I arrived home from the hospital yesterday, and to be honest, things did not go the way I had hoped they would. For the first couple of days, I genuinely thought everything was heading in the right direction. Unfortunately, as it turned out, that wasn’t exactly the case.
My admission on Monday ended up being a complete and utter fuck around from the very beginning.
The instructions I had been given were simple enough: call the hospital admissions department at 11:00am on Monday to find out what time I would be admitted. So that’s exactly what I did. The problem was that nobody seemed to know anything about me being admitted.
I was transferred from one department to another, repeating the same information over and over again. While staff could see the notes from my previous Emergency Department visit and the discharge paperwork that clearly stated I was to be admitted on Monday, nobody appeared to know who was responsible for organising it or what was happening. Every person I spoke to seemed just as confused as the last.
As the morning dragged on, my frustration levels started to rise. Anyone who knows me knows that I generally remain fairly calm under pressure, but after being bounced around the system for hours, I was beginning to lose my shit. Bodie was sitting nearby listening to the entire saga unfold, and I can safely say he has probably never heard me quite like that before. It is certainly not something that happens very often.
Before completely blowing up, I rang my sister for some advice. She suggested I try contacting Dr Bourke directly. That seemed like a sensible plan, so I called the hospital and asked for him to be paged. Instead, I was transferred through to his private rooms. Thankfully, his receptionist was incredibly helpful. After several phone calls back and forth, she eventually contacted me with an answer.
The solution was far from ideal.
The quickest and easiest way to get me admitted was to return to the Emergency Department and start the entire process again from scratch.
So that is exactly what Bodie and I did.
What was originally supposed to be a straightforward admission turned into another full day spent at the hospital. By the time everything was finally sorted, Bodie had worked a 13½-hour shift instead of the 9-hour shift he was scheduled for. After a very long day, I was eventually admitted and transferred to a ward where I was placed in a private room.
The private room was not a luxury—it was a necessity. The hospital is fully aware of my mental health challenges, anxiety, and several other factors that make sharing a room extremely difficult for me. Having a private room allowed me to manage the situation much better and reduced a significant amount of stress during my stay.
Unfortunately, that arrangement did not last long.
On Wednesday morning, I was informed that they intended to move me into a four-bed room. For me, that simply was not an option. It was something I knew I would not be able to cope with, and I made that very clear. After discussions with the staff, Sara arranged patient transport so that I could return home instead. Even that took most of the day, and I did not end up leaving the hospital until after 3:30pm.
I thought that would be the end of the drama, but apparently not.
On Thursday morning, I received a phone call from my GP, who wanted to know why the hospital had discharged me with a 10-day course of antibiotics that laboratory testing had already shown I was resistant to.
Needless to say, she was not impressed.
The swab results from the previous week clearly indicated that the bacteria causing the infection would not respond to the antibiotics I had been prescribed. My GP quickly organised a replacement medication and instructed me to start taking it as soon as possible. Chaice will be collecting the new prescription for me first thing in the morning, and I will begin the new treatment as soon as he returns.
At this stage, the plan is to tackle the infection aggressively and hopefully avoid any further complications.
I also have community nursing support in place, with a nurse coming to my home several times a week to clean and redress the wound on my foot. Between the wound care, close monitoring, and the new antibiotics, I am hopeful that we can finally get this infection under control before it develops into something far more serious.
Given my history and the loss of my left leg in 2022, every issue involving my remaining foot is understandably concerning. It is not something I can afford to ignore, and it is certainly not something I am taking lightly.
For now, all I can do is follow the treatment plan, keep a close eye on things, and hope the infection starts responding to the new medication.
As always, I will keep everyone updated as this journey continues.
Note: written with the help of ChatGPT
