Our health system deserves a lot more credit

I don’t know about you people out there, but I think it’s great to be back. The Return of Loftus at Large went missing from the WP for a number of weeks, a good number of weeks, due to issues - as they say in the best of circles - beyond my control. 

I was afflicted by the return of some quarrelsome stones in my gut. Well, somewhere in my innards. They say a rolling stone gathers no moss and I have no argument with that contention, but, my stones, or at least one of them, gathered something and grew to such a size that it became stuck in a duct and caused a blockage. The blockage caused a back-up that caused a pain that grew to the size and shape of a pound of Kerrygold. The pound of Kerrygold lodged just under the ribcage and created such an excruciating pain that the ambulance was called (how come these events always seem to happen at night?) and I was conveyed from Carrowbawn to Castlebar and the emergency department of MUH.

I spent the night and the best part of a day on a trolley. We hear a lot about trolleys and the number of people who spend time on them, some much longer than I. A trolley is a mobile bed, not as comfortable as a bed in a ward, but when you are in pain, comfort becomes a matter of degree. The thing about being on a trolley, in a corridor, with a line of others is not as bad as it might sound. There are specialist doctors and nurses and care-givers (the curative powers of tea and a biscuit, especially in a time of distress, is much underrated) doing the rounds - that’s a bit of a contradiction in a corridor - diagnosing and dispensing, caring and re-assuring and just generally being good Samaritans. It’s comforting knowing you are in good hands.

This is not, I hope, to bore you with details about my medical travails. It is more about giving credit where it is due. It seems to me that everybody should be required to spend some time in hospital. If people did spend time in hospital, I’m convinced the constant criticisms we hear about MUH would be much diminished. Yes, of course, there are times when people encounter poor outcomes but these are far outweighed by the good experiences and results. We rarely hear about the good experiences. Not surprisingly and, I suppose, not unnaturally, we hear more about the bad experiences even though they are, in the normal run of things, far less common than the good experiences. The thing about a bad experience is that you feel the need to complain, to highlight the issue so that better outcomes might prevail.

I suppose I could complain myself as I was conveyed to University College Galway for a procedure to remove the offending stone. There was an issue. Because of a previous intervention around the heart and the aorta, I was on blood thinners. I should have been off the blood thinners for two, maybe three days, before being sent for the procedure and when I got there, the consultant who was to tackle the stone declined to proceed. While he got to the stone, which was firmly stuck in the duct, he was not happy to do anything that might cause a bleed. And so, I was returned to MUH with my stuck stone still in situ. I could complain and some people, including some near and dear to me, argued that I should but, sure I had a day out and the professionals made the proper decisions. I was back in Galway a fortnight later having been off the blood thinners for the appropriate time and the stone was satisfactorily removed and no cause for complaint.

You can learn a lot in hospital. I did not get much sleep so I discovered there are those who, horse-like, can sleep standing up. I have witnessed it. There are those who can sleep on the horns of a dilemma. Some can sleep on left side or right side without the slightest bother. There are those who can sleep with eyes, and yes mouths, wide open. There are, naturally, those who can sleep smoothly while snoring profusely. There are those who can sleep on one pillow or two. There are those who can sleep with bedhead raised to the last and those who can sleep on a bed flat as an iron. There are those who can sleep on a bed of nails, not to mention a harrow. I envy them all. These are things I learned during my recent sojourn in Mayo University Hospital. I saw an elderly man die peacefully in the early morning, passing away without drama. His death was expected. Also, I learned how physiotherapy has become an essential part of the recovery process.

There was a time when I held the view that there was something grandiose about the designation of Mayo General Hospital as Mayo University Hospital. But, as they say, the longer you live the more you learn and now I have, in my dotage, brightened up my view of things. Having spent four weeks in MUH, being lucid and able to take in what was going on around me I have become even more convinced of the magnificent work done by our people in the medical, nursing and caring professions. We have wonderfully skilled people working in our hospitals and we can now be proud of the fact that our hospitals are places of learning and advancement for those who seek a career in medicine.

I had the good fortune to meet Mohammed and Hussein, two medical students working from Galway and doing a year in MUH. Hussein was overseeing Mohammed’s technique in testing my stomach (the stone was gone at this stage) for… well I don’t know what but both were extremely professional. Later, I had a tutor with five medical students go through quite an intensive examination of my condition, posing questions and testing knowledge. I gave the class and the tutor first class honours. And it is not just University Hospital Galway driving the education of our next generation of professionals. Side by side with UHG is Atlantic Technological University (ATU), Castlebar. Take a bow, Paddy McGuinness. The next generation of care attendants and nurses are coming through MUH. We are in good hands.

Now, I’m at home for seven weeks and you might wonder why you have been deprived of your weekly dose of The Return of Loftus at Large for so long. Well, you might find this hard to believe but when I got home I was crippled by a pain in my lower back. Not that unusual, I thought, after lying on a hospital bed for four weeks. Powerful painkillers couldn’t even deaden the pain so, after three weeks, an MRI was called for and lo and behold, if my back wasn’t broken. It was good news as we now knew what we were dealing with. MUH has me on a back brace (four weeks done day and night, eight weeks to go) so I’m now able to sit for a while at the computer, between spells of getting up and walking for a while. Physiotherapy is on order and will commence, hopefully, early next month and then I’ll be as right as rain.

There is a bit of a mystery as to how I broke my back. There was no fall, trauma or impact that anyone could recall and I hadn’t had a drink for six months that might have led to a forgotten tumble so, for the past few weeks, inquests followed inquisitions and consultations and the consensus is that the broken bone (L2) is the delayed reaction to carrying the Burrishoole intermediate football team, not to mention the Westport rugby team, on my back for 20 years back in the day. 

Ar aghaidh linn. Onwards and upwards.