It’s worth prefacing this with a disclaimer: I had a fuck-up day today. I’ll maybe write more of the detail another time but suffice to say I got scared and called 112.
They sent a paramedic round who talked to me and didn’t want to leave me home alone; so off we popped to the hospital. I spoke to the duty nurse and explained, No I Am Not Depressed, No I Am Not Suicidal. Tried to explain to her that not all self harm behaviour are down to hopelessness. Today it had been thanks to a sheer cliff face of mania. But no, I wasn’t trying to die.
She took some bloods and then I waited, and waited and waited. Less manic than I’d been an hour ago, nonetheless I started pacing the floor. Then I sat down and tapped my foot. More pacing. More sitting. Waiting is not my strong suit.
The psychiatrist came to assess me. I explained what had happened to her, but I don’t think she really understood the issue until I let her know I’d taken double dose of sleeping meds and a diazepam for good measure, and they were the only reason I was able to hold a conversation coherently with her.
So we decide it’s best to get Home Treatment Team involved to cover the weekend and off she goes. Incidentally I am not thrilled at HTT involvement. It’s not going to make a difference to talk a mood through when all I want to do is act.
It’s now 8:38 pm. I have been here for 4 hours. After the bloods came back suggesting I have an infection (my bet is on ear given how much it hurt last week!), doctor says “chest X-ray”. Next, “urine sample!”. By which point I am becoming a nervous wreck imagining all the possible diseases I am incubating.
So, that’s how it is. I am a semi-manic lady in a hospital gown stressed out and anxious beyond belief, and because this is the NHS I can’t even pop out for a smoke to calm down.
Yes the NHS is great, but maybe decide if your patient is emotionally able to tolerate your investigations please?