Sore throat in France

It happened so quickly; from the scratchy beginnings of a sore throat to a full blown abscess which threatened to suffocate me, in less than two and a half days.

As a child of the ‘fifties’, suffocation seemed a tad too trivial to merit calling an ambulance. Back then victims would have to demonstrate a much more profound need, such as lying broken, beneath a bus, before anyone would commit to such a radical action. More probably, a member of the family would be sent down to the telephone box at the end of the street with four old pennies, to call the doctor.

So it was, that at four am on that Wednesday morning, while gasping for air, I googled the local doctors for their opening hours. Even idiocy has its limits and I found mine shortly after, when I realised the need for hospital treatment, which in this case entailed a forty minute drive to Lucon. Things still failed to register properly though. On the way there I explained to my wife Pam, that all I required was a course of industrial strength anti-biotic.

I should add at this point, that we were in France.

The A & E was empty. In fact we had to go back outside and ring the bell before a receptionist appeared. It was only thanks to my lack of French that I didn’t share my self-diagnosis of tonsillitis or at worst, mumps. Instead and by happy chance, I opted for a more effective phrase, “I’m having difficulty breathing.”

The place was so quiet, wonderfully so, but within ten minutes a young doctor came along and did the preliminaries. After listening to my chest he surprised me by fitting a saline drip and having a nurse hook me up to ECG machine. All this I thought, for a sore throat? Shortly after, the doctor reappeared with the ECG print out in his hand and shaking his head. Somehow, thanks to gestures and Franglais, I learned that he was on the horns of a dilemma, in that he didn’t know which condition to treat first. The sore throat, which I knew about, or the cardiac arrhythmia, which I knew bugger all about. It couldn’t have been too much of a dilemma for him, because after fitting me with an oxygen mask, he went back to bed.

I lay there for a couple of hours until the dayshift arrived, which included a doctor who could speak English quite well. He examined me again and a different nurse gave me another ECG test. My breathing had been eased by the oxygen, but my throat still hurt like hell and so far as I could tell, had yet to be diagnosed. He did have a plan though, which he shared with me some time later as I was escorted back to the entrance, where a taxi driver awaited. My wife and I were told to accompany the driver on a transfer to the regional hospital at La Roche sur Yon; thirty kilometres and over a hundred Euros away. The doctor saw the look on my face and added, “It is free.”   

Remember, I’m a child of the fifties and compared to a four penny telephone call, this extravagance seemed way over the top, particularly for a course of anti-biotic. Both Pam and I declined, in ‘for heaven’s sake’ tones of voices, but the doctor was adamant, “No, please, you must go.”

We did, but very reluctantly.

Before long we arrived at the regional hospital where a Doctor Martin checked my throat out and promptly admitted me.

I’ve slept in worse hotel rooms, though sleep was out of the question for the next two nights. In fact, had the floor been carpeted I’d have rated the accommodation as three to four star. I was hooked up to a saline drip again and told not to eat or drink anything for the rest of that day; an instruction that was wholly unnecessary since I couldn’t have swallowed to save my life. The reason for the instruction became clear the next morning when they wheeled me off for a scan, but nothing else occurred that day besides a further deterioration in my condition. I can honestly say that I have never felt so ill before; truly and desperately ill. Whatever was going on down there was responsible for a great deal of pain and an enormous volume of mucus.

BTMI

The above initials will no doubt be repeated at some point; they stand for ‘But too much information!’

I cannot abide survivors who feel a need to share every sickening detail of their experience, gore and all and they plough on, oblivious to my sweaty pallor and shortness of breath. The only means of escape is to either faint or hit the nearest fire alarm button.

Nevertheless, minutiae apart, I didn’t sleep for the third night in a row. At three in the morning a nurse looked in and was startled to see me slumped over the table, with my head resting on my arms; the only position that afforded me some measure of relief. Meanwhile, decisions had been made. At around ten am, Doctor or Madame Martin strode into my room and announced in rehearsed English, “Bad news, we must operate.”

It wasn’t bad news from my side of the fence and I conveyed as much by clapping my hands and croaking “Bravo!”

She explained that I had an abscess in my throat, which was a relief on two counts. Firstly and at last, I knew what was wrong with me and secondly, I imagined that after having the thing drained I’d be out of there the next day. I said as much and she looked at me incredulously, “Non! It is dangereaux. Five days, minimum.”

She asked me if I’d had anything to eat or drink in the last twelve hours; I told her it had been more like seventy two. From then on things began to happen quickly. The nurse who had been charged with preparing me for theatre allowed me to face away from her as I undressed, which gave me a smidgeon of dignity while knowing that my backside was going to remain in full view, hanging out of the theatre gown she thrust my arms into.

There are significant differences in the way they do things in France, compared to England. For example, my wife has to have regular INR blood tests to monitor her warfarin dosage. In England, she calls in to the local surgery where a nurse pricks a finger and dips the probe of a hand held meter into the drop of blood for an immediate reading; all done in less than fifteen seconds. Occasionally, we have to have a test done in France, where we begin by visiting a local GP who provides a prescription which we take down the road to the nurse’s station and make an appointment, usually for the next day. A blood sample is then sent to a laboratory which provides the results within twenty four hours. Primitive you may think, but consider this, the French way employs four people, who pay taxes, spend in the community and more importantly, do not draw social security benefits while here in the UK we are confronted with a challenging dichotomy. On the one hand we have streamlined everything to such an extent that hundreds of thousands are out of work; a process which will be exacerbated if the robot designers have their way and trigger the fourth industrial revolution, (their term, not mine).

On the other hand, our leaders keep telling us that we must work longer and/or suffer cuts in welfare benefits because there isn’t enough money in the pot. Given the choice, I’d rather see an unemployed robot than man.

But I digress, though only a little, because the theme cropped up again.

Watching the panelled lighting pass by like a slow strobe is a bit of a cliché, featured in lots of films, but in reality it’s all I chose to focus on as they wheeled me to theatre, rather than dwell on what lay ahead. Eventually though, we passed through the electric sliding doors into the pre-op room where people in blue costumes, hats and facemasks began to ask me questions, “Name, first name, date of birth, any allergies and finally, any pain?” Helloooo.

The transfer from bed to operating table was pretty undignified but by then I had ceased caring.  The ceilingscape changed dramatically as we entered the theatre, where there was much more panelled lighting and two huge panels of lights on the end of outsized white booms. It felt vaguely ‘star trekky’ as I was whizzed across to the far side of the room.

I’ve only had one operation before, in Leicester, where the theatre was manned by the surgeon, anaesthetist and two nurses. This time the place seemed full of people who were all taking part in an intense discussion until I was returned to the centre of the room and turned though one hundred and eighty degrees. Whilst I knew that it was the table being rotated, it felt as though the room was spinning instead.

Finally, a lady with a nice voice and a smattering of English came into sight as she injected something into the intravenous tube before saying, “Bye bye.”

 

I’m sure my experience of coming to wasn’t unique, so others will know how incredibly rested you feel; it’s magical. Unfortunately, that sense of peace was soon overwhelmed by a host of other things. My left nostril contained something that was large and uncomfortable and capped with a red junction with two flexible air tubes that looked capable of servicing a bouncy castle. The other nostril had been fitted with some other apparatus which I never did identify, but it was almost as uncomfortable. Every fifteen minutes or so, the cuff on my left arm would inflate and take a blood pressure reading and a catheter had been installed at the other end. I didn’t realise that until they removed it three days later. Behind me, a machine emitted a series of beeps, boings and burps, but it took some time for me to realise that I was in intensive care. I was to remain there for five days, unable to speak and too weak to lift my head off the pillow, but the single most dreadful thing was the glutinous mucus. Whatever they’d done had prompted the production of tons of the stuff, which kept blocking the airway and had to be removed with the help of a suction tube and a panic-stricken pair of lungs. I couldn’t speak, but my bug-eyed stare at the ceiling and thumping of the bed with both arms managed to signal imminent suffocation.

BTMI

The warhead they had stuffed down my left nostril would continue to prohibit speech and I was given a small white marker board and red felt pen to write on. My spoken French can be dodgy but in the absence of formal education, my attempt to communicate in writing must have been challenging, at least for the staff.

The journey from our house to the hospital took fifty minutes and effectively wrote off an afternoon, but I realised how important it is to receive visitors. My wife Pam doesn’t drive in France but thankfully, our friends Steve and Lynn were over there and surrendered a huge chunk of their stay. I really don’t have words enough to express my gratitude.

I was certainly delighted to see them that second day in the ICU, (I’d been sedated when they called a day earlier) and I quickly scribbled out the first thing that came to mind;

You’re too late. Have already formed an escape committee.

Pam took the marker board from me and began to write her response, until Steve pointed out, “Pam, he’s not deaf as well!”

Lighter moments always help to clear the fog.

Those five days in the ICU were unpleasant; all the more so in hindsight, yet the staff were lovely and my French vocabulary broadened considerably. Some of them practised their English out on me though one doctor and a nurse spoke it extremely well. One night they found my website and I believe, downloaded the free novella from there. As soon as I realised that they could read English perfectly too I promised to send them a book each, so Francois and Christine, if you read this I hope you have received them and more importantly, enjoyed them.

On day five, when they removed the contraptions, I thanked God I’d been unconscious when they’d installed them, but voila, I had my voice back. The following morning I was taken back up to my room. It was a fine moment, that wouldn’t last.

I could speak by then, which was wonderful, but I couldn’t eat; a problem that would take a few days and many yoghurts to resolve. But the next test occurred two days later after another scan. They hadn’t been able to drain the abscess completely and Madame Martin began to explain what was required. I understood enough to realise that the news was important and fuller comprehension necessary, so I grabbed my Ipad and found the Google Translate site before handing it over. Even that has its limitations because the result read, ‘Tomorrow, I must stick a knife into your throat.’ Then, the worst news of all appeared on the screen, ‘Another eight days.’ That was not a fine moment.

At least I was spared from the ICU, though this time they had fitted a drainage bag to my neck which made me think of a vampire bat, so I called it Vinnie. Time seemed to slow down after that. I had puzzles, books and dozes along with those precious visits by Pam, Steve and Lynn, but otherwise each day seemed longer, punctuated by punctures; I lost count of the number of needles and IVs.

To cut a long story short, I was in there for a further seven days instead of eight, thanks in part I think, to the message I wrote on the fifth day, shortly after a chap called on me to advise that they were going to begin cardiac tests the following day. I’d had enough.

That evening I sat down with my Google translate and composed a message which I wrote out on a piece of paper. The English version read;

Thank you, but I do not wish to have any cardiac tests. It is better if I return to England as soon as possible, today perhaps, and have them there. But thank you all for your kindness and attention.

 I prepared myself for a standoff but negotiations went off rather well. The tests were cancelled and whilst not immediate, my departure was brought forward to two days hence. Fine moments were back.

Nevertheless, I’m sure Madame or Doctor Martin, I was never sure how to address her, would not have sanctioned my departure unless it was safe to do so.

Thank you Madame Martin and everyone I encountered, for your kindness, skill and attention.