Dehydration sparks off a titanic struggle with reality at A&E – Susan Morrison

Being stalwart and incredibly stubborn, I gritted my teeth for a while, until what I described as “discomfort” became bad enough for my husband to override the family control and command centre (me) and operate independently to phone an ambulance.

This being Saturday night, it arrived three hours later. Note to self. Next time, take ill on a Tuesday afternoon.

By this time I had rather lost interest in proceedings, but rallied fast when Fiona the paramedic looked around the living room, clocked the prints, paintings and blueprints on the walls and said: “I love the Titanic!’

The group rapidly reached consensus on a two-point plan. Step one, sedate rambling ranting woman to stop her talking about the Titanic, and as a side-effect to that, knock off making that pain-related screaming noise. Step two, take her to hospital.

Step one accomplished, Pete the paramedic manoeuvres me out of the front door. Fresh air hits me, and I promptly projectile vomit all over the front garden foxgloves, and my shoes. Pete is unfazed. I explain I didn’t like those shoes anyway. Not even that keen on foxgloves.

Get to A&E, 2.45. Quite mellow now, having been kiboshed with industrial levels of painkillers. Cheery nurse comes up and, naturally, takes my blood pressure. She’s not interested in the Titanic, much to my disappointment. Given a little cardboard bowl to upchuck into. Worry about the size of the bowl. Everyone pretty much avoids me for a while, and I start to think it’s the problem with the Titanic. It might be on my notes somewhere.

By about 5.15, two things happen. To paraphrase the song, the drugs don’t work any more, and I seem to have gone into some sort of Gaga-land. I announce with terrific authority that I’m going to walk to the zoo. Stand up. Fall down. Now everyone wants to talk to me, which is just awkward when you’re lying on the floor.

Despite my instance that I am perfectly happy hugging the lino, I get put on a trolley. Inform medical staff that I am leaving, but that we should be ready to invade Sweden.

Throw up again, and work my way through several of those small bowls. Get prodded and poked and scanned. It is discovered that some recent surgery has left some internal scarring, which is causing a bit of bother.

When it became inflamed, it was a fire in the hold. The body pulled in colossal amounts of fluid to douse the blaze. This causes massive dehydration, even in the brain, and this can cause confusion, re walks to the zoo and threatened Swedish invasions. Apologies to Sweden, obviously.

So, to the wards, and a clear fluid diet only. I point out that gin is a clear fluid. This is not received well. Later, I get a ‘sloppy diet’. Yes, that is a medical description. It’s custard. I ate it with a sloppy attitude. That’s my mother’s description.