hospitals in Dubai Archives - Circles in the SandCircles in the Sand

This blog post is coming to you from a darkened hospital room. As I look over at my precious sleeping Son1, I can see the shadowy shapes of medical equipment, a screen with flashing, fluctuating numbers, and his finger – glowing red like ET’s as the sensor transmits his vital statistics.

We’ve known for at least two years that Son1 needed a complex surgery to correct some internal plumbing. He was born with a birth defect in his bladder (a diverticulum) and, today, he was operated on in Dubai to fix the problem. To my amazement, other than not being allowed breakfast, he went along with everything like a lamb first thing this morning.

“Will I get my own room, Mummy?” he asked.

“Yes, you will.”

“And a TV?”

“Yep.”

Hospital food – eugh!

“Will there be room service?”

And that’s when I realised he was thinking hotel room, with chicken club sandwiches served Intercontinental-style on a platter – not hospital suite with congealed scrambled eggs and cereal that looks like fish bait.

Then, to his dismay, a nurse handed him a gown to change into.

“I’m not wearing THAT!” he declared. “It’s for GIRLS.”

“Would it help if Daddy wore one too?” I offered, shooting DH a pleading look and at least getting a laugh from my now cross (and hungry) son as we wrestled him into the offending teddy-bear-motif overall with ties at the back.

A few minutes later, the nurse brought the magic potion I’d been waiting for – the pre-op sedative. At first, there seemed to be no effect, until I noticed the grin plastered on Son1’s face.

“I sh-feel diz-shy,” he slurred, with a spaced-out expression. His eyelids might have looked heavy, but his glazed eyes were as wide as saucers. I’m surprised they didn’t start spinning. He then sat up in bed to enjoy the full, trippy effect, and experimented with a few different moves to maximise the dizziness.

“He’s completely high,” DH whispered to me.

“Totally stoned,” I agreed.

“And loving it.”

“So what are you going to dream about?” I asked Son1, who, by now, had dissolved into laughter.

“A duck delivering room service,” he pronounced with a giggle – and that was the thought I held onto as I let him go, into the operating theatre, where he spent the next four hours undergoing (a successful) surgery.

Let’s hope the post-op drugs are just as good.

I had to go into hospital last week for surgery (more in a mo). I was only there a day, but during that time, I proved once again that I’m not only a medical marvel with odd problems, but that I also always meet interesting characters in hospitals.

Best example was in the UK, giving birth to my second son. My five-day hospital stay felt a little like youth hostelling, with women of different nationalities bed hopping around me, packets of cereal and a toaster outside, and lots of comings and goings at night. (Great medical care and staff, but oh the joys of co-habiting on the wards.)

After my C-section, my first night was spent separated by just a curtain from a really overweight, pregnant lady who was clearly in a lot of pain judging by the amount of noise she was making.

We talked a bit and I tried to offer some encouragement as the poor thing was alone most of the time, and screaming in agony. I was sceptical, though, because she kept disappearing for cigarette breaks – a fact that wasn’t lost on the nurses.

On stepping outside…

Turns out, the consultant – who caught her on a fag break – wasn’t being taken for a fool either, and in the morning informed my bed buddy, in a very direct, matronly manner: “You’re NOT in labour. Absolutely not.

“You’re constipated.” Yes, really!

Her skinny-as-a-rake husband finally arrived and was sent to the nearby supermarket with instructions to buy a basketful of fruit to help ‘get things moving’.

A day or so later, now on a different ward, my DH told me he’d seen her again and had overheard her talking about the weight being 5 pounds.

A 5-pound POO, I wondered? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have thought the same?

I went to investigate and found out she had indeed delivered her baby, at 32 weeks gestation. Happily, the baby was doing well in the NICU and my new friend and I continued bonding in the hospital canteen, sharing a variety pack of chocolates that she ripped open with the excitement of an addict.

If you’re desperately bored, my NHS labour ward story is on my first blog here.

Last week’s hospital trip was to remove a (benign) lump from my stomach (oh yes, this provoked a severe attack of cyberchondria, and if anyone else suffers from this I do have some advice: DON’T leave your iPhone by the bed so you can Google rare conditions at 3 in the morning. Promise me you won’t.)

The surgery took place at Dubai’s American Hospital and was a good experience as far as going under the knife goes. Even the Emirati admin lady with bright-red nail polish, an abaya, head veil and forms to fill in tried to make it less stressful by telling me to ‘Have fun!’ as we left her office.

There were loads of staff buzzing around, from all over the world: a lovely, talkative Scottish nurse; a Russian surgery nurse with thick black eye make-up; a German anaesthetist who promised me my best.nap.ever; and my sweetheart surgeon from Pakistan. Dubai’s multi-cultural ethnic mix extends to the hospitals too.

Is it just mums who rather than enquiring about the method of anaesthesia, ask: How long can I sleep for?

But, while I really liked all the medical staff, it was my bed buddy behind the curtain – a young man with no companion – who really made me smile.

The Russian nurse with the heavy eyeliner was walking round with a clipboard taking pre-surgery notes. She’d already made me a red wristband signalling my allergy to penicillin, and I overheard her ask him the same question: “Do you have any allergies?”

“Nah,” he replied. “Just traffic…” he quipped, “….and cats!”

After surgery, our paths crossed again in the recovery room. I wasn’t very with it, and quite possibly high on intravenously injected pethedine – which must explain why I gave him a cheery thumbs up.

He waved back like an old friend, grinned and mustered the strength to call over:

“See you on the other side!”

I think he was in for a biopsy on his trachea, and I really, really, sincerely hope the news was good for him.

Shortly after, the anaesthetist – keeper of those marvellous sleep drugs – came by to check on us. “So, you’ll be back tomorrow, for another nap?” he asked me.