St Andrew’s Hospital

Last time I had to stay in hospital, I was 4, and I was in to have fake teeth wired into my gums because my baby teeth hadn’t come through properly. That episode in my life left me with a phobia of the dentist (to this day the smell still gets me), as well as an occasional recurring dream of the dentist holding up the scariest cuddly toy of all time above me whilst I was knocked out by the gas.
So, when I recently ruptured my Achilles and had to go in for surgery, I was (hopefully) understandably a little bit nervous, and more than a little hopeful that I wouldn’t come away from my second stay in hospital with any lasting psychological scarring.
I entered St Andrews at 6.55am, reported to the extremely friendly reception staff and was admitted into the hospital and taken up to my room. Happily my private health insurance warranted me a private very spacey room, where I was prepped up for surgery by more very friendly nurses.
After Surgery I woke in recovery and after talking jibberish about Harvest Box nuts to a nurse for a couple moments, passing out, waking up this time slightly more coherently, and being given the all clear I was returned to my room and immediately handed a delicious ham and salad sandwich, but more incredibly — a small Dixie Cup of delcious Golden North ice cream which I think stands as probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
The following night and morning passed in a blur of medication, hourly obs, some actually quite tasty hospital food, visits from family and friends — but the enduring memory I have is that of the kindness of the nurses. No matter what hour of day or night they were there, and not just there in a token kind of way.
In the end I shouldn’t have worried about leaving St Andrews with psychological scarring — all I left with, was a repaired achilles (and a sweet moon boot) and a couple new friends.