Our Day Out
The sign on the door says “Equipment Room” but it contains a bed of sorts, and a separate toilet with a tap that doesn’t work, and shelf upon shelf of medical supplies. We are intrigued. We read the labels while we wait for the nurse.
“Semen analysis pots”
“We don’t normally put people in here,” says the nurse. “But we’re a bit busy today. We’ve had a lot of emergencies. Sorry about the bed.”
The bed is hard and narrow, and is really an examination couch. But I don’t mind. I’m not planning on sleeping.
The nurse has come to insert the pessaries. She asks if Ally should leave the room. That’s silly; he’s seen it all before. He can stay. So I remove my knickers and part my legs, and Ally is there on his chair by the bed, and I am thinking, “But surely there should be a screen?”
“Non breath masks”
The pessaries will give me contractions, which will expel the remains of the gunk. A 96% success rate.
She explains the cardboard pots. There’s a way of propping them under the seat. And then I must ring the bell.
“You will be asked to use a bed pan every time you need the toilet so that the nurse can check for blood loss and tissue. Diarrhoea can sometimes be a side effect of the pessaries, but please do not be embarrassed.”
“Blood bottles”
I don’t like bothering them. I keep urinating. There is no blood. But still I must ring the bell.
I want cups of tea, constantly. I don’t like being a pain. I make Ally ask them instead. They’re very nice. They don’t seem to mind.
But still I don’t give them my Red Bush teabags.
“Urine bags”
What do they make of us? When they walk in, we are laughing. At the date (Friday 13th, and we have only just noticed), or the cannulas (the what?) that come in green, blue, grey and pink.
I adjust the bed, so I can sit up and read. It creaks and bounces each time I lean back. I prop pillows behind me, which slide down again. Ally’s chair is hard and uncomfortable.
“Nasel cannula”
The nurse says someone has been discharged, and I can have her bed. I tell her not to worry. I am fine.
I don’t want to be a nuisance.
“Transwabs”
That spaced-out feeling of a heavy period. Even before the painkillers, I am floaty and distant.
I read some poetry my mum sent me. Walter de la Mare, and she has taped dried flowers into the back of the book:

The nurses are nice. The nurses are always nice, but these ones are also jolly.
What did she think, the one that came to fetch supplies and found me standing there, pen and paper in hand, copying down labels?
“Catheters”
There are many sizes of syringe, all the way up to 30ml, which are enormous. It worries me to imagine so much stuff going into someone’s vein. But it’s all right - they’re for pulling, not pushing. Suck, not blow.
“Specimen pots”
What can we steal?
Nothing much is happening. Should I help it along? Move around, as though I were in labour? Squat on the floor?
“CLINICAL WASTE FOR INCINERATION EXCLUDING AEROSOLS AND GLASSWEAR”
What kind of glass can you wear, I wonder. Contact lenses? Spectacles?
I eat high-cocoa chocolate from my Thornton’s easter egg.
“Mouthpieces”
This makes me think of wind instruments, which makes me think of medical supplies.
My phone rings. Our friend Debs, ringing about a gig tomorrow night. I explain I’m in hospital. She assumes our night out will be cancelled. Oh no, I say. We’re still going.
“Sani-cloth sterets”
I want to know the connection between periods, contractions, labour. Why doesn’t it feel muscular, if a cramp is a contraction? If orgasms cure period pains (they do), is it because they squeeze sperm up your tubes? Is an orgasm a contraction in the opposite direction? Do they cancel each other out?
“Stockings”
Do nurses often find couples shagging in hospital rooms? Yes, says Ally. On Friday nights when they’ve been waiting, drunk, bored, for hours on end. But no, says Ally, not us.
I didn’t mean us. That would be weird.
“Vac needles”
Large sloppy poos on small cardboard pots are no fun. I ring the bell. When the nurse catches sight of the present I have left her, she flinches. She carries the steaming pile away, at arm’s length. The smell lingers.
"Please do not be embarrassed." But I am, I am.
“Needles: green, blue, orange and cream”
Words, words, everywhere. Labels, signs, notices, packaging, anatomical diagrams.
I have had a lot of painkillers now. The pain was bearable, but what the hell. Free drugs!
“Alcowipes” (for dirty alcoholics?)
A diagram on the wall:
“Perimetrium”
“Endometrium”
“Pubic bone”
“Anterior fornix”
“Clitoris”
“Recto-uterine pouch” (for keeping your recto-uterine money in)
“Labium majora”
“Cavity of cervix” (like an air lock, and I never knew it existed)
We play Scrabble. I am off my face on high-strength medication. I excuse my verbal incompetence in advance. It will not be my fault. He doesn’t make allowances though. That would be no fun.
Still I win, with 377 points. Ally sulks, so we play Backgammon to cheer him up. The idea of cheering him up, cheers him up.
“Blue nitrile gloves” in red, blue and green boxes.
Another phone call, from my friend Saira. She is having a hysterectomy today. In the same hospital, the same department, only yards away.
“Hello, I’m in pain!”
“So am I!”
It’s time to go home. But I haven’t been here long. Have I? And I didn’t bleed; just a million wees and one ginormous turd. And the contractions are really strong now - just like being in labour.
But where’s the blood?
“Nebulisers”
They say they will get my pain under control, before they let me go. They give me more pills. Bargain.
Yet another phone call, this time from the babysitter, who is standing outside our house, with our son, and wondering where we are. A misunderstanding. An urgent phone call to the next door neighbour. Speaking normally, despite the codeine and the everything happening and not happening.
“Plug, stopper and bung” (a firm of dodgy solicitors)
I tell Ally he must make sure I don’t get in the driving seat, as I am too off my face to remember not to drive the car.
“Tuberculocidal” (like homicidal)
We go home.
It was a fun day out.
All the Miscarriage Posts
___
“Semen analysis pots”
“We don’t normally put people in here,” says the nurse. “But we’re a bit busy today. We’ve had a lot of emergencies. Sorry about the bed.”
The bed is hard and narrow, and is really an examination couch. But I don’t mind. I’m not planning on sleeping.
The nurse has come to insert the pessaries. She asks if Ally should leave the room. That’s silly; he’s seen it all before. He can stay. So I remove my knickers and part my legs, and Ally is there on his chair by the bed, and I am thinking, “But surely there should be a screen?”
“Non breath masks”
The pessaries will give me contractions, which will expel the remains of the gunk. A 96% success rate.
She explains the cardboard pots. There’s a way of propping them under the seat. And then I must ring the bell.
“You will be asked to use a bed pan every time you need the toilet so that the nurse can check for blood loss and tissue. Diarrhoea can sometimes be a side effect of the pessaries, but please do not be embarrassed.”
“Blood bottles”
I don’t like bothering them. I keep urinating. There is no blood. But still I must ring the bell.
I want cups of tea, constantly. I don’t like being a pain. I make Ally ask them instead. They’re very nice. They don’t seem to mind.
But still I don’t give them my Red Bush teabags.
“Urine bags”
What do they make of us? When they walk in, we are laughing. At the date (Friday 13th, and we have only just noticed), or the cannulas (the what?) that come in green, blue, grey and pink.
I adjust the bed, so I can sit up and read. It creaks and bounces each time I lean back. I prop pillows behind me, which slide down again. Ally’s chair is hard and uncomfortable.
“Nasel cannula”
The nurse says someone has been discharged, and I can have her bed. I tell her not to worry. I am fine.
I don’t want to be a nuisance.
“Transwabs”
That spaced-out feeling of a heavy period. Even before the painkillers, I am floaty and distant.
I read some poetry my mum sent me. Walter de la Mare, and she has taped dried flowers into the back of the book:

The nurses are nice. The nurses are always nice, but these ones are also jolly.
What did she think, the one that came to fetch supplies and found me standing there, pen and paper in hand, copying down labels?
“Catheters”
There are many sizes of syringe, all the way up to 30ml, which are enormous. It worries me to imagine so much stuff going into someone’s vein. But it’s all right - they’re for pulling, not pushing. Suck, not blow.
“Specimen pots”
What can we steal?
Nothing much is happening. Should I help it along? Move around, as though I were in labour? Squat on the floor?
“CLINICAL WASTE FOR INCINERATION EXCLUDING AEROSOLS AND GLASSWEAR”
What kind of glass can you wear, I wonder. Contact lenses? Spectacles?
I eat high-cocoa chocolate from my Thornton’s easter egg.
“Mouthpieces”
This makes me think of wind instruments, which makes me think of medical supplies.
My phone rings. Our friend Debs, ringing about a gig tomorrow night. I explain I’m in hospital. She assumes our night out will be cancelled. Oh no, I say. We’re still going.
“Sani-cloth sterets”
I want to know the connection between periods, contractions, labour. Why doesn’t it feel muscular, if a cramp is a contraction? If orgasms cure period pains (they do), is it because they squeeze sperm up your tubes? Is an orgasm a contraction in the opposite direction? Do they cancel each other out?
“Stockings”
Do nurses often find couples shagging in hospital rooms? Yes, says Ally. On Friday nights when they’ve been waiting, drunk, bored, for hours on end. But no, says Ally, not us.
I didn’t mean us. That would be weird.
“Vac needles”
Large sloppy poos on small cardboard pots are no fun. I ring the bell. When the nurse catches sight of the present I have left her, she flinches. She carries the steaming pile away, at arm’s length. The smell lingers.
"Please do not be embarrassed." But I am, I am.
“Needles: green, blue, orange and cream”
Words, words, everywhere. Labels, signs, notices, packaging, anatomical diagrams.
I have had a lot of painkillers now. The pain was bearable, but what the hell. Free drugs!
“Alcowipes” (for dirty alcoholics?)
A diagram on the wall:
“Perimetrium”
“Endometrium”
“Pubic bone”
“Anterior fornix”
“Clitoris”
“Recto-uterine pouch” (for keeping your recto-uterine money in)
“Labium majora”
“Cavity of cervix” (like an air lock, and I never knew it existed)
We play Scrabble. I am off my face on high-strength medication. I excuse my verbal incompetence in advance. It will not be my fault. He doesn’t make allowances though. That would be no fun.
Still I win, with 377 points. Ally sulks, so we play Backgammon to cheer him up. The idea of cheering him up, cheers him up.
“Blue nitrile gloves” in red, blue and green boxes.
Another phone call, from my friend Saira. She is having a hysterectomy today. In the same hospital, the same department, only yards away.
“Hello, I’m in pain!”
“So am I!”
It’s time to go home. But I haven’t been here long. Have I? And I didn’t bleed; just a million wees and one ginormous turd. And the contractions are really strong now - just like being in labour.
But where’s the blood?
“Nebulisers”
They say they will get my pain under control, before they let me go. They give me more pills. Bargain.
Yet another phone call, this time from the babysitter, who is standing outside our house, with our son, and wondering where we are. A misunderstanding. An urgent phone call to the next door neighbour. Speaking normally, despite the codeine and the everything happening and not happening.
“Plug, stopper and bung” (a firm of dodgy solicitors)
I tell Ally he must make sure I don’t get in the driving seat, as I am too off my face to remember not to drive the car.
“Tuberculocidal” (like homicidal)
We go home.
It was a fun day out.
All the Miscarriage Posts
___
7 Comments:
What a fabulous post! Trust you to write down all these details about the equipment while you are having things done to you. It makes us feel like we were in there with you.
The diagram on the wall reminded of a time when my wife had twisted her ankle and injured the side of her foot. We went to A&E, she had an X-ray, some medical person left our cubicle and was heard to say "has anyone got a picture of the bones of the foot?". Not really any worse that having to refer to the manual before using some obscure feature of the computer, but a bit worrying.
Glad you are so chirpy and full of energy. Long may it continue.
So does this mean that there is no gunk left to come out?
Another well-written and unflinching post. I would be crowing over a Scrabble win like that for days.
Re gunk... The stay in hospital didn't apparently work, i.e. it caused no bleeding whatsoever. But when I had a scan a week later, they gave me the all clear and said the gunk was now within acceptable limits. All most mysterious.
377 is a good score, but we regularly get between 300 and 350 when we play each other. To be fair, Ally had crap luck in that game, hence the sulk. It's not the losing that bothers him so much as the no-fun game, with no proper competition. When we have proper even-handed games with lots of twists and turns and suspense, we both enjoy it no matter who wins - and we are very evenly matched. We are also fearfully competitive, though...
I'm glad I wrote it all down. And I wasn't joking - what with the drugs and the Scrabble and the backgammon and all those entertaining words, I genuinely did enjoy myself.
Cardboard pots and you enjoyed yourself? I hope you got a list of the drugs they gave you (and maybe some extras?)
Sounds like you produced something (Dr) Gillian Mckeith would have been proud of.
They could put at least one or two marked "flowers" or "pretty beads". But well done for noting down all their names - made it seem almost as bizarre to us as it must have seemed to you.