hands

The West Wing

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I usually get lost inside hospitals, but this week I got lost trying to get into a hospital.

I originally opted to have my cancer treatment at Poole hospital because my two local bus companies, three bus choices, all stopped at the main entrance. Since the sudden demise of Yellow Buses ( that’s another story for a bus blog ) my one local frequent bus service stops there. I was additionally relieved to have avoided Royal Bournemouth Hospital when the building work began…

Our three local hospitals now come under University Hospitals Dorset NHS Foundation Trust. Whether this rebranding prompted the building frenzy and swapping round of departments between hospitals or followed the new ideas who can guess. Most patients just want to know which hospital they are supposed to be going to and which door they have to go in.

The original two storey unimposing building was white with blue roofs and recent improvements made it easy to get from the ‘bus hub’ to the main entrance. The main entrance led to a light atrium where the stairs, a café, toilets, information desk, buggy rides, chemist and free taxi phone could all be found. If you stuck to the main corridor that led the length of the hospital, all was well. Of course if you left the main corridor you could easily get lost, you know the scenario…

‘When you come out of the Ladies I’ll be sitting here…’

‘Okay.’

‘Oh dear, I can’t see any seats, let alone a waiting husband…’

I once went out the wrong exit and ended up in the Toby Carvery car park instead of at the bus stops.

The main entrance has now disappeared completely in the building works.

Caner treatment and ongoing medication can lead to other problems, so a recent hospital appointment led to me going off in several directions. Already existing joint problems can be made worse, especially hands for some reason, with perhaps residual nerve damage. At least having bunches of bananas for hands doesn’t stop me writing. The nurse suggested visiting my GP about steroid injections, but he suggested an Xray first.

It has been a long time since I had a face to face with my GP. The wonders of modern technology; he sent my prescription for Ibuprofen gel straight to the chemist and pinged the phone number for X-ray department to my phone. When I rang up I had a choice of Christchurch or Bournemouth; Christchurch not easily accessible by bus, I can at least walk to Bournemouth. The walk is probably an hour, ‘cross country’ past my sports’ centre and then eight lanes of traffic to cross. Not a hike to be taken if the weather is bad or on a very hot sweaty day if you have to strip off for an examination, but a hand X-ray would be fine.

There was a map with the hospital letter and on the phone the receptionist had given me directions from the bus hub… but the reality didn’t make sense. If I had just been told not to go near the hospital, but ‘stay on the road and walk for miles until you find a hole in the hedge’ it would have made sense. I hoped for a bus to arrive and disgorge staff or confident patients I could follow, but the only humans around were waiting for a bus. A board showing departments revealed I needed The West Wing. There was a gate in a fence that said To the West Wing. I opened it, but another sign said No Access to Pedestrians. There did not seem to be any way to get near the hospital. I found signs that pointed to the West Wing and back out of the hospital …and back home? Eventually I realised there were signs at intervals along the hedge and at last a gap… I finally found my way between hoardings and confused motorists to the entrance at the far end of the hospital. Then I walked that long corridor almost back to the main entrance where the X-ray department lies.

GETTING INTO THE HOSPITAL WAS NOT GOING TO BE EASY

Luckily I had planned to arrive early and relax at the coffee shop, no coffee but at least I was in time for my appointment and I was seen straight away. A cheerful young woman took me down the usual maze of corridors, confidently opened one of those doors with skull and crossbones warning of radiation… and quickly backed out saying ‘whoops, sorry’. Obviously that room was occupied and she then found an empty one. It had occurred to me I might have to take my eternity ring off… I never take it off and it won’t come off…

‘Can you just take your ring off.’

‘Well I could run it under this cold tap.’

‘When did you last take it off?’

 ‘Probably over twenty years ago when I had my carpal tunnel done.’

‘Oh dear, I’ll ask my colleague… try using the sanitiser to make it slippery.’

That didn’t work, more consultation, then she came back and said she would just write in the notes about the ring. I would imagine that on an Xray it’s pretty obvious if the skeleton is wearing a ring… all went well after that. For some reason I had imagined putting my hand between two photographic plates, like a sandwich maker, but the rays came from above.

‘Can you find your way out?’

‘Yes, er maybe…’

‘Just follow the red dots on the floor.’

What a simple but effective idea. When I looked at my watch I had spent a very short time actually in X-ray.

Friday Flash Fiction – 660 – Dexterity

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‘Now children, let’s count on our fingers, one, two, three…’

‘Ten’ chorused the little group of nursery children on the mat.

‘Twelve’ called a small voice a moment later.

Ivy, or was it Holly? Three days into the new intake I was still trying to grasp all the names; traditional, unspellable, unpronounceable, invented and reclaimed names from the nearly departed generation.

A boy at the front was still gazing in puzzlement at his hands. I knelt beside him and showed him how to bunch his fists.

‘Shall we count again?’

I uncurled one finger at a time and he got the idea, though his lips still did not move.

‘Nine, ten!’ The other children raised their open hands in the air.

‘Eleven, twelve’ came Ivy’s voice from the back.

I walked round the mat to where she was seated. She was gazing at her spread fingers, then glancing at the other hands held aloft. I felt my stomach lurch. Ivy was a sturdy child, just losing that toddler plumpness in her face and hands, she had settled in easily and not attracted any attention so far.

Ivy could count well, she could count to twelve because she had six fingers on each hand or to be precise, one thumb and five fingers on each perfectly formed hand.

We were always having seminars on celebrating difference; our nursery had children of every colour. I had a wheelchair and a cerebral palsy in my group, Gill had two skin conditions and a missing leg in her group next door. But I hadn’t been prepared for extra fingers, why hadn’t the parents told us? Ivy seemed as surprised as I was to discover she was different, perhaps it had never been mentioned at home.

When we went outside to play I watched Ivy. She adroitly did all her coat buttons up while other children were being helped, then she put on a pair of red gloves, not mittens, hand knitted gloves with six fingers. My mother is a manic knitter and we always get gloves for Christmas, but never have I heard her mention patterns for extra fingers.

At home time I was button holed by the usual anxious parents while the assistants made sure every one was collected by the right adults. I did not see Ivy leave. At home that evening I Googled hands and saw a rolling gallery of every possible variation of Polydactyly. I rang my mother who was intrigued and couldn’t wait to tell her Knit and Knatter group.

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The next day I surreptitiously observed Ivy as she drew, played and washed her hands for her turn at the baking table. Her deft hands rubbed the butter into the flour with ease, a dozen fairy cakes, how appropriate. There was no doubt that all the fingers were real functioning digits with bones and joints, not mere protuberances that would have been snipped off at birth. The other children had noticed nothing different about Ivy, but Davinder pulled his floury hands out of the bowl and looked at them with concern.

‘Ivy said my finger felled off in the cake.’

I decided I must speak to her parents when they came to collect her. No nanny, granny or au pair was registered as a responsible adult, so I was sure to meet one of them. A good looking young couple aprroached me enthusiastically.

‘Ivy loves nursery, thank you for helping her settle in so well.’

The mother held out her cool, elegant, manicured hand to shake mine, I forced myself to look at her face. Ivy’s father then grasped my hand firmly with his large hand.

‘How is she getting on?’ he asked.

I was distracted by the ornate cygnet ring on his sixth finger, I averted my eyes from the twelve glossy red nails of his wife and smiled.

‘She is a delight to have, very bright, her speech is good and… she has excellent dexterity.’

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