificent, gluing the whole operation together. She may not have been the most senior, but the rest of the team clearly looked up to her. She was just brilliant and nothing was too much trouble. Victor, who I imagine is only 18 or 19 years old, and probably the most junior member of the team, was like a conductor. The others relied on him and his workrate was phenomenal. Anul and her other nursing colleagues were a pleasure to deal with and provided phenomenal care. I’d also like to pay tribute to the wonderful Monette and Kingsley in the Wells Suite, who both went beyond the call of duty and are such professionals. There are many others I could mention but I’m afraid I didn’t get all their names.
In short, beyond the quality of the food (!), I can’t find a single thing to complain about. I am aware that most people only ever complain, so just wanted to explain here what a positive experience I had. When I said goodbye on Sunday afternoon I’m afraid I got a little tearful, especially as I couldn’t say goodbye to and thank Monette, as she was on a different shift.
The consultant told me that until I have the operation, I will be operating at 60 per cent capacity. This worried me, as I can’t see how I can present a three hour radio show at 60 per cent. It means your judgement isn’t quite what it would normally be and you make mistakes. I saw this earlier in the week when I started to reply to the hundreds of emails I had received – you can tell how ill I must have been in that I didn’t turn on my laptop for five whole days!
As I sit here typing this on Friday night I am in no pain whatsoever, and am trying to just rest. I’ve spent the week watching the Olympics and rediscovering my love of reading. I’ve slept quite a bit, and tried to ignore the news agenda, so far as is possible for a news junkie like me. I’ve also had to adopt a rather different diet – low fat and no dairy. At all. Cheese is gone. Forever, I think.
I have to have an ultrasound next Tuesday to check the infection really is on the wane, and then the operation for the removal of the gall bladder will take place on 6 September. I am going to go private for the operation because if I don’t, the waiting list is 15-18 weeks, and I cannot be away from my radio show until the end of the year. It really is as simple as that.
Thank you to everyone who has emailed or tweeted their good wishes. It hasn’t been the greatest of years, and this is yet another health issue I hadn’t expected to have to deal with, but you just have to cope with what life throws at you and bounce back. I’ve tried to clear my diary as much as possible between now and end of September, but it’s not easy.
I had already booked the next fortnight off work for my August holiday. I won’t be going anywhere, as I just want to ensure that I am as rested as I can be for the operation.
Normal service will be resumed. At some point in September!