Location: Virgen de la Caridad Hospital, Cartagena, Spain
Summary: A full week in hospital, filled with endless drips, scans, antibiotics, bland food, room changes, confused nurses, pain, worry and exhaustion. There were small moments of comfort from friends, but mostly it was a long, difficult stretch of days spent fighting infection and trying to stay positive.
Monday, 31st March
I woke early, and by 08:00 the nurses had already changed my antibiotic and painkiller drips several times. Later in the day, I was taken downstairs for more Doppler scans on my ankle before being wheeled back to my room. The food was edible but painfully bland, cooked without even salt or pepper. It was a long, quiet day.
Tuesday, 1st April
When I checked my messages, I thought I was seeing an April Fools’ joke. It wasn’t. Farcebook had suspended my account for supposedly breaching their rules on guns and drugs. All because I had written that the hospital drugs were helping. I appealed, but I don’t expect much from the numb nuts who run it. I had already been considering leaving because of the adverts and scammers. Bluesky is looking more appealing by the day.
In the afternoon, a surgeon and consultant visited me. They confirmed I did not have necrotising fasciitis, which was a relief. The infection was in the fat and bone of my leg and would be treated with a week of antibiotics. They hoped this would avoid surgery, though I wasn’t convinced. My drips were changed constantly throughout the day, keeping the pain at bay.
Wednesday, 2nd April
I woke with a horrible taste in my mouth, probably from the antibiotics. The drips and dressings were changed repeatedly. Around midday, I was told I would be moved to a new room. No explanation was given, but the new room had a TV with English channels, so perhaps that was the reason.
One nurse irritated me all afternoon. Every time she came in to change the drip, she turned on every light and left the door wide open, letting in noise from the nurses’ station. I struggled out of bed several times to shut the door and turn the lights off, dragging the drips with me and causing backflow in the tubes. It was exhausting.
Thursday, 3rd April
I slept straight through until breakfast arrived. After eating, the consultant came in and was pleased that the infection didn’t appear to be spreading. She arranged for new scans and had a nurse remove my drip so I could take a shower. Afterwards, the drips were reattached and my wounds redressed.
My sister messaged to say her operation in England had been cancelled at the last minute. I felt sorry for her and grateful for my private insurance here. In the afternoon, Kate and Aria visited, which lifted my spirits. No one came to take me for the scans, so I played games on my laptop until 23:00. I barely slept because I had to keep getting up to empty my urine bottle, which the nurses had ignored since I arrived in the new room.
Friday, 4th April
I slept until 08:40. After breakfast, I noticed the new drip bag contained Nolatil, a drug banned in many Northern European countries. I told the orderly using Google Translate. He showed the nurses and returned with a thumbs up, which told me nothing. I decided to ask the consultant later.
The rest of the day was quiet. I read, argued with nurses about which drugs I could safely take with Sintrom, and refused several medications they insisted were fine. I stuck to the nerve pain medication and avoided Tramadol, Nolatil and another long named drug I couldn’t pronounce. I doubt I made myself popular.
Saturday, 5th April
My eighth day in hospital. I was woken for a paracetamol drip at 08:00, then dozed until breakfast arrived. After eating, I showered and had my ankle cleaned and redressed. A new consultant visited and seemed friendly.
Liz messaged to say she would visit later. She brought clean T shirts and boxer shorts and took my dirty clothes home. We chatted for a couple of hours before she left. Dinner arrived just after — white fish with onion and mushroom, which was fine, and a pasta dish that was so dry and tasteless I gave up on it. I am thoroughly sick of lettuce and tomato.
In the evening, I read and watched the Everton vs Arsenal match via text commentary on my phone.
Sunday, 6th April
I woke at 03:00 with a headache and a strange taste in my mouth. When I spat into the toilet, I saw blood. I pressed the alarm and typed a message into Google Translate. The doctor arrived and examined my mouth. He saw the blood and told the nurse to give me something for the headache.
Anyone else might think I was overreacting, but in 1990 I had the same taste of blood in my throat before a massive haemorrhage that killed me. I was revived, but the memory never leaves you.
After the drip finished, I fell asleep until breakfast arrived. I showered, then lay on the sofa reading until lunch. The nurses changed my drips throughout the afternoon. I slept on and off, waking for orange juice and a biscuit at 16:30, then again at 19:30 for supper. The soup and lasagna were edible, but the white fish disks were awful.
The final drip of the night was put in after 23:00, and once again they left the empty bag attached to my arm all night.
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