I received a call from the Marie Curie Hospice in Hampstead last Thursday, and was told that I no longer have MRSA. The news came as something of a relief, even though I have been functioning quite normally for the past few months, despite being infected with the “hospital superbug”. Indeed, I even took a certain mischievous pleasure recently in bringing a polite drinks party conversation about the awful dangers of hospitals to a stunned halt by announcing “I’ve got MRSA at the moment actually.” The looks of horror and disbelief that greeted my remark, not to mention the visible acts of recoil, were a perfect joy to behold.
Nevertheless, having now had MRSA on three separate occasions over the past five years, I’m not sorry to be pronounced “clean”. The infection has made my frequent visits to hospital significantly more vexing and complicated, and this recent bout of the disease also prevented me from paying my weekly visits to the hospice gym.
I originally caught MRSA during a five-month stay at the Royal Free Hospital in 2003. It did have serious consequences on that occasion as I was profoundly ill, and I certainly could have done without the bout of pneumonia that it precipitated. Relative to my other problems at the time, however, it was not a major concern, and when I was eventually discharged I had apparently been cured of the bug.
It was therefore mildly distressing to be told 18 months later, after a routine test following further surgery at the hospital, that I had acquired the infection once again. I began a new programme of treatment and testing, but whether I achieved three consecutive clear sets of swabs, which is the condition for being pronounced officially cured, remains unclear. I believe I did, but some of the nursing staff at the hospital were not convinced. The tests were so protractedly haphazard and the results buried so deep in my copious records on the hospital computer, that it proved impossible to prove either way. The staff simply couldn’t find all the relevant data.
Thinking myself to be “clean”, however, I was slightly dismayed and perplexed to be informed by one of the nurses at the hospice recently that I had MRSA yet again. Given that I had been back in the Royal Free for another operation earlier in the year though, and that I only seem to have to set foot in the place to contract the bug, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. The wound from my surgery was still spotting blood more than six months on, and a swab taken from the site revealed that MRSA was the reason.
This time, however, I was in a much better context for having the problem dealt with. The staff at the hospice gave me a tube of cream to rub on the wound for 10 days, and then organized regular weekly swabs to see whether I still had the infection. Within a month I had achieved the magic figure of three clear tests and was told that was “clean”. Which only leaves me now to ponder the banal miracle by which a few smears of ointment have vanquished such a legendarily potent – or at least persistent – superbug.
Nevertheless, having now had MRSA on three separate occasions over the past five years, I’m not sorry to be pronounced “clean”. The infection has made my frequent visits to hospital significantly more vexing and complicated, and this recent bout of the disease also prevented me from paying my weekly visits to the hospice gym.
I originally caught MRSA during a five-month stay at the Royal Free Hospital in 2003. It did have serious consequences on that occasion as I was profoundly ill, and I certainly could have done without the bout of pneumonia that it precipitated. Relative to my other problems at the time, however, it was not a major concern, and when I was eventually discharged I had apparently been cured of the bug.
It was therefore mildly distressing to be told 18 months later, after a routine test following further surgery at the hospital, that I had acquired the infection once again. I began a new programme of treatment and testing, but whether I achieved three consecutive clear sets of swabs, which is the condition for being pronounced officially cured, remains unclear. I believe I did, but some of the nursing staff at the hospital were not convinced. The tests were so protractedly haphazard and the results buried so deep in my copious records on the hospital computer, that it proved impossible to prove either way. The staff simply couldn’t find all the relevant data.
Thinking myself to be “clean”, however, I was slightly dismayed and perplexed to be informed by one of the nurses at the hospice recently that I had MRSA yet again. Given that I had been back in the Royal Free for another operation earlier in the year though, and that I only seem to have to set foot in the place to contract the bug, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. The wound from my surgery was still spotting blood more than six months on, and a swab taken from the site revealed that MRSA was the reason.
This time, however, I was in a much better context for having the problem dealt with. The staff at the hospice gave me a tube of cream to rub on the wound for 10 days, and then organized regular weekly swabs to see whether I still had the infection. Within a month I had achieved the magic figure of three clear tests and was told that was “clean”. Which only leaves me now to ponder the banal miracle by which a few smears of ointment have vanquished such a legendarily potent – or at least persistent – superbug.
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