My adventure began with chest pains and clammy skin, followed by a ride to GV Health in an ambulance.
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Then, after a slew of questions, it was on through Accident and Emergency for the first stop in the ‘short stay ward’.
And a short stay it was, for the paramedics had not even applied the brakes on my bed, and we were off again.
This time, we were heading for a spot emblazoned “Resus” space, bringing a caveat from the ambos pushing my bed that I wasn’t in need of such; rather, there was room and, as a bonus for me, the nursing was effectively one-on-one.
This area came with, as promised, an added attraction, especially for an old reporter. There was something mysterious going on nearby, just out of sight and, frustratingly, beyond my hearing.
But there was plenty happening: medical people of all stripes coming and going, X-ray machines wheeled in and out, police, local paramedics, an air ambulance crew, talk and phone calls about taking guns on planes. My curiosity was heading toward boiling point.
In fact, the unanswered questions in my mind were causing me more heartache than my actual heart.
I asked what was happening, but the local paramedic said she was not at liberty to say anything. I understood, but my curiosity was aflame.
Finally, the fellow left (yes, it was a bloke) with his entourage of paramedics, air ambulance crew and a police officer. Believe it, this stuff is happening all the time, and to imagine our emergency workers get it easy is a mistake. They do not get it easy, such events are common.
Hospital food is often disparaged, but they must have known I was coming as the first evening meal was as I would have chosen: soup, restaurant-like pasta with chicken and mushroom, followed by custard and cream on an apple-based pie.
Then, to the ‘short stay ward’, where I spent the night entangled in wires and leads stuck to my chest and, in turn, attached to a bleeping and blipping computer, which nursing staff regularly scanned. The noisy monitor sent sleep scurrying for cover.
The next morning, I was off to the Critical Care Ward (CCW), not that I was seriously ill, but because the ward was well placed to care with someone whose health could deteriorate quickly.
Three days after the adventure began, my wife and I learned I’d be heading to the Sunshine Hospital (it’s a part of Melbourne’s Western Health), where a pacemaker, a tiny electrical gadget, would be stitched into a chest pocket. My pacemaker ensures my heart rate is always at least 60bpm, protecting me from what had been the low 40s or high 30s.
Soon after being admitted to the Sunshine Hospital, I was on the move again, headed for the Cardiac Care Unit (CCU) and a two-bed ward, which I was sharing, as discovered later, with 91-year-old Vlado, who was, when I arrived, fasting for the pacemaker procedure.
The life stories of people like Vlado put everything into perspective. As a young man with a wife and two sons, he and his wife decided in 1953 to escape from Croatia as the country had been taken over by the communists and life had deteriorated.
Of course, Vlado and his wife couldn’t simply leave the country through established channels as that was disallowed, so they decided to walk over the mountains from Croatia to Italy, taking their two young sons.
Vlado and his five-year-old son went first, and the arduous journey saw him sometimes carrying his son on his back.
Hearing men speaking Italian, Vlado turned himself in, and with his journey through the mountains over, he was taken to a camp near Trieste, Italy.
His wife followed about a month later with their three-year-old, and then, in 1958, and with the help of Interpol and other government agencies, Vlado, his wife and now three children (they had a daughter while in Italy), left for Australia, choosing it ahead of Canada for which there was three-year wait.
My care in the Sunshine Hospital was at a similar level to that of Shepparton, although there was a noticeable difference in the quality of the equipment nursing staff used and, of course, a great step up in comfort for patients.
No longer was I physically connected to a monitoring device; while still connected, it was all wireless, so I could freely move about.
What was happening on the recorder around my neck was transmitted wirelessly to the nearby nurses’ station.
And there was a bonus for the nurses too at the Sunshine Hospital, as they each had mobile data recording stations (a wireless computer on wheels) which they took to the patient, while in Shepparton, nurses were required to return to their particular ward’s base station to refer to notes or update a patient’s information.
Before progressing with the pacemaker procedure, a cannula less than 24 hours old was needed in my arm, and as the two I had were a couple of days old, they had to go.
I was saddened to see them go as I knew, from experience, that finding my veins is something akin to nailing down the Holy Grail.
A nurse tried twice and failed; a specialist arrived, tried once without success and then brought in the heavy guns. He had a portable ultrasound machine, and with that, he had success in putting a cannula into my right arm. It hurt like hell, but at least it was there.
Back at the pacemaker preparatory area, it was announced I needed the cannula in my left arm, but all I had was the painful piece in my right arm.
So, it was back to my left arm. The nurse tried twice and failed. Suddenly, a registrar cardiologist who was earnest about solving this dilemma pulled up a chair, started working on the back of my left hand, and within minutes, had a cannula in and working.
With the needed cannula in place, I was soon in the theatre (from the flat on my back, it looked like an industrial shed, but it wasn’t). Rather, it was cool (in temperature) and brimming with machines and staff; they were everywhere.
Once on the operating table, an oxygen device was placed in my nose, a drip I was told would make me sleepy but not unconscious was set in motion, and then a local anaesthetic, something I didn’t feel, was administered to eliminate any pain.
My face was covered, and it seemed I went to sleep. The next thing I recall is the surgeon asking me how I was, adding he was nearly finished, and minutes later, he was. The procedure had taken less than an hour.
My experience was that of a public patient, and it was at the Sunshine Hospital that I was asked whether or not I had private health insurance. When I answered “no”, I was told that it didn’t matter as all emergency patients were treated the same.
The difference arises, of course, if you want treatment at specific hospitals or medical professionals or you want to set other criteria.
Public patients go where they are told and treated by whoever is available, and that doesn’t concern me as our public health institutions are among the best, and the nurses, doctors and thousands of others are knowledgeable, caring and responsible people whose only aim is to see you healthy again.
Hundreds of people made my “repair” possible, including those behind the scenes, and played a part in ensuring my arrival home safe and feeling much better. Thanks!
Robert McLean is a former editor of The News
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