Mingo.Life

Previously, on Stephen vs His Nervous System…

I had survived the most magnificent snoring I’ve ever experienced.
I did not survive sleep.

The pain’s back, the lights are on,
and I’m about to meet a man called Dr Pain.

— — —

The next morning delivered another quote that would stay with me. I did, eventually, manage a few hours of sleep. As Day 4 rolled around, the curtains were thrown open by the enthusiastic head nurse (let’s call her Drill Sergeant Clarissa) as she loudly declared:

“YOU. WAKE. UP. NOW!”

(The full stops are important there – they were verbal punches.)

This was great, and lovely, and exactly what I needed.

7am. Breakfast time.

The ancient strip lighting flicked on in the middle of the ward, firing a beam of artificial light straight into my retinas and BAM, we were off again. Hello pain!

My face clenched. Pain signals ricocheted along my jaw and cheek. A burning sensation spread across the right side of my face. Within seconds it felt as if a bullet had pierced my skull. Had I been shot? Nope. Just another Cluster Headache attack. TMJ kicking off, jaw attempting to dislocate itself out of spite. Trigeminal nerve firing off neuropathic flares and celebrating Bonfire Night inside my head.

Call button pressed.
Morphine arrived.
Eye mask deployed.
Oxygen administered.
Darkness followed.

🎭 The Gentlemen of The Ward

The fellow in-mates on my ward were quite an extraordinary bunch of people.

Tom was a warm Yorkshireman who’d spent years navigating the NHS with one leg. He’d walked in for a routine operation, something went wrong, and he walked out with a very different life. He was living proof that just a single day can change everything, and we should all take nothing for granted.

At night, the male nurse (who was very good at making hot chocolate) gave out compression socks for the bed bound folk. After he’d left, Tom sat there bemused.

“They gave me a PAIR of socks… but I’ve only got one fucking leg!”

Richard was a middle aged fellow who had fallen on hard times. We had a few deep chats about the vices and temptations that can oft be our downfall… He also gave me the world’s slowest drive by fart. Letting one rip at the end of my bed and giggling as he tried to make a rapid escape with his walking frame, narrowly buckling under his dodgy hips. What a legend.

Richard paid for the (questionably ethical) chargeable hospital TV pass, and kindly turned his little hospital monitor aside so we could all watch back to back daytime quiz shows. Everyone was doing their own thing; reading, receiving treatment, lying in bed in pain, texting their loved ones – but every so often someone would call out the answer to whatever question the gameshow host was asking. It amused me really. Perhaps I should start a hospital ward game show. The winner gets to get better and go home. The losers get to eat the NHS “cottage pie” again.

Neil won in the first round and got to go home very shortly after I arrived, skipping and laughing his way out the door. Bastard.

Then there was Grandad. Well, Grandad scared the living shit out of all of us. I don’t quite know what was medically wrong with him, but he would suddenly cry out at random times. Even in his sleep. Not a cry of pain, it sounded to me, but a terrifying surprised yell like he’d just taken a baking tray fresh out the oven without oven gloves on. This would happen at night too.

One peaceful night at around 1am:
“BAAAHWHAGHAHAGHHH!”

The choir of responses was immediate:
“Jesus Christ!”
“My God!”
“Bloody hell!”
All the classic hymns.

Grandad was eventually moved to another ward.

And finally, there was Harry. The now-self-proclaimed gay bear was a genuinely lovely guy. Quirky, certainly, but kind. He told me he’d been misdiagnosed more times than he could count, and even recommended a law firm to me that he’d used before.
(Alarmingly, this seems to be a popular hobby on NHS wards.)

He did, however, firmly believe that the government uses robot pigeons as spies. And he was extremely invested in everyone sanitising their hands when Emma and her mum visited me with our baby. He also called every nurse “darling” and “sweetheart” – harmless, probably – but he once snapped angrily at a nurse over some medication. Nurses work brutal 12-hour shifts; they didn’t need that.

Harry was eventually moved to another ward.

🔪 Enter: Dr Pain

So we roll over into about day 5, or maybe 6. Honestly, I was dosed right up to the gills on all sorts and I don’t quite remember. But, a lovely consultant appeared by my bed one morning. A handsome and very well educated chap, his role was “Pain Consultant”. Sounds a bit dark if you ask me. Luckily, he was here to attempt to remove my pain, not bring more.

Dr. Pain (not his real name) informed me that he was going to give me a nerve block injection.

I told him, feeling rather defeated, that I’d already had four of those. They had done precisely nothing.

“Oh no,” he replied. “Not in the mouth this time.”

With concerning enthusiasm, he explained he’d be inserting a very large needle into a very precise point at the back of my skull. The steroid would then hopefully travel through my nerves, around my head, and shut down the pain party raging across my face.

He also casually mentioned that it was the same drug Bradley Wiggins used to cheat and subsequently win cycling medals.

I asked if this would make me good at cycling.

It will not.

“Alright,” I said after much deliberation, “When can you do it?”

“Now,” he answered, and with the efficiency of a Bond villain produced a roll of medical weaponry from thin air.

I sat on the edge of the bed, absolutely still, shit scared of messing this up by moving even a centimetre.

The needle went in.

Ouch.

Then, it was done.

I had to wait 24 hours to see if this takes. I lay back, grabbed my phone and messaged home.
“I’ve just had a needle to the back of my skull.”

And did it work?
Well… what do you think…

❤️ Thank You

Just a quick thank you, genuinely, to everyone who has been reading this and following along with the journey so far. All of your support, your messages and your comments have kept me going. It does not go unnoticed. I know there’s no magic wand anyone can wave to make it better, but knowing people do care lifts me up enough to keep me fighting on and keep going, and keep being there for the family.

So, thank you.

I’ve been very bad at messaging people, replying or keeping up with life while I focus on finding a way forward, but I know you’re out there. I truly believe this little story has a positive ending at some point.

And stick with me…
If this whole thing was a rollercoaster, we were about to hit the loop-de-loop.

The question I guess is… Would you take a skull-needle if it offered even a tiny chance of relief from a 10/10 level pain?

Part 5 coming soon. Buckle up.