Post 96: February 8th

It’s over. I am home. Each time I go into hospital I remember with a jolt why I hate to be there. I have to relinquish my independence so the pain is doubled!
We had a fun time in Southampton on Tuesday buying a new kettle and waste bin to match the kitchen and it was no problem to be at the hospital by 9am the following morning. I had been told in the letter to eat and drink nothing after 7am (including sweets and chewing gum). Hard to believe that anyone would munch through packets of sweets in the belief they weren’t eating anything, but there is no accounting for folk!
We started off at the admissions ward where they took bloods and asked the usual questions. We were then left in the waiting room for a couple of hours where Chris and I amused ourselves by reading the wonderful aphorisms on each page of his 2008 diary.
The nurse told us that the ‘doctors’ would be round to explain the procedure in more detail once they had finished the ward rounds. The only doctor I did see at 11.30am was of the junior species; she made five botched attempts to insert a canula into my arm, leaving me punctured, hurt and upset. She knew absolutely nothing about the embolisation and rang for a colleague to help pierce me further. I think he took one look at my reluctant veins and balked at the task ahead. Fortunately he prevaricated with his hand washing ceremony for so long that the nurse told him not to bother; they would insert the drip in radiology.
At midday I was given a hospital gown and sat waiting for the porter to collect me. Chris stayed by my side and was allowed to follow me to radiology where the Doctor who was to perform the embolisation sat and talked to us for well over half an hour.
He explained that it was nerve wracking for him since the procedure was by no means straightforward. There was a fine line between the healthy and unhealthy part of my liver and too far in the wrong direction could have dire consequences. Nice! He also went into all the complications that could arise afterwards. I could bleed heavily and might have to have a blood transfusion. I could be in extreme pain. I signed the consent form despite all the risks. It was obvious to both of us that the alternative was worse and certainly inevitable. Dr S told me not to bank on leaving hospital the following morning, but he would be happy for me to go if I felt well enough.
He stressed that they didn’t want ‘bravery’. They would give me a sedative as well as the local anaesthetic and if I felt pain at any point I should say so immediately. That was the reassuring bit. Thank goodness there was a reassuring bit since my heart was beginning to race and I was starting to dread the whole thing. The reason for the overnight stay was becoming clearer by the second.
Chris left at that point with a few tears in his eyes and I sat in the wheelchair for more clock watching. At 1.45 they brought my bed and I lay on that for another half an hour while they got everything ready. One of the team inserted a canula effortlessly into my hand. Then at 2.15 they finally escorted me into room 15 Radiology. By now my teeth were chattering, more with the chill as with nerves, exacerbated when they swabbed me with icy cold iodine. I caught a peek at the TV screen which displayed nothing more interesting than different views of my liver before they covered me up to my eyes with a sterile blanket.
The sedative calmed me down and I didn’t feel the catheter go in, though there were some unpleasant moments as they guided it through my innards. I did speak out each time it hurt and they gave me plenty of pain killers via the drip. I had to hold my breath several times during the procedure and it seemed to last ages. I didn’t sleep at all, though I felt quite drowsy throughout which made it all less frightening.
By late afternoon it was finally over and they transferred me back onto my bed. The nurse from E8 came down to radiology and escorted me to the ward. She was given strict instructions that I was to have six hours complete bed rest, which would be until 11pm. They also had to take 15 minute observations until then. Did they imagine I would be up and about at that time of night? Weird.
Chris came later in the evening though I was quite groggy and couldn’t talk much. They gave me a bowl of soup and a roll, which should have tasted like manna following twelve hours of starvation, but it was horrible. After Chris left it was a terrible night for me. I hardly slept as the lights were so bright and the noise levels would have summoned the environmental inspectors in any other context.
At 2am I gave up on the idea of sleep. The cacophony of snoring from the adjacent beds provoked murderous thoughts which I resisted despite the freedom now to get up. I asked for a painkiller but had to wait forty five minutes in extreme discomfort before the sister brought me one, apologising as she had been distracted and forgot. Thank heavens for my Nintendo. I became quite an expert at on screen darts and won ten times.
It was a relief when dawn came. There were no hot drinks and no sign of breakfast until 9am by which time my stomach was rumbling. It could have saved itself the trouble. The fare was not exactly exciting, or even palatable. One soggy Weetabix biscuit sloshing around aimlessly in a bowl of milk and a slice of stale bread with marmalade. How are sick people supposed to survive with that standard of nutrition? When I have my operation I will have to get Chris to bring me something I can eat!
The doctors came round half an hour later. A registrar, whom I had never seen before told me they would scan me in four weeks to see if the embolisation had worked. He said I could go home. Before they even left the ward I rang Chris and asked him to come up by taxi. I think he heard the desperation verging on tears in my voice and was there within the hour. Fortified by two paracetamol I climbed into a taxi just after 10 am and we were back in St Helens by 1.30. I am so relieved to be in my own bed this morning. I haven’t left it yet!

Tidak ada komentar:

Posting Komentar