My rant-worthy hospital visit.

I have not updated my blog in quite a few days. The reason for this, my most avid readers is because I have been in hospital, for “treatment” for my SPD.

I have elected to split this subject into two posts.
The first is an account of what happened (my rant), and the second is a more humorous look at the situation.

After much uncertainty at how to best treat me (because whilst bubs and I are healthy, the pain is getting much worse, which is putting pressure on both of us, and my antidepressants are struggling to cope with my feelings of uselessness), it was deemed best to transfer me to another hospital.
And so, I went to the new hospital at the appointed time, and was told that they were not really comfortable with me on the painkillers I was already taking.
They wanted me to stop the Panadine Forte (which I will definitely admit is better than nothing, but still doesn’t really enable me to move much at all), and to stick to Panadol and ‘try to rest’.
To say I had a breakdown there and then, sitting in my wheelchair in this doctor’s office, is an understatement. I had an ugly, body shuddering, snot flowing, sheep/fog-horn sounding meltdown. Somewhere between my gulps and wails, the doctor seemed to grasp that what I was attempting to communicate, was that I wasn’t going to cope at home ‘just with Panadol and rest’, and that I really had been holding on for dear life to this meeting. I had been assured that doctors at this hospital would be able to better help bubs and I. That they would be able to offer far more acute and regular monitoring for bubs, and that they would be able to prescribe me stronger, more effective pain relief.
It had been explained to me on multiple occasions that these stronger drugs carried a risk of withdrawal for both myself and baby, and so a longer stay in hospital after the birth was warranted, just to make sure we both got through the withdrawals as safely, and with as much comfort as possible.
I had understood all of this, and so to hear that once again no one seemed to know how to treat me, and didn’t seem comfortable giving me any pain relief, was nothing short of devastating.
The nurse seemed legitimately shocked at my reaction, and so went to seek out other doctors and nurses to reassess my situation.
After a wait, it was suggested that they admit me. In doing this, I was apparently going to have access to the Pain Team very quickly (instead of waiting the out-patient time of 5 weeks), could be given some immediate pain relief whilst waiting, and be assessed by physios and other specialists who were specifically trained in dealing with cases where the mother was taking strong analgesia.

And so off I’m wheeled, to a ward with other pregnant ladies.
At first everything seemed to be going as planned, a nurse took my vitals, and then asked if I wanted pain relief. I of course accepted, and off she went to collect some. But then she returns;
“I’m afraid I can only offer you Panadol and Voltaren.”
”But, I can’t have Voltaren.”
”Why not?”
”Um.. It’s an anti inflammatory, and you’re not supposed to have those when pregnant.”
”Oh yes. Quite right.”
Didn’t this just set the tone for the next three days?
I was given regular Panadol, which did about as much good as tits on a bull.
Seriously, that’s your specialist medical care? A drug I can obtain myself from any supermarket, servo or chemist?
Every time I was offered this drug, I wanted to strap these people to a table, separate their pelvises, and then offer them some Panadol. Then make them thank me. Fuckers.

(I should point out at this point, that I turn into quite the piece of work when I’m in severe pain.
Not to the nurses or doctors, if anything I’m increasingly quiet around them, but in my head, or whilst ranting to friends, I’m a bitch.) 

On the first night I had another meltdown. I had left my Panadine Forte at home (as I never expected to be admitted in the first place), and combined with the pathetic strength of the Panadol, and the shitty von shithousen bed, I was in agony.
I cried and cried, until a nice nurse actually came over, sat on my bed and hugged me. She was really lovely, and somehow managed to get me some Endone so I could sleep.
From that point on I could have Endone every 6 hours (helps a little), and the magic Panadol every 4 (indescribably fucking useless).

Today marks day 3, my last day here.
After much dicking about I finally saw the Pain Team.
You must understand that I had been waiting weeks to see someone with the experience and authority to help me. To see someone who could prescribe me something adequate for my pain. The anticipation to see this team had only been heightened once being admitted, as the idea of my pain relief actually being downgraded by being in hospital was the most ridiculous thing I could imagine – I needed the experts to give me the strongest/safest drug possible ASAP!
And so I just met with the Team… Who have decided not to give me anything stronger. After I have been promised for fucking weeks that they would be able to help, I have been prescribed Panadol and given a script for Endone.
Now, please do not get me wrong, I appreciate the Endone, it definitely is better than nothing, but it is nothing like what was mentioned to me by all the nurses, and certainly not what was suggested by the doctors.
Ketamine, Methadone & Tramadol were the three drugs that had been suggested as the most likely. I had been given the impression that the only reason the doctors hadn’t already started me on one of those drugs, was that they wanted the opinion of the Pain Team first.

But here I am, with Endone and fucking Panadol. I really didn’t need to be here for the last three days.
My GP could’ve given me a script for Endone.
And I’m quite certain it would not have taken six hours for the script to be written out and filled as it has here. Seriously. Six hours. For a piece of paper.

 I have taken up a bed that someone else could’ve used.
I needed a script. Baby and I weren’t sick, or at risk. I wasn’t like the other ladies in my ward; one who was dilating at 27 weeks, one who’s malfunctioning liver was forcing her to be induced at 35 weeks, or the other who couldn’t take her migraine medicine whilst pregnant, but who’s migraines were racking her body so much so it was putting her baby in distress.
I wasn’t sick. Bub wasn’t sick. I needed a script. And instead I have taken up a bed for three days.

I am seriously considering completing 47 years of University, so I can become a doctor and prevent other people in my position being in so much pain, and being dicked about for so long for no real reason. 
Either that, or get a degree so I can come back as a highly trained efficiency expert, and put more functional and practical systems in place. Because the ones we have in current use are heavily, unequivocally flawed.

End rant.