Rambling Writings (+ Shorts)

Slipping Under White Bands

My second experience of a Gastroscopy, under the amazing care of The Royal Surrey's Endoscopy Unit, their nurses and my Gastroenterology specialist.

"Been through this once before. I'll be fine, right?" Whispered my internal thought processes as I sat in one of the pre-procedure rooms. Lilacs and purples adorned the walls, calmly washing over the medical devices in the room, setting them into the background. Just me, the walls, and all these various bits and bobs. Like a mini bolt out of the blue, a twitch in my right hand prompted pain from the cannula insertion site. Right in one of my veins sat a small cannula, of which I had always likened to a tap for blood. I was very determined to not let this pain have me spiral into panic, so I started to flex my right leg in a consistent pattern. Slowly up, and slowly down. Slowly up, and slowly down. I could see a man in room 3, looking concerned, generally making the same movement. Maybe he picked up on the fact it made me less nervous? I don't know, but I averted my gaze as soon as he caught me looking at him – he was nervous enough waiting to be called in, and I didn't want to add to that. I was a lucky one in this scenario – I'd had my pre-procedure checks done by the nurse who'd done it last time, and she recognised me, so by now I was feeling familiar with the place. This man I glanced at every so often... I know your angst, random man. It'll pass. You'll be okay.

Having the consent forms read to you is what I can only imagine it's like having your last rights delivered to you before you pass. It make me chuckle internally how matter-of-fact Sisters are compared to Nurses, too. The lady sat in front of me told me exactly how it was to be, hardened by her years of service, but still with great compassion in her voice. After a shaky signature was put to paper (I can't sign for crap with a cannula in my right hand, so my left hand it was), the second great wait began. That is total and utter hyperbole, by the way – it's a wonder how any person my age survives such a wait without their phone. Time does not saunter on slowly when there's no gadget to fiddle with, instead it rushes on past, with each sweep reminding you it is there. I won't lie, a great many number of times I contemplated signing to the nervous man over the way, or even just leaving my little spot to go check on him. Something really stirred me about his nervousness. I just wanted to reassure him that it was all going to be okay, having been through it before myself. Something really compelled me to give him a smile, and I really wanted to go on over and give him some comfort, but alas I stayed seated. Given my relative anxiety, maybe it wasn't exactly reassurance I would give.

"Hello Miss Brown, can I have your full name and date of birth please?" If you live in the UK, you know the routine. Anytime you have anything done, or want to access any kind of information about you at all, they ask for you to identify yourself. A simple, but memorable, method that's been the standard in the National Health Service (NHS) for as long as I can remember. As I repeated my identity, the nurse looked carefully at my white hospital band, checking my verbalisation against the black text. "All good. Are we ready, Miss Brown?" I said a small "yes" back as I stood up, feeling the familiar twinge of pain in my right hand again. Not the best time, as we began the walk to the Endoscope room, but movement was bound to incite pain from the small needle that intruded into my vein. Two 'rolling cabinets' full of equipment and a bright, sterile room greeted me as the nurse gave the instructions for me to lie down on the bed. My ears perked to that recognisable 'squeak-squish' of the bed as I laid down on my back, having it take all 80-something-kilograms of me. I looked at the other nurse, a kind looking man with brown eyes, as my attention turned to the 'rolling cabinet' to the left of me – complete with the endoscope ready and prepped. As he moved around me, I looked to the equipment on my right, which housed a big display for the camera feed. A small butterfly fluttered its way through my chest cavity – "okay, now I'm nervous. It's happening" whispered my brain.

My specialist looked up and turned away from the computer, his face instantly recognisable. He said something like "Hello, I know you" as I smiled back at him. As I gave my reply, I raised my hand. "The girl who might have EoE." I suggested, feeling very glad to see him again. "Yes, I remember you" He smiled, and I said how it was nice to see him again. Really, I've never known such a gentle-looking doctor other than our first family GP, who had sadly now retired. It really was so good to see him again, even under the circumstances. I feel like through my consultations with him, I'd gained a rapport with him, purely by being extremely geeky and reminiscing on my BTEC knowledge. The female nurse got my attention again with her voice, and that butterfly flapped its wings as she administered the numbing spray for my throat. Only two sprays this time, compared to the many I was given during my first rodeo! Slowly, my throat began to tingle, and sensation faded. I feel like I'd begun to worry as this happened, swallowing to remind myself that I still had control. Over time, I simply couldn't feel my throat, which is the strangest feeling, bar only one. Feeling no feeling... who'd have thought?

My bed was tipped back, with the nurse placing a small absorbent pad underneath my mouth as I was rolling sideways. "Tuck your bum back a bit" she told me, tucking the downy fabric underneath my cheek. "This is just in case you drool, okay?" she spoke as she busied herself with preparing what I assume was the sedation.

The male nurse came into view again. I saw that white, vertebrae-looking plastic object in his hand and identified it as the mouthguard – used to protect the mouth and teeth from accidental endoscope damage. He said not much – not that I can remember as this is where my memory starts to fail me – as he slipped it into my mouth, holding it in place. His other gloved hand rested gently on my flushed cheek, soothing me inaudibly as I'd began to take some worried breaths. It was almost nurturing, the way his hand rested on my face. The very last set of events I remember is the female voice again, telling me that the sedation was going in. As she spoke, I looked at the male nurse again, feeling the satiny sensation of his hand on my face. Quietly and quickly, the lights started to dim as I slipped under the chemical spell of the sedative, my last emotion being something of comfort.

Now, this is the very patchy bit, with a very interesting auditory-only memory. No vision, only sound. I seem to vaguely remember the endoscope being gently brought out of my body, feeling my heart race and my panic start up like an engine. I gagged, and a voice – someone's voice, I couldn't identify it even as male or female – told me I was doing okay.

After this... my only solid memory is sitting in the patient lounge, after recovery, eating a sandwich, sipping tea and devouring far, far too many biscuits! This struck me as strange, and unnerving at first – even as I sit here writing this, I cannot remember waking up in recovery. I remember on my first visit, but not this time. My attention rounded to the other post-procedure patients in the room, the television droning on in the background about some more Brexit bullcrap. I'd begun to feel a little grouchy as the TV displayed more of the PM's face when reprieve came. The nervous man from earlier came in, guided by a nurse, and sat across the room from me. The relief on his face was very real! Whether this was from the sedative, or from knowing was over it was unclear, but it put me at ease to know he was feeling okay. Call me creepy, but I watched from afar as he conversed with another patient, slowly consuming his food and smiling as he did so. It was very nice to see him smile, seeing as he had looked almost pale with fear before!

From here, it was the standard fare – me being discharged, told about the findings (or lack thereof), and wobbling off home with my dad, guiding me gently. There were definitely a lot more wobbles this time round!

That nurse's gentle touch could not be a more perfect metaphor for our NHS staff if I tried. It was poetically beautiful; words don't really do that wholesome moment justice. I write this, not just as reminiscence on my own experience the day after, but as a thank you letter of some sorts to the staff of RSCH's Endoscopy Unit. You are all compassionate and empathetic beyond your bounds, and this doesn't just go for the clinical staff. The lady and gentleman on the reception were the figures of confidentiality and grace – managing to communicate sensitive information even in a very open setting. You're all amazing people. <3

As well as this, I suppose this is useful for those people who are awaiting their turn under the endoscope. So often we hear it from the professional's viewpoint, and not from another patient. The text given on those handy-dandy little guides can only calm the nerves so much.
Take it from me, from one patient to the next, you'll be okay.