It's not real. It's just a sympton. It's not real. It will all be ok.
Depression is such a strange... condition? Illness? I don't even know what to call it. I didn't even realise I had it. I always thought that people were depressed when they were whining and complaining; "Woe is me!". The first I knew about it was that I couldn't sleep. No matter how tired I was, or how much I had done with my day, as soon as my head hit the pillow my mind became illuminated with questions, and scenarios, predicaments and challenges. That, I thought, was insomnia. Nothing to do with depression. But then I realised that there were times when I was, not quite suicidal, but hopeless. Life seemed pointless, nothing seemed worthwhile. I couldn't understand why existence didn't just let go of me and send me to the void of nothingness that I felt permeated my every cell anyway.
And I realised that there was no catalyst. I mean, you have a bad day at work, someone is nasty to you, about you. Then yes, you would feel down. Depressed! But usually when this fog of depression descended upon me, there was no reason for it. Like today, for instance. I had been for a walk along the Thames, it was a really nice day. I am not rich by any means, but I am not in mountains of debt. I don't have many friends, but I don't have many enemies either. And I am happy in my own company anyway. My mind was active with thoughts of my future, as well as enjoying the scenery on this very scenic stretch of the Thames. And then from nowhere, suddenly, I felt alone in the world. I felt apart from the world. I looked at all the people in all their cars, going about their business and I felt like a ghost. I was not one of them. I was fighting back tears, as the pointlessness of my existence projected from me onto every surface I could see for miles. Even those people who appeared troubled or unhappy that I encountered didn't elicit any empathy from me. Whatever their concerns, they still had a point. They were still meant to be!
And then I realised; it's ok. It's not real. These feelings. They are symptons of an illness. Like the hallucinations one may encounter after taking LSD. They seem real, they feel real, they are frightening and awesome and overwhleming, but they are not real. And if I can tell myself this; if I can believe this, then I will be fine. I can swallow it down like a pill. And like a pill, it will make it better.
I carried on with my walk, and decided to go to a cemetary that was close by. I hadn't been there before, but my friend and flat mate had told me it was quite large, and very nice.
I walked around, enjoying the feeling of superiority I had over the dead. And I enjoyed the fact that they were all equal in Death. In life, they would have lorded it over their neighbours. They would have schemed, and scammed, and saved, and stolen, and borrowed to have bigger cars, bigger gems, bigger houses, just so they could take on an air of superiority and yet at the end, it's all the same. This makes me smile, and happy. They say all men are created equal. Well, I don't know about that. I do know that life isn't fair, and all men certainly do not live equal. Yet, we all end up the same. Dead. Maybe I shouldn't find comfort in this, but I do. Probably if I were one of the greedy, superior ones, I would hate it. Maybe that's why they insist on stupid graves with stupid fucking statues and angels. They're stil l dead! But their last resting place is just that little bit more ostentatious than their neighbour's. To the end (and beyond) they still don't get it. Priceless!
And the irony is, of course, that my feeling of superiority over the fact that I am not materialistic, over the fact that I am working class, without a pot to piss in so with nothing to lose; and my feeling of superiority over the fact that I am living and all these people are dead is exactly the same kind of misjudged superiority that these people felt over their houses and bank balances and self-importance. For as much as I deny it, as much as a can't believe it, I will absolutely end up the same way. Dead.
But not today.
Monday, 23 June 2008
Saturday, 9 February 2008
Only When I Laugh...[Part Two: Surgery and Beyond.]
Warning! This blog contains a graphic photo of a post-surgical nature. If you do not wish to see such a photo, please do not read this blog. Certainly, do not scroll down past the photo of flowers! You have been warned...
It felt really good to have a date for surgery. I was so sick of being sick! I felt as though my life had been put on hold since August 2006, shortly before I had the first surgery. I knew recovering from that procedure would be tough, but it would be worth it; I could then get on with my life. So the fact that this new medical problem came so soon after surgery, meant that my re-start never took place. Instead, I "got by". By the time I got the date for surgery, I had nine repeat prescriptions on my list, meaning that my daily pill intake was between nine and sixteen tablets daily, depending on how many painkillers I felt I needed. I quite often abstained from taking all the tablets, deciding I preferred the pain to the nausea and vomiting the medication invoked. But blood pressure tests showed it was again creeping dangerously high, and so it was back to the medication routine.
But a light was at the end of the tunnel. Finally, I had a date for surgery: 23rd January 2008. I could expect to be in hospital for "5-6 days", and be off work for "5-6 weeks". I was to attend a pre-assessment medical to make sure I was fit enough for the general anaesthetic, and the surgery itself. This came and went without a problem. I had to have one of these Pre-assessments every time I had a Ureteroscopy, so had been through the hoops many times before.
Now came the waiting game. I finished up at work, and it was now a few days before I headed into hospital. Most things were taken care of. My best friend and flat-mate, V, would be feeding my cats. One thing I had intended to do, but hadn't, was write out my will. I had a very bad feeling about the surgery! I had undergone a major surgical procedure before, as already stated, but this was different. They were cutting open my abdomen, rooting around in my very core. I was very nervous about the pain, the implications, and the possible complications. The pain issue was self-evident. I just hoped that the painkillers were totally hard core. I didn't feel much pain at all after the first surgery I had, and I have quite a high pain threshold.
The implications? Well, just the idea that my abdomen would be opened up! That someone would be holding, moving and cutting my internal organs. I mean, what a thought!
And the possible complications. We all knew there was a tumour in my Ureter. I was convinced there was more. The known tumour would explain the difficulties I was experiencing in my urinary tract, but what about the pains down by my hip? The trouble I was having in my digestive tract? One day I would be constipated, the next I would have Diarrhea. Most of the pain seemed to be coming from the digestive tract, with most of the discomfort and inconvenience coming from the urinary tract. The Kidney carried on being sore. The tumour itself would "sting" quite a lot which was unpleasant. But the fact was, I was pretty sure there was more going on in my abdomen than just this one tumour, but this was an unknown. What would they find once I was opened up?!
And so, to the 23rd January. V offered to come with me to the hospital, but I preferred to go in alone. I like to get into the right frame of mind for these things, somewhat confrontational (With the situation, not the staff!) so I headed in, on public transport, playing all kinds of self-righteous music. Some metal, some Eminem, anything that was really righteous and affirming.
I was prepared for a long wait once I got to the hospital, as was usually the case. But in fact, almost as soon as I got there, they were giving me my hospital gown, running through all the questions they have to ask, and before I knew it - I couldn't have been there for more than an hour - I was walking up to the surgical ward on the 14th floor. It was the first time I had walked up there - usually we are pushed on beds or trolleys. I was walked up with a really nice nurse, and another patient. We all wished each-other well, and were lead into a small room, where we met with, and spoke with, our corresponding anaesthetists. A very short briefing followed, and then I was walking down the corridor with the team, to the anaesthetic room. I made sure the anaesthetist was ok with my keeping my rosary on my wrist. He was, as it was non-metallic. I then laid out on the bed, as various lines were put into my wrist, monitor pads were placed at strategic points on my body and - I am sure this is a deliberate confounding routine! - everyone seemed to be speaking to me at once. I vowed to do what I always do when I am about to go under general anasethetic; stay awake as long as I could! Register, and record, everything I was thinking and feeling. Something was injected into the line in my hand, and I could feel it spread up my arm, past my shoulder, and then almost immediately, it was in my heart, and spreading out in all directions, an incredible numbness, a warmth, a slight tightness. My body was completely relaxing, every muscle letting go, but my mind was completely awake, my eyes were still open, and I was bathing in the warm glow of anaesthetic! Then they cheated, and put a mask on my face, and told me to take deep breaths. I did so, whilst still having my eyes open. I can still remember the strange smell, and taste, of the gas as it entered my nose. I can still feel the new numbness, this time in my head, in my brain. And if I think about it too much, I can still remember how it felt to slowly, and surely, and unavoidably, lose consciousness and fade into darkness...
Before I even opened my eyes, before I even knew where I was or who I was, there was pain. Pain like I had never experinced before in my life! It was in my lower abdomen, forcing my hips off the bed in convulsions. I was screaming out long before I opened my eyes. When I did, I realised I was in the recovery ward, surgery was over, and the pain was unbelievable. I wish I could describe it, but no words could ever come close to doing it justice. One aspect of it was like having THE worst cramps ever, but this was only a tiny part of the pain I was feeling. The nurse who was stood over me told me I had to use the 'P.C.A.' (Patient-Controlled Analgesia, a method of pain control that patients themselves administer). He said this a few times as I was screaming out in pain. After a few more convulsions, he realised that he hadn't actually given me the PCA so I was without any kind of pain control! He quickly got one, attached it to one of the many IV lines that were implanted in the back of my left hand, and placed the controller in my hand. I rapidly pressed the button many times, and heard the reassuring "Beep" as the machine registered the hit. But I didn't feel anything. I had used PCAs before, with Morphine, and when I pressed the button previously, I had felt the same warmth spreading out from my heart that I felt during the adminstration of the general anaesthetic. However, this time, I felt nothing.
I mentioned to the nurse that I didn't think the PCA was working. He said it was, as he could hear the "Beep" as it was pressed. I told him I had used them before, and wasn't feeling anything, so he looked again at the PCA, and realised the pump mechanism wasn't working, so nothing was actually being pumped into me. Still no painkiller! He swapped the pump, I pressed the button - several times! - and this time, drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
The next two days were a blur. I didn't move - I couldn't move! I laid flat on my back, in the bed, in the exact same position for 48 hours. Now and then I would have a brief glimpse of consciousness, and had a brief look around the room - only being able to move my head hindered this somewhat, but I saw enough to see some of the other patients in the small, four-bed bay I was in. I reached over to my bag, which was on the chair next to my bed. I pulled out my ear plugs (If any of you EVER have to go into hospital and stay overnight, make ear plugs your number one priority!), and my mobile phone. I have one mobile phone, and 2 sim cards. One is for friends, the other for family. The one for my family was in the phone, so I sent texts out to let everyone know I was ok. I then rooted around in my bag for the other sim card, but I couldn't find it, and couldn't move position in order to have a better look, so I had to give up on that.
I was still in a world of pain. My stomach muscles had been cut in half, and if you think about it, we use these for pretty much everything. I couldn't cough, sneeze, move my upper body, do anything without it being incredibly painful to my abdomen. So I tried not to do any of these things! But some, we have no control over. Because of all the morphine I had taken, and needed, I now felt incredibly nauseous. I started to vomit, but it was too painful! Can you imagine?! Stuff came up and out of my mouth, but my body just couldn't cope with a full-force ejection, and so small amounts fell out into the bowler hat-shaped bowls that are provided for these times. The nurses then gave me lots of Cyclizine, a powerful anti-sickness drug, and I would once again fall back into unconsciousness.
The next day, the third day in hospital, I felt slightly better. I could now shift my weight onto one hip. It hurt to do so, but it also provided relief. My body had been in the same place on the bed, in the same position, for too long and I had bedsores on my back.
In the morning, the surgical team came around, and wanted to inspect the "incision". This was my first chance to look down and see what they had done to my tummy. There was a large pad, like a huge oversized plaster, stretching from just above my belly button, down to the lowest part of the groin, and the pubic mound. To the left of that (as I looked down) was a smaller circular plaster, with a tube running out of it. This was the surgical drain, syphoning out blood from all the interior incisions. I also had a catheter in.
The consultant slowly took off the large plaster, and I saw the incision for the first time. It looked quite horrific, I thought it looked like an autopsy! The cut started just below my belly button (I remember being quite relieved that they didn't cut through it, as I like my belly button!) and went all the way down to the aforementioned groin area. It was held together by staples (the medics called them "Pins", but they looked like, and for all intents and purposes were staples!) and just looked utterly horrific. I realised this was going to leave a horrible scar!
He then explained what had happened. The procedure went "very well". The Boari flap repair went as planned. But they also found other problems, as I suspected they would. I had adhesions on the bowel, resulting in it being "stuck down" to my body wall, and other internal organs. They also saw something called a "Meckel's Diverticulum", which, they said, was a rare condition in which a lump protrudes from the bowel. I would have had this since birth, which may explain why I always looked slightly pregant - I knew it wasn't all those McDonald's! This was removed in the surgery, and the bowel was freed up also.
I was finally able, after much straining, to locate the second sim card and upon inserting it into my phone, recovered some texts and phone messages from my worried friends, V especially concerned as she hadn't heard a thing from me in so long. I apologised, explaining what had been going on. She understood, and said she would come and visit me later that day (Saturday) and bring some cranberry juice (I was getting sick of just drinking water!) and chocolate. Num! And it was great to see her.
Later the surgical drain was removed. This didn't hurt, but it did feel extremely strange. The nurse commented that it was an unusally big drain, and as she pulled it, I could feel it moving inside my body, slowly coming to the surface. It was pulled free, the wound was covered up, and I was encouraged, when I was ready, to now try to get out of bed and see how I did. I left it a few hours, took some more painkillers, and very very slowly, manoeuvred myself to the edge of the bed - not easy when you still have that damn catheter bag in! - and pushed myself off the edge, onto my feet. It really hurt my tummy, but it felt SO good to be out of the bed, and off my back at last!
I took the opportunity of having another look around at the other patients in the bay with me. All the patients I had seen when I last looked around, had left. There was a middle-aged feisty Irish woman opposite me; a very posh-sounding old woman in the bed next to me, and the fourth bed seemed to be the "express" bed, in that no-one stayed in it for very long at all, never more than one night.
I was still quite dizzy at this point, and not in the mood to make conversation with strangers, so I spent most of my time sleeping, or listening to things on my mp3 player, including podcasts of Iain Lee's old LBC radio show. But quite frequently, I had to turn these off as they made me laugh too much, and it really, really hurt to laugh.
All the doctors and nurses were pleased with my (slow, I thought) progress, and would comment when emptying my catheter bag that my urine looked "really good". I was always unsure how to respond to that. "Thanks"? Hmm.
I found out they meant that it was fairly clear, which meant I was drinking a good amount of water, whereas some of the other patients, particularly the old woman, had very dark urine, which meant she was quite dehydrated even if she felt ok. I found out that she was in hospital for a broken shoulder, and had also recently had hip replacement surgery, so was completely dependant on the nurses, as was I at this stage. But hey, my urine was good!
Unfortunately, my bowels were not. I had been eating meals as often as I could, but had not passed any solids since the previous Tuesday, so I was given laxatives. The Irish woman opposite recognised the yellow liquid I was given, and warned me that she had taken it recently and it was "Like firewater" and I could expect to feel the effects immediately. However, I took the laxative at around 10am, but by mid-day nothing had happened, so the nurse gave me a second laxative, this time in pill form. Again, nothing. There had to have been a hell of a lot inside me to come out! It just wasn't budging. All the medication I had taken, combined with the bowel surgery I had undergone, meant nothing was happening. I was beginning to feel quite bloated now, and began to worry that something was wrong, and that more surgery may be necessary. God, I hoped not! I never wanted to have any surgery ever again!
Finally, at about 4pm, I passed a solid! Yay! And it was such a solid! I knew there was more than that inside me, but it was a start.
And so it was, until I woke up at around 4am. My tummy was making rumbling sounds, something was happening. During the day, the Irish lady had gone home, and another, older Irish lady had taken her place. She had also been given laxatives, and was going to the shared toilet in our bay at least once an hour. I could feel that I would need to sit and stay on the toilet for a while, so I wandered out to the visitor's toilets, knowing full well there would be no visitors at that hour, so I could spend as long as I felt I needed. I had lots and lots of diarrhea, and then, the worst thing happened. I started vomiting, and I couldn't stop. Every "heave" felt like my stomach was exploding. I felt so sick, and the only way to feel better is to be sick, but this was the worst pain I could ever imagine feeling. This went on for two hours, before I sloped back to my bed, and explained to the nurse what was going on. I was given some more Cyclozine in tablet form. I threw that up. I was then injected with more Cyclozine, which had always worked in the past. I threw that up too. I carried on vomiting through the day, and when the doctors came to see me, they were concerned. They ordered an abdominal xray, and wondered if I had contracted the notorious Norovirus that was sweeping its way across the country. I didn't think so. I was pretty sure it was just the result of the super-hard-core laxatives I had been given, which had been festering in my body all day, coupled with all the medication I had been given on top of it. In the meantime, I was advised to keep drinking water, but the water was really making me feel sick! I was sick of water, and it didn't stop me throwing up. I kept drinking water though, and kept throwing it up. I ate a banana, my usual "when-I'm-sick" food, but threw that up. In desperation, I turned to my old friend, Lucozade! But I was reluctant. My tummy was going through all sorts of upset. Perhaps adding a gaseous drink may not be the best thing? But I was so thirsty, and so sick of feeling sick, I felt I had nothing to lose, so opened a bottle, and drank it down. And with that, I stopped being sick! Yay Lucozade!
Monday became Tuesday, and I slowly progressed. I was a bit more mobile now, confident enough to head down to the shop on the ground floor to buy more drinks, and a newspaper for the old lady in the next bed. But these trips would leave me exhausted and aching, and afterwards I would lay down on the bed and sleep. I had been told that on Wednesday I would be having a "Cystogram", an xray with fluids, to make sure the bladder was healing ok and had no leaks! After that, the catheter would be removed and I could go home. So I sent out the texts, the Cystogram came and went and I passed with flying colours, and I packed my bag. The doctor came around, and told me that I in fact was being kept in overnight for one more night. I never did find out the real reason why. They told me that the nursing staff would not be able to replace the catheter if there was a problem. I smiled and said OK. I knew it was complete bullshit, and later I shared this with the nurses who laughed, but were slightly offended at the notion that they may not be able to insert a catheter - it is one of the basics! Oh well, I had been in there a week, I could handle another night.
The next day, the catheter came out, and they took out the staples/pins. This didn't hurt like I had expected it to, but I was slightly disappointed. I had hoped to get a photo of the cut with them still in, they looked so horrific! They should have stayed in a few more days, but the doctors decided they could come out, to save me the trip back to hospital in a few days time. I was grateful for this, although upon removing them, the wound burst open in a couple of places, and had to be held together with surgical tape. I was told not to have that long, hot bath I was desperate for as soon as I got home. Instead, I was to wait a few more days to allow the fresh wounds to heal somewhat. With that, I was told I could go home. I sent a text out to everyone letting them know, and then made the mistake of asking for a certificate to cover me at work.
I had to fight to get out! They had already discharged me, when the doctor came back and before issuing any certificate, insisted on feeling my tummy, and ummed and aahed about releasing me. I informed him that I had already been discharged, and a work colleague, who had been kind enough, was on his way to pick me up and take me home. He finally relented, and I made my way out.
It was quite surreal to be outside after 8 days and nights in the same hospital ward. But I was so relieved, I just wanted to get home, see my cats again, make a cup of tea, and climb into my own lovely bed!
My work friend got me home in next to no time, and even took me shopping, and carried the basket for me, bless! Once I was home, I could really start the recovery properly, and at my own pace. And sleeping in my own bed. Wonderful!
It has now been six days since I came out. I have had that lovely, long hot bath. I am eating and drinking normally. Going to the toilet is still very difficult, as the bowel and bladder are still healing. It still hurts very much. And I am at a very akward stage in my recovery whereby I feel ok a lot of the time, so I get overconfident, and end up really hurting myself. It is hard to remember to take things easy at times! I really want to get moving again!
Work have been great, they even sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers, which blew me away! I didn't expect that, and it was such a sweet gesture, it really made me smile.
The wound itself is still very angry and red. Right at the bottom, where the staples came out too early, there is a hole into which I can put my finger! I keep taping it up with surgical tape as best I can, but there will almost certainly be a dip in my body there now. Oh well, it's not like I was ever going to be a model! And no matter how hard done by I feel, there is one thing that hospital teaches you, and that is to count your blessings. You don't realise how easy you have it until you see the next person, like the old woman who ended up sat in her own faeces for four hours, because she wasn't able to move herself. Or the woman who came into hospital on my last night, who had a masectomy. And they carry themselves still with such grace and humour, it really is humbling. It makes it easier to live with my stoopid scar.
But I sincerely hope that I have done my time now. I want to recover from this fully, I want to lead a normal, fit and healthy life. I will even *gulp* cut down on the amount of chips I eat! I never, ever want to end up in hospital again.
The Beautiful bouquet work sent me.
THAT'S going to leave a mark...
It felt really good to have a date for surgery. I was so sick of being sick! I felt as though my life had been put on hold since August 2006, shortly before I had the first surgery. I knew recovering from that procedure would be tough, but it would be worth it; I could then get on with my life. So the fact that this new medical problem came so soon after surgery, meant that my re-start never took place. Instead, I "got by". By the time I got the date for surgery, I had nine repeat prescriptions on my list, meaning that my daily pill intake was between nine and sixteen tablets daily, depending on how many painkillers I felt I needed. I quite often abstained from taking all the tablets, deciding I preferred the pain to the nausea and vomiting the medication invoked. But blood pressure tests showed it was again creeping dangerously high, and so it was back to the medication routine.
But a light was at the end of the tunnel. Finally, I had a date for surgery: 23rd January 2008. I could expect to be in hospital for "5-6 days", and be off work for "5-6 weeks". I was to attend a pre-assessment medical to make sure I was fit enough for the general anaesthetic, and the surgery itself. This came and went without a problem. I had to have one of these Pre-assessments every time I had a Ureteroscopy, so had been through the hoops many times before.
Now came the waiting game. I finished up at work, and it was now a few days before I headed into hospital. Most things were taken care of. My best friend and flat-mate, V, would be feeding my cats. One thing I had intended to do, but hadn't, was write out my will. I had a very bad feeling about the surgery! I had undergone a major surgical procedure before, as already stated, but this was different. They were cutting open my abdomen, rooting around in my very core. I was very nervous about the pain, the implications, and the possible complications. The pain issue was self-evident. I just hoped that the painkillers were totally hard core. I didn't feel much pain at all after the first surgery I had, and I have quite a high pain threshold.
The implications? Well, just the idea that my abdomen would be opened up! That someone would be holding, moving and cutting my internal organs. I mean, what a thought!
And the possible complications. We all knew there was a tumour in my Ureter. I was convinced there was more. The known tumour would explain the difficulties I was experiencing in my urinary tract, but what about the pains down by my hip? The trouble I was having in my digestive tract? One day I would be constipated, the next I would have Diarrhea. Most of the pain seemed to be coming from the digestive tract, with most of the discomfort and inconvenience coming from the urinary tract. The Kidney carried on being sore. The tumour itself would "sting" quite a lot which was unpleasant. But the fact was, I was pretty sure there was more going on in my abdomen than just this one tumour, but this was an unknown. What would they find once I was opened up?!
And so, to the 23rd January. V offered to come with me to the hospital, but I preferred to go in alone. I like to get into the right frame of mind for these things, somewhat confrontational (With the situation, not the staff!) so I headed in, on public transport, playing all kinds of self-righteous music. Some metal, some Eminem, anything that was really righteous and affirming.
I was prepared for a long wait once I got to the hospital, as was usually the case. But in fact, almost as soon as I got there, they were giving me my hospital gown, running through all the questions they have to ask, and before I knew it - I couldn't have been there for more than an hour - I was walking up to the surgical ward on the 14th floor. It was the first time I had walked up there - usually we are pushed on beds or trolleys. I was walked up with a really nice nurse, and another patient. We all wished each-other well, and were lead into a small room, where we met with, and spoke with, our corresponding anaesthetists. A very short briefing followed, and then I was walking down the corridor with the team, to the anaesthetic room. I made sure the anaesthetist was ok with my keeping my rosary on my wrist. He was, as it was non-metallic. I then laid out on the bed, as various lines were put into my wrist, monitor pads were placed at strategic points on my body and - I am sure this is a deliberate confounding routine! - everyone seemed to be speaking to me at once. I vowed to do what I always do when I am about to go under general anasethetic; stay awake as long as I could! Register, and record, everything I was thinking and feeling. Something was injected into the line in my hand, and I could feel it spread up my arm, past my shoulder, and then almost immediately, it was in my heart, and spreading out in all directions, an incredible numbness, a warmth, a slight tightness. My body was completely relaxing, every muscle letting go, but my mind was completely awake, my eyes were still open, and I was bathing in the warm glow of anaesthetic! Then they cheated, and put a mask on my face, and told me to take deep breaths. I did so, whilst still having my eyes open. I can still remember the strange smell, and taste, of the gas as it entered my nose. I can still feel the new numbness, this time in my head, in my brain. And if I think about it too much, I can still remember how it felt to slowly, and surely, and unavoidably, lose consciousness and fade into darkness...
Before I even opened my eyes, before I even knew where I was or who I was, there was pain. Pain like I had never experinced before in my life! It was in my lower abdomen, forcing my hips off the bed in convulsions. I was screaming out long before I opened my eyes. When I did, I realised I was in the recovery ward, surgery was over, and the pain was unbelievable. I wish I could describe it, but no words could ever come close to doing it justice. One aspect of it was like having THE worst cramps ever, but this was only a tiny part of the pain I was feeling. The nurse who was stood over me told me I had to use the 'P.C.A.' (Patient-Controlled Analgesia, a method of pain control that patients themselves administer). He said this a few times as I was screaming out in pain. After a few more convulsions, he realised that he hadn't actually given me the PCA so I was without any kind of pain control! He quickly got one, attached it to one of the many IV lines that were implanted in the back of my left hand, and placed the controller in my hand. I rapidly pressed the button many times, and heard the reassuring "Beep" as the machine registered the hit. But I didn't feel anything. I had used PCAs before, with Morphine, and when I pressed the button previously, I had felt the same warmth spreading out from my heart that I felt during the adminstration of the general anaesthetic. However, this time, I felt nothing.
I mentioned to the nurse that I didn't think the PCA was working. He said it was, as he could hear the "Beep" as it was pressed. I told him I had used them before, and wasn't feeling anything, so he looked again at the PCA, and realised the pump mechanism wasn't working, so nothing was actually being pumped into me. Still no painkiller! He swapped the pump, I pressed the button - several times! - and this time, drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
The next two days were a blur. I didn't move - I couldn't move! I laid flat on my back, in the bed, in the exact same position for 48 hours. Now and then I would have a brief glimpse of consciousness, and had a brief look around the room - only being able to move my head hindered this somewhat, but I saw enough to see some of the other patients in the small, four-bed bay I was in. I reached over to my bag, which was on the chair next to my bed. I pulled out my ear plugs (If any of you EVER have to go into hospital and stay overnight, make ear plugs your number one priority!), and my mobile phone. I have one mobile phone, and 2 sim cards. One is for friends, the other for family. The one for my family was in the phone, so I sent texts out to let everyone know I was ok. I then rooted around in my bag for the other sim card, but I couldn't find it, and couldn't move position in order to have a better look, so I had to give up on that.
I was still in a world of pain. My stomach muscles had been cut in half, and if you think about it, we use these for pretty much everything. I couldn't cough, sneeze, move my upper body, do anything without it being incredibly painful to my abdomen. So I tried not to do any of these things! But some, we have no control over. Because of all the morphine I had taken, and needed, I now felt incredibly nauseous. I started to vomit, but it was too painful! Can you imagine?! Stuff came up and out of my mouth, but my body just couldn't cope with a full-force ejection, and so small amounts fell out into the bowler hat-shaped bowls that are provided for these times. The nurses then gave me lots of Cyclizine, a powerful anti-sickness drug, and I would once again fall back into unconsciousness.
The next day, the third day in hospital, I felt slightly better. I could now shift my weight onto one hip. It hurt to do so, but it also provided relief. My body had been in the same place on the bed, in the same position, for too long and I had bedsores on my back.
In the morning, the surgical team came around, and wanted to inspect the "incision". This was my first chance to look down and see what they had done to my tummy. There was a large pad, like a huge oversized plaster, stretching from just above my belly button, down to the lowest part of the groin, and the pubic mound. To the left of that (as I looked down) was a smaller circular plaster, with a tube running out of it. This was the surgical drain, syphoning out blood from all the interior incisions. I also had a catheter in.
The consultant slowly took off the large plaster, and I saw the incision for the first time. It looked quite horrific, I thought it looked like an autopsy! The cut started just below my belly button (I remember being quite relieved that they didn't cut through it, as I like my belly button!) and went all the way down to the aforementioned groin area. It was held together by staples (the medics called them "Pins", but they looked like, and for all intents and purposes were staples!) and just looked utterly horrific. I realised this was going to leave a horrible scar!
He then explained what had happened. The procedure went "very well". The Boari flap repair went as planned. But they also found other problems, as I suspected they would. I had adhesions on the bowel, resulting in it being "stuck down" to my body wall, and other internal organs. They also saw something called a "Meckel's Diverticulum", which, they said, was a rare condition in which a lump protrudes from the bowel. I would have had this since birth, which may explain why I always looked slightly pregant - I knew it wasn't all those McDonald's! This was removed in the surgery, and the bowel was freed up also.
I was finally able, after much straining, to locate the second sim card and upon inserting it into my phone, recovered some texts and phone messages from my worried friends, V especially concerned as she hadn't heard a thing from me in so long. I apologised, explaining what had been going on. She understood, and said she would come and visit me later that day (Saturday) and bring some cranberry juice (I was getting sick of just drinking water!) and chocolate. Num! And it was great to see her.
Later the surgical drain was removed. This didn't hurt, but it did feel extremely strange. The nurse commented that it was an unusally big drain, and as she pulled it, I could feel it moving inside my body, slowly coming to the surface. It was pulled free, the wound was covered up, and I was encouraged, when I was ready, to now try to get out of bed and see how I did. I left it a few hours, took some more painkillers, and very very slowly, manoeuvred myself to the edge of the bed - not easy when you still have that damn catheter bag in! - and pushed myself off the edge, onto my feet. It really hurt my tummy, but it felt SO good to be out of the bed, and off my back at last!
I took the opportunity of having another look around at the other patients in the bay with me. All the patients I had seen when I last looked around, had left. There was a middle-aged feisty Irish woman opposite me; a very posh-sounding old woman in the bed next to me, and the fourth bed seemed to be the "express" bed, in that no-one stayed in it for very long at all, never more than one night.
I was still quite dizzy at this point, and not in the mood to make conversation with strangers, so I spent most of my time sleeping, or listening to things on my mp3 player, including podcasts of Iain Lee's old LBC radio show. But quite frequently, I had to turn these off as they made me laugh too much, and it really, really hurt to laugh.
All the doctors and nurses were pleased with my (slow, I thought) progress, and would comment when emptying my catheter bag that my urine looked "really good". I was always unsure how to respond to that. "Thanks"? Hmm.
I found out they meant that it was fairly clear, which meant I was drinking a good amount of water, whereas some of the other patients, particularly the old woman, had very dark urine, which meant she was quite dehydrated even if she felt ok. I found out that she was in hospital for a broken shoulder, and had also recently had hip replacement surgery, so was completely dependant on the nurses, as was I at this stage. But hey, my urine was good!
Unfortunately, my bowels were not. I had been eating meals as often as I could, but had not passed any solids since the previous Tuesday, so I was given laxatives. The Irish woman opposite recognised the yellow liquid I was given, and warned me that she had taken it recently and it was "Like firewater" and I could expect to feel the effects immediately. However, I took the laxative at around 10am, but by mid-day nothing had happened, so the nurse gave me a second laxative, this time in pill form. Again, nothing. There had to have been a hell of a lot inside me to come out! It just wasn't budging. All the medication I had taken, combined with the bowel surgery I had undergone, meant nothing was happening. I was beginning to feel quite bloated now, and began to worry that something was wrong, and that more surgery may be necessary. God, I hoped not! I never wanted to have any surgery ever again!
Finally, at about 4pm, I passed a solid! Yay! And it was such a solid! I knew there was more than that inside me, but it was a start.
And so it was, until I woke up at around 4am. My tummy was making rumbling sounds, something was happening. During the day, the Irish lady had gone home, and another, older Irish lady had taken her place. She had also been given laxatives, and was going to the shared toilet in our bay at least once an hour. I could feel that I would need to sit and stay on the toilet for a while, so I wandered out to the visitor's toilets, knowing full well there would be no visitors at that hour, so I could spend as long as I felt I needed. I had lots and lots of diarrhea, and then, the worst thing happened. I started vomiting, and I couldn't stop. Every "heave" felt like my stomach was exploding. I felt so sick, and the only way to feel better is to be sick, but this was the worst pain I could ever imagine feeling. This went on for two hours, before I sloped back to my bed, and explained to the nurse what was going on. I was given some more Cyclozine in tablet form. I threw that up. I was then injected with more Cyclozine, which had always worked in the past. I threw that up too. I carried on vomiting through the day, and when the doctors came to see me, they were concerned. They ordered an abdominal xray, and wondered if I had contracted the notorious Norovirus that was sweeping its way across the country. I didn't think so. I was pretty sure it was just the result of the super-hard-core laxatives I had been given, which had been festering in my body all day, coupled with all the medication I had been given on top of it. In the meantime, I was advised to keep drinking water, but the water was really making me feel sick! I was sick of water, and it didn't stop me throwing up. I kept drinking water though, and kept throwing it up. I ate a banana, my usual "when-I'm-sick" food, but threw that up. In desperation, I turned to my old friend, Lucozade! But I was reluctant. My tummy was going through all sorts of upset. Perhaps adding a gaseous drink may not be the best thing? But I was so thirsty, and so sick of feeling sick, I felt I had nothing to lose, so opened a bottle, and drank it down. And with that, I stopped being sick! Yay Lucozade!
Monday became Tuesday, and I slowly progressed. I was a bit more mobile now, confident enough to head down to the shop on the ground floor to buy more drinks, and a newspaper for the old lady in the next bed. But these trips would leave me exhausted and aching, and afterwards I would lay down on the bed and sleep. I had been told that on Wednesday I would be having a "Cystogram", an xray with fluids, to make sure the bladder was healing ok and had no leaks! After that, the catheter would be removed and I could go home. So I sent out the texts, the Cystogram came and went and I passed with flying colours, and I packed my bag. The doctor came around, and told me that I in fact was being kept in overnight for one more night. I never did find out the real reason why. They told me that the nursing staff would not be able to replace the catheter if there was a problem. I smiled and said OK. I knew it was complete bullshit, and later I shared this with the nurses who laughed, but were slightly offended at the notion that they may not be able to insert a catheter - it is one of the basics! Oh well, I had been in there a week, I could handle another night.
The next day, the catheter came out, and they took out the staples/pins. This didn't hurt like I had expected it to, but I was slightly disappointed. I had hoped to get a photo of the cut with them still in, they looked so horrific! They should have stayed in a few more days, but the doctors decided they could come out, to save me the trip back to hospital in a few days time. I was grateful for this, although upon removing them, the wound burst open in a couple of places, and had to be held together with surgical tape. I was told not to have that long, hot bath I was desperate for as soon as I got home. Instead, I was to wait a few more days to allow the fresh wounds to heal somewhat. With that, I was told I could go home. I sent a text out to everyone letting them know, and then made the mistake of asking for a certificate to cover me at work.
I had to fight to get out! They had already discharged me, when the doctor came back and before issuing any certificate, insisted on feeling my tummy, and ummed and aahed about releasing me. I informed him that I had already been discharged, and a work colleague, who had been kind enough, was on his way to pick me up and take me home. He finally relented, and I made my way out.
It was quite surreal to be outside after 8 days and nights in the same hospital ward. But I was so relieved, I just wanted to get home, see my cats again, make a cup of tea, and climb into my own lovely bed!
My work friend got me home in next to no time, and even took me shopping, and carried the basket for me, bless! Once I was home, I could really start the recovery properly, and at my own pace. And sleeping in my own bed. Wonderful!
It has now been six days since I came out. I have had that lovely, long hot bath. I am eating and drinking normally. Going to the toilet is still very difficult, as the bowel and bladder are still healing. It still hurts very much. And I am at a very akward stage in my recovery whereby I feel ok a lot of the time, so I get overconfident, and end up really hurting myself. It is hard to remember to take things easy at times! I really want to get moving again!
Work have been great, they even sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers, which blew me away! I didn't expect that, and it was such a sweet gesture, it really made me smile.
The wound itself is still very angry and red. Right at the bottom, where the staples came out too early, there is a hole into which I can put my finger! I keep taping it up with surgical tape as best I can, but there will almost certainly be a dip in my body there now. Oh well, it's not like I was ever going to be a model! And no matter how hard done by I feel, there is one thing that hospital teaches you, and that is to count your blessings. You don't realise how easy you have it until you see the next person, like the old woman who ended up sat in her own faeces for four hours, because she wasn't able to move herself. Or the woman who came into hospital on my last night, who had a masectomy. And they carry themselves still with such grace and humour, it really is humbling. It makes it easier to live with my stoopid scar.
But I sincerely hope that I have done my time now. I want to recover from this fully, I want to lead a normal, fit and healthy life. I will even *gulp* cut down on the amount of chips I eat! I never, ever want to end up in hospital again.
The Beautiful bouquet work sent me.
THAT'S going to leave a mark...
Only When I Laugh...[Part One: Pre-Surgery]
The 'NightGirl-- Immortality Delusion' continues unabated! On Thursday 31st January 2008, I left hospital, hopefully for the final time, after some major abdominal surgery. It has been the toughest 14 months of my life. And it all started so unremarkably...
It was a Thursday night, I remember, in late October 2006. I had been off work, after having some surgery, and was feeling that I was ready to return. I remember chatting to a friend online, and eating roast chicken! I had just finished eating, when I noticed a strange sensation in my left ribcage; the closest I can come to describing it, is like a stitch, but not quite... I imagined it was just the way I was seated, kind of slouched in the sofa, not sitting up straight as I should. I mentioned it to my friend, but didn't think any more about it, until after an hour or so, I noticed it had gotten progressively stronger, to the point that I was now unable to ignore it. I made my apologies to my friend, took some painkillers, and went to bed fully believing I would wake up the next day with no pain, nor even any memory of the pain. It was just "One of those things", those niggling aches and pains we all experience every now and then.
Friday came, and the pain was still there, stronger now. It felt as though someone had a blunt stick, which they were pressing into my back. Walking through the flat I felt a sick "bounce", as though something (my kidney?) was incredibly bruised and distended, and every step caused misery. This continued into Saturday, and again, intensified to the point where I was literally on my knees, on the living room floor, rolling around in agony, desperately trying to find a position which would relieve the pain!
I had (and have) never called 999 before, and was reluctant to this time. Sure, I was in a world of pain, but I never really thought I was about to die, which I thought was a pre-requisite of calling 999! So, I called NHS Direct. I first spoke to a nurse, who once I had described what I was going through, suggested it sounded like a Kidney Stone but, as I had just come out of hospital a little over a month before, she thought she should check in with a Doctor. In the meantime, I should take painkillers and await his call.
Around an hour later, he called. "Can you pass urine?" I could.. "Oh well.. I wouldn't worry about it then..." Gee, thanks! "Take some painkillers, and if it doesn't get better, come down to the 'Harmoni' clinic at your local hospital."
I pumped myself full of painkillers, and got through another night, but on the Sunday, the pain was so bad that I found myself crying because of pain, for the first time since I was a naughty child who fell over and scuffed her knee! As an adult, I had never experienced any kind of pain to force me to this kind of emotion before. I called my family to tell them I was going into hospital, as I couldn't take the pain any more. They suggested calling an ambulance to "get seen quicker" but my resolve was still strong. I walked (every step pure agony) to the local hospital, and got seen by a really nice Doctor. He wasn't too sure what to make of it, but a urinalisys did show I had a Urinary Tract Infection (U.T.I.), and he wrote out a prescription for some Anti-Biotics, and pointed me in the direction of the nearest, open-late-on-a-Sunday-night pharmacy. I walked (every step causing that sick "bounce" in my lower back) there, got my presciption filled, started to walk back but realised I just couldn't make it. I turned around and walked to the bus stop and, luckily, a bus came straight away. A man on the bus was looking at me and smiling, but I was just in too much pain to reciprocate; every tiny bump the bus went over caused me to whince in pain. I was trying to sit whilst supporting my body with my arms to create further "suspension". It was, thankfully, a short bus ride (hence my reluctance to use the bus) and I got off, bought some fluids and more painkillers, got home and collapsed on the floor, crying loudly as much through frustration and self-pity as the pain.
So, that was the first weekend! I went to see my GP during the week, and explained everything that was happening, and so the investigation process started out in earnest. Kidney stones were still the main suspects, and thus I was sent back to the local hospital for an Ultrasound scan, and then an Xray to try to find one. A week or so passed before I saw my GP to discuss the findings. They had found something that might be a small "calcification" in my Kidney, but it was basically inconclusive. My GP seemed to be losing confidence in me now, as though I were exaggerating, or out and out lying about the pain I was in. He suggested, somewhat dismissively and with humour, that the only thing they could do now was an "X-Ray UVI"; another Xray but this time with a "Contrasting" agent injected into me which would better highlight the internal organs, thus showing any stones, or other problems in my Kidney. I took him up on this "Offer" and credit to him, though he seemed to believe this was beyond the pale, he promptly filled out the forms to make the appointment for the IVU, and also another Ultrasound Scan. In the meantime, he advised, if I were to find myself in immense pain once again, I should go to A&E.
A couple of weeks passed. Much pain, huge amounts of discomfort. A couple of times the pain was just too much, and on one of these occasions I took my GPs suggestion and went to the local A&E. They were sympathetic, but when asked what my GP was doing, and having been told of the scans and UVIs that I was waiting for, agreed that this was the best course of action and that therefore there was really nothing they could do to help me, other than prescribe a stronger painkiller, Codeine.
Thankfully not long after this, I finally got dates for the scans; The Xray IVU was to be followed the very next day by a "full bladder ultrasound". Both procedures meant going to the hospital with a full bladder; having to drink a litre of water an hour before the procedures, and No Peeing allowed until afterwards! Ouch!
I laid out on the xray table, they injected the dye into my arm, and then we had to wait, as it made its way through my system, into the kidney it needed to highlight. After fifteen minutes they had a look with the Xray; the dye hadn't yet made it, though it should have. I was told to go away for half an hour, without peeing! After this, I came back, more xrays were taken, still no dye in my kidney. Frustrated, they sent me to the CT Scanner to see if anything was visible. After this I was finally allowed to empty my now-bursting bladder, and head home.
The next day, I was back for my Ultrasound scan but once there, they decided this would be superfluous given the ultra-hard-core CT scan I had been through the day before. Instead, they decided to perform yet more Xrays to see how the dye was doing. It should have been well out of my system by this time. The xray showed it was all still lodged in my left kidney. They also noticed something that no-one else had on the previous scans; the kidney was HUGE! Swollen, bloated, obviously not expelling any of the waste it is designed to do. So, this was the cause of all my pain! What was the cause of the swelling? A further look at the xray showed a "Constriction" of the Ureter, which is the tube that runs between the Kidney and the bladder. The Kidney's job is to filter waste out of the bloodstream. This waste is then mixed with fluid, and sent down the Ureter into the bladder where it becomes Urine. We then, obviously, rid our body of this waste through the Urethra and, hopefully (unless you are one of those people) into the toilet! My Ureter was blocked, like a hosepipe that is being trodden on. One end close to the bladder was narrowed and closed up. I was sent immediately to the Urology department, where I was quickly sent for some blood tests, and told to report back to the "clinic" the next morning.
I had already called my place of work to tell them I would be back to work that evening, so I called them to inform them of this new development; I was due to see the Urologist in his "clinic" in the morning, but I would still be back to work that night (I work permanent nightshift).
The next day, I got to the clinic to find that I was being prepped for surgery. Wha..?! No-one had mentioned anything about me being put under general anaesthetic before! I had to make a very embarassing call to work, to tell them that I would not be back to work after all. They were very understanding.
I was to undergo what is called a "Rigid Ureteroscopy", whereby a fibre-optic device is passed up through the Urethra, through the bladder, and all the way up to the kidney. Ouch! I am SO grateful that I was under general anaesthetic for That!
I woke up (or was woken up by a nurse) later that same day, and was allowed home. The surgeon came to see me before I left, but I was still so groggy and disorientated from the anaesthetic that I didn't really hear a word he said. But afterwards I discovered he couldn't get the device past the "stricture" in the Ureter, and that he felt it was something outside the Ureter pressing against it, causing it to close up, very similar to my previous analogy of someone standing on a hosepipe, blocking the flow of water! He inserted a "J J Stent", a tube with metal coils at both end, which runs between the Kidney and Bladder, to force it open and thus help with the flow out of the Kidney. He also said that I was to be transferred to Charing Cross hospital's Urology department for more investigation. I guess they are a more specialised department than my local hospital's. No matter!
I finally went back to work a week after this procedure, and thanks to constant painkillers, carried on as best I could. I never went out socially; I merely went to work whenever I could (and I took a lot of night's off work where the pain was just too much), and when off work, laid up and rested. One of the common results of having a JJ Stent inserted is many U.T.I.s and so anti-biotics were added to the cocktail of medication I was already taking.
I finally got a date for another "Rigid Ureteroscopy", this time my first at Charing Cross. So once again I was to be put under General Anaesthetic. I had been thinking that, previous to the first surgery in September 2006, I had never been put under general anaesthetic, and now it was happening almost monthly!
I was brought round after the procedure, and this time I was a little more aware when the surgeon came to see me. He disclosed that what he had seen with the endoscope, was a lump, a tumour, in the Ureter. The good news was, that he couldn't see a kidney stone!
To hear the word "Tumour" should be a scary moment I guess, but to be honest, I was just completely relieved! I had been in constant pain and discomfort for a few months now, with no explanation and a GP who was a little bit suspicious. At last, I could finally say what the problem was, what the cause of all the pain and discomfort was.
And so, the year rolled on. The pain and discomfort continued. The lack of a social life continued! Painkillers, work when I could, nights off work sick when it was too much. I underwent another 6 Ureteroscopies as they kept taking biopsies and reviewing how it was all going. Work were very understanding, thankfully, although there were a couple of times where they were, understandably, frustrated at my continued absence.
In one of my clinics with the surgeon, he discussed the probable surgery he would perform to solve the problem. Called a "Boari Flap repair", this involved cutting off the end of the Ureter that contained the tumour, rather than cutting out the tumour itself. Because the Ureter would now be shorter, a new hole would need to be cut into the bladder to accomodate the shorter Ureter, and the old hole sewn up. I asked if this could be done using keyhole surgery. "No", he replied with a smile. They would cut me down my middle, and open me up. I just hoped it wouldn't be too big a cut, or too bad a scar afterwards.
A further complication of all the kidney problems was my blood pressure. Because the Kidney wasn't functioning properly (although the kidney itself was still in good health; it just wasn't able to expel waste because of the blocked Ureter) my blood pressure raised. It had always been higher than it should be, but was merely monitored rather than medicated. However, as I went to hospital for yet another Ureteroscopy, my blood pressure was checked and was found to be dangerously high; 220/120 (a normal healthy BP reading is 120/80). I felt absolutely fine! But the anaesthetist was kind of freaking out, asking me if I had any tightness in my chest, any dizziness, any funny taste in my mouth? She was convinced I should be having a heart attack or a stroke, which was a bit scary! I was told I could either go to my GPs, or to A&E - she offered to walk me to A&E right there and then! I opted to go to my GPs. After all, it was likely I would just be prescribed even more drugs to control the BP, and my GP could probably get this done a lot quicker than an A&E department.
I went home, and went immediately to my GPs with a letter from the hospital "Fast-tracking" me in. And my GP... promptly sent me to A&E! Bah!
I spent most of the evening there, and they finally prescribed medication to bring the blood pressure under control.
Fast forward to September 2007. They are planning to remove the tumour in October, but decide to perform one more CT Scan. Unfortunately for me, this shows that the tumour has grown, and they now fear it is once again possibly cancerous. So, the surgery to remove the tumour is cancelled, in favour of yet another Ureteroscopy and biopsy to rule out cancer. Bah!
There then follows a huge silence. I hear nothing for a couple of months. Worried, I speak to another doctor who sends a letter on my behalf asking the Urology team to "get their act together!" Bless!
And finally, I get a date for the surgery: 23rd January 2008. I can expect to be in the hospital for "5-6 days", and can expect to be off work for "5-6 weeks". It's major surgery, and I am eager to get it over with, and get healed, and get on with my life. But I am nervous. It IS major surgery, and it's going to hurt...
It was a Thursday night, I remember, in late October 2006. I had been off work, after having some surgery, and was feeling that I was ready to return. I remember chatting to a friend online, and eating roast chicken! I had just finished eating, when I noticed a strange sensation in my left ribcage; the closest I can come to describing it, is like a stitch, but not quite... I imagined it was just the way I was seated, kind of slouched in the sofa, not sitting up straight as I should. I mentioned it to my friend, but didn't think any more about it, until after an hour or so, I noticed it had gotten progressively stronger, to the point that I was now unable to ignore it. I made my apologies to my friend, took some painkillers, and went to bed fully believing I would wake up the next day with no pain, nor even any memory of the pain. It was just "One of those things", those niggling aches and pains we all experience every now and then.
Friday came, and the pain was still there, stronger now. It felt as though someone had a blunt stick, which they were pressing into my back. Walking through the flat I felt a sick "bounce", as though something (my kidney?) was incredibly bruised and distended, and every step caused misery. This continued into Saturday, and again, intensified to the point where I was literally on my knees, on the living room floor, rolling around in agony, desperately trying to find a position which would relieve the pain!
I had (and have) never called 999 before, and was reluctant to this time. Sure, I was in a world of pain, but I never really thought I was about to die, which I thought was a pre-requisite of calling 999! So, I called NHS Direct. I first spoke to a nurse, who once I had described what I was going through, suggested it sounded like a Kidney Stone but, as I had just come out of hospital a little over a month before, she thought she should check in with a Doctor. In the meantime, I should take painkillers and await his call.
Around an hour later, he called. "Can you pass urine?" I could.. "Oh well.. I wouldn't worry about it then..." Gee, thanks! "Take some painkillers, and if it doesn't get better, come down to the 'Harmoni' clinic at your local hospital."
I pumped myself full of painkillers, and got through another night, but on the Sunday, the pain was so bad that I found myself crying because of pain, for the first time since I was a naughty child who fell over and scuffed her knee! As an adult, I had never experienced any kind of pain to force me to this kind of emotion before. I called my family to tell them I was going into hospital, as I couldn't take the pain any more. They suggested calling an ambulance to "get seen quicker" but my resolve was still strong. I walked (every step pure agony) to the local hospital, and got seen by a really nice Doctor. He wasn't too sure what to make of it, but a urinalisys did show I had a Urinary Tract Infection (U.T.I.), and he wrote out a prescription for some Anti-Biotics, and pointed me in the direction of the nearest, open-late-on-a-Sunday-night pharmacy. I walked (every step causing that sick "bounce" in my lower back) there, got my presciption filled, started to walk back but realised I just couldn't make it. I turned around and walked to the bus stop and, luckily, a bus came straight away. A man on the bus was looking at me and smiling, but I was just in too much pain to reciprocate; every tiny bump the bus went over caused me to whince in pain. I was trying to sit whilst supporting my body with my arms to create further "suspension". It was, thankfully, a short bus ride (hence my reluctance to use the bus) and I got off, bought some fluids and more painkillers, got home and collapsed on the floor, crying loudly as much through frustration and self-pity as the pain.
So, that was the first weekend! I went to see my GP during the week, and explained everything that was happening, and so the investigation process started out in earnest. Kidney stones were still the main suspects, and thus I was sent back to the local hospital for an Ultrasound scan, and then an Xray to try to find one. A week or so passed before I saw my GP to discuss the findings. They had found something that might be a small "calcification" in my Kidney, but it was basically inconclusive. My GP seemed to be losing confidence in me now, as though I were exaggerating, or out and out lying about the pain I was in. He suggested, somewhat dismissively and with humour, that the only thing they could do now was an "X-Ray UVI"; another Xray but this time with a "Contrasting" agent injected into me which would better highlight the internal organs, thus showing any stones, or other problems in my Kidney. I took him up on this "Offer" and credit to him, though he seemed to believe this was beyond the pale, he promptly filled out the forms to make the appointment for the IVU, and also another Ultrasound Scan. In the meantime, he advised, if I were to find myself in immense pain once again, I should go to A&E.
A couple of weeks passed. Much pain, huge amounts of discomfort. A couple of times the pain was just too much, and on one of these occasions I took my GPs suggestion and went to the local A&E. They were sympathetic, but when asked what my GP was doing, and having been told of the scans and UVIs that I was waiting for, agreed that this was the best course of action and that therefore there was really nothing they could do to help me, other than prescribe a stronger painkiller, Codeine.
Thankfully not long after this, I finally got dates for the scans; The Xray IVU was to be followed the very next day by a "full bladder ultrasound". Both procedures meant going to the hospital with a full bladder; having to drink a litre of water an hour before the procedures, and No Peeing allowed until afterwards! Ouch!
I laid out on the xray table, they injected the dye into my arm, and then we had to wait, as it made its way through my system, into the kidney it needed to highlight. After fifteen minutes they had a look with the Xray; the dye hadn't yet made it, though it should have. I was told to go away for half an hour, without peeing! After this, I came back, more xrays were taken, still no dye in my kidney. Frustrated, they sent me to the CT Scanner to see if anything was visible. After this I was finally allowed to empty my now-bursting bladder, and head home.
The next day, I was back for my Ultrasound scan but once there, they decided this would be superfluous given the ultra-hard-core CT scan I had been through the day before. Instead, they decided to perform yet more Xrays to see how the dye was doing. It should have been well out of my system by this time. The xray showed it was all still lodged in my left kidney. They also noticed something that no-one else had on the previous scans; the kidney was HUGE! Swollen, bloated, obviously not expelling any of the waste it is designed to do. So, this was the cause of all my pain! What was the cause of the swelling? A further look at the xray showed a "Constriction" of the Ureter, which is the tube that runs between the Kidney and the bladder. The Kidney's job is to filter waste out of the bloodstream. This waste is then mixed with fluid, and sent down the Ureter into the bladder where it becomes Urine. We then, obviously, rid our body of this waste through the Urethra and, hopefully (unless you are one of those people) into the toilet! My Ureter was blocked, like a hosepipe that is being trodden on. One end close to the bladder was narrowed and closed up. I was sent immediately to the Urology department, where I was quickly sent for some blood tests, and told to report back to the "clinic" the next morning.
I had already called my place of work to tell them I would be back to work that evening, so I called them to inform them of this new development; I was due to see the Urologist in his "clinic" in the morning, but I would still be back to work that night (I work permanent nightshift).
The next day, I got to the clinic to find that I was being prepped for surgery. Wha..?! No-one had mentioned anything about me being put under general anaesthetic before! I had to make a very embarassing call to work, to tell them that I would not be back to work after all. They were very understanding.
I was to undergo what is called a "Rigid Ureteroscopy", whereby a fibre-optic device is passed up through the Urethra, through the bladder, and all the way up to the kidney. Ouch! I am SO grateful that I was under general anaesthetic for That!
I woke up (or was woken up by a nurse) later that same day, and was allowed home. The surgeon came to see me before I left, but I was still so groggy and disorientated from the anaesthetic that I didn't really hear a word he said. But afterwards I discovered he couldn't get the device past the "stricture" in the Ureter, and that he felt it was something outside the Ureter pressing against it, causing it to close up, very similar to my previous analogy of someone standing on a hosepipe, blocking the flow of water! He inserted a "J J Stent", a tube with metal coils at both end, which runs between the Kidney and Bladder, to force it open and thus help with the flow out of the Kidney. He also said that I was to be transferred to Charing Cross hospital's Urology department for more investigation. I guess they are a more specialised department than my local hospital's. No matter!
I finally went back to work a week after this procedure, and thanks to constant painkillers, carried on as best I could. I never went out socially; I merely went to work whenever I could (and I took a lot of night's off work where the pain was just too much), and when off work, laid up and rested. One of the common results of having a JJ Stent inserted is many U.T.I.s and so anti-biotics were added to the cocktail of medication I was already taking.
I finally got a date for another "Rigid Ureteroscopy", this time my first at Charing Cross. So once again I was to be put under General Anaesthetic. I had been thinking that, previous to the first surgery in September 2006, I had never been put under general anaesthetic, and now it was happening almost monthly!
I was brought round after the procedure, and this time I was a little more aware when the surgeon came to see me. He disclosed that what he had seen with the endoscope, was a lump, a tumour, in the Ureter. The good news was, that he couldn't see a kidney stone!
To hear the word "Tumour" should be a scary moment I guess, but to be honest, I was just completely relieved! I had been in constant pain and discomfort for a few months now, with no explanation and a GP who was a little bit suspicious. At last, I could finally say what the problem was, what the cause of all the pain and discomfort was.
And so, the year rolled on. The pain and discomfort continued. The lack of a social life continued! Painkillers, work when I could, nights off work sick when it was too much. I underwent another 6 Ureteroscopies as they kept taking biopsies and reviewing how it was all going. Work were very understanding, thankfully, although there were a couple of times where they were, understandably, frustrated at my continued absence.
In one of my clinics with the surgeon, he discussed the probable surgery he would perform to solve the problem. Called a "Boari Flap repair", this involved cutting off the end of the Ureter that contained the tumour, rather than cutting out the tumour itself. Because the Ureter would now be shorter, a new hole would need to be cut into the bladder to accomodate the shorter Ureter, and the old hole sewn up. I asked if this could be done using keyhole surgery. "No", he replied with a smile. They would cut me down my middle, and open me up. I just hoped it wouldn't be too big a cut, or too bad a scar afterwards.
A further complication of all the kidney problems was my blood pressure. Because the Kidney wasn't functioning properly (although the kidney itself was still in good health; it just wasn't able to expel waste because of the blocked Ureter) my blood pressure raised. It had always been higher than it should be, but was merely monitored rather than medicated. However, as I went to hospital for yet another Ureteroscopy, my blood pressure was checked and was found to be dangerously high; 220/120 (a normal healthy BP reading is 120/80). I felt absolutely fine! But the anaesthetist was kind of freaking out, asking me if I had any tightness in my chest, any dizziness, any funny taste in my mouth? She was convinced I should be having a heart attack or a stroke, which was a bit scary! I was told I could either go to my GPs, or to A&E - she offered to walk me to A&E right there and then! I opted to go to my GPs. After all, it was likely I would just be prescribed even more drugs to control the BP, and my GP could probably get this done a lot quicker than an A&E department.
I went home, and went immediately to my GPs with a letter from the hospital "Fast-tracking" me in. And my GP... promptly sent me to A&E! Bah!
I spent most of the evening there, and they finally prescribed medication to bring the blood pressure under control.
Fast forward to September 2007. They are planning to remove the tumour in October, but decide to perform one more CT Scan. Unfortunately for me, this shows that the tumour has grown, and they now fear it is once again possibly cancerous. So, the surgery to remove the tumour is cancelled, in favour of yet another Ureteroscopy and biopsy to rule out cancer. Bah!
There then follows a huge silence. I hear nothing for a couple of months. Worried, I speak to another doctor who sends a letter on my behalf asking the Urology team to "get their act together!" Bless!
And finally, I get a date for the surgery: 23rd January 2008. I can expect to be in the hospital for "5-6 days", and can expect to be off work for "5-6 weeks". It's major surgery, and I am eager to get it over with, and get healed, and get on with my life. But I am nervous. It IS major surgery, and it's going to hurt...
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
All My People
Chat rooms are a strange phenomenon. There is something very scary about the ego let loose, without the contstraints of the physical self. You see the worst of people - and the worst of yourself!
I spent more evenings in chat rooms as a late-twenty-something than I ever did in actual bars and clubs. It's a wonder I can even use my voicebox, as most of my conversations were virtual. But, it has to be said, I had some great times in the chat rooms, made some great friends, learnt a lot, and generally whiled the hours away. OK, it isn't the most productive of pursuits, but it is no worse than watching telly; at least you are interacting in some way, and - this is a real stretch! - even being productive in the sense that you are cultivating new contacts, perhaps even interests.
One of the things that would always crop up in the chat rooms I frequented (which were themed, based on a common interest which I need not disclose here) was the accusation of "Cliqueness". I am certain this exists in all chat rooms. There will be a few regulars, who all get to know each-other, become familiar with each-other. This is a good thing. And as time goes along, new "faces" come along, some join the "clique", some do not.. some get very frustrated at not being able to penetrate into the clique, and this usually manifests itself as the throwing up of nasty comments - anything to be acknowledged! Even insults are better than being ignored..
I am in an interesting position here. I was once part of "The Clique". I was involved in a scene where I was quite well known, a "face", everybody knew me, lots knew of me. If not famous, I was at least infamous. But the same could be said of everyone in "The Clique". But I have been told that I was different. Unlike the other members, I would go out of my way to try and make the people on the outside of the clique feel welcome, feel as though they were a part of the proceedings, rather than merely bystanders. This wasn't a conscious decision on my part, I didn't even realise I was doing this at the time. It was only after I left that "Scene" and bumped into a few of the people on the periphery of it, who told me that I was one of the only people that ever spoke to them, and made them feel welcome in the chat rooms we would frequent.
Not to be big headed, but I think I am more proud of this than of anything else I have "achieved". (are there too many quotation marks in this blog?! I only use them because, as it is about a virtual world, to talk about certain things as being too real seems somehow silly, thus quotation marks, for me, suggest I am not taking them entirely seriously..)
And it got me thinking about the real world, about my childhood, about being an outsider. Because rejection sucks, whether it is a friendship, a job, a relationship, if you are rejected, I don't care who you are, it hurts. I can remember always feeling like the outsider growing up, at school, at work, even in the family home. Why was it that I didn't feel as though I belonged anywhere?! Why was it that everyone else seemed to be perfectly happy and content with who, what, and where they were?! "On the outside looking in" is the perfect way to describe how I felt. And then all of a sudden, when I entered that "scene", and became well known, I was on the inside. I belonged. I was a part of "The Clique". It was everything I ever wanted... and.. I hated it! Because I didn't identify with being "One of the beautiful ones.." one of the successful ones.. they were all arrogant, and self-centered, and egotistical.. I was one of them?! Never! It's not who I am, nor really, who I want to be. I have come to realise that I am on the outside, looking in.. and this is exactly where I want to stay. I never want to be on the inside. Because looking in from the outside, I can see how selfish they all are, how self-important they are, and basically how rude they are.
What am I on about?! What has caused this outpouring? I recently returned to the scene that once harboured me for many years. I no longer consider myself a part of it, but will always have an interest in it, it was such an important part of my life for so many years, and really made me who I am today.
But I am no longer a part of that clique. I am no longer well known, or at least infamous, as I once was. Younger, prettier people have come up, and it is great, as it should be.
With this in mind, I went back to one of the chat rooms I used to frequent, using a new profile name, rather than the one by which I used to be well known. An easily identifiable Clique was in full swing.
"Hello everyone" I typed. No response. The conversation carried on amongst the same people, as though I hadn't even existed. I smiled to myself, and waited.
A short time later, another new arrival.
"Hello" they typed. No response. Not one of the other people in the room said a word. The Clique were too busy with themselves, and the others I imagine, were too shy to start off proceedings. I guess they had already tried to be heard and, being ignored once, didn't want to be so again.
So I said Hi to them, and we started our own conversation. And every single person who came into the chat room, said hello, and the clique ignored, I would ALWAYS make a point of saying "Hello" to, and do my best to engage in conversation. Soon, all us outsiders were having our own conversation, interacting with each-other, whilst the Clique spoke amongst themselves, about themselves. It's the greatest thing in the world, to meet new people, to find out about them, particularly if they, like me, feel like outsiders, losers, rejects. It's what we all have in common! It's just, we realise it, and revel in it.
So, there were two groups having two huge conversations; there was the clique, and there was MY people - the anti-clique! Not elitist, not exclusionary, anyone can join, in fact anyone not in The Clique are, by default, in my anti-clique. And you are all welcome, because you are do not think you are cool. And this is why I think you are cool. And welcome to chat with me anyday.
I spent more evenings in chat rooms as a late-twenty-something than I ever did in actual bars and clubs. It's a wonder I can even use my voicebox, as most of my conversations were virtual. But, it has to be said, I had some great times in the chat rooms, made some great friends, learnt a lot, and generally whiled the hours away. OK, it isn't the most productive of pursuits, but it is no worse than watching telly; at least you are interacting in some way, and - this is a real stretch! - even being productive in the sense that you are cultivating new contacts, perhaps even interests.
One of the things that would always crop up in the chat rooms I frequented (which were themed, based on a common interest which I need not disclose here) was the accusation of "Cliqueness". I am certain this exists in all chat rooms. There will be a few regulars, who all get to know each-other, become familiar with each-other. This is a good thing. And as time goes along, new "faces" come along, some join the "clique", some do not.. some get very frustrated at not being able to penetrate into the clique, and this usually manifests itself as the throwing up of nasty comments - anything to be acknowledged! Even insults are better than being ignored..
I am in an interesting position here. I was once part of "The Clique". I was involved in a scene where I was quite well known, a "face", everybody knew me, lots knew of me. If not famous, I was at least infamous. But the same could be said of everyone in "The Clique". But I have been told that I was different. Unlike the other members, I would go out of my way to try and make the people on the outside of the clique feel welcome, feel as though they were a part of the proceedings, rather than merely bystanders. This wasn't a conscious decision on my part, I didn't even realise I was doing this at the time. It was only after I left that "Scene" and bumped into a few of the people on the periphery of it, who told me that I was one of the only people that ever spoke to them, and made them feel welcome in the chat rooms we would frequent.
Not to be big headed, but I think I am more proud of this than of anything else I have "achieved". (are there too many quotation marks in this blog?! I only use them because, as it is about a virtual world, to talk about certain things as being too real seems somehow silly, thus quotation marks, for me, suggest I am not taking them entirely seriously..)
And it got me thinking about the real world, about my childhood, about being an outsider. Because rejection sucks, whether it is a friendship, a job, a relationship, if you are rejected, I don't care who you are, it hurts. I can remember always feeling like the outsider growing up, at school, at work, even in the family home. Why was it that I didn't feel as though I belonged anywhere?! Why was it that everyone else seemed to be perfectly happy and content with who, what, and where they were?! "On the outside looking in" is the perfect way to describe how I felt. And then all of a sudden, when I entered that "scene", and became well known, I was on the inside. I belonged. I was a part of "The Clique". It was everything I ever wanted... and.. I hated it! Because I didn't identify with being "One of the beautiful ones.." one of the successful ones.. they were all arrogant, and self-centered, and egotistical.. I was one of them?! Never! It's not who I am, nor really, who I want to be. I have come to realise that I am on the outside, looking in.. and this is exactly where I want to stay. I never want to be on the inside. Because looking in from the outside, I can see how selfish they all are, how self-important they are, and basically how rude they are.
What am I on about?! What has caused this outpouring? I recently returned to the scene that once harboured me for many years. I no longer consider myself a part of it, but will always have an interest in it, it was such an important part of my life for so many years, and really made me who I am today.
But I am no longer a part of that clique. I am no longer well known, or at least infamous, as I once was. Younger, prettier people have come up, and it is great, as it should be.
With this in mind, I went back to one of the chat rooms I used to frequent, using a new profile name, rather than the one by which I used to be well known. An easily identifiable Clique was in full swing.
"Hello everyone" I typed. No response. The conversation carried on amongst the same people, as though I hadn't even existed. I smiled to myself, and waited.
A short time later, another new arrival.
"Hello" they typed. No response. Not one of the other people in the room said a word. The Clique were too busy with themselves, and the others I imagine, were too shy to start off proceedings. I guess they had already tried to be heard and, being ignored once, didn't want to be so again.
So I said Hi to them, and we started our own conversation. And every single person who came into the chat room, said hello, and the clique ignored, I would ALWAYS make a point of saying "Hello" to, and do my best to engage in conversation. Soon, all us outsiders were having our own conversation, interacting with each-other, whilst the Clique spoke amongst themselves, about themselves. It's the greatest thing in the world, to meet new people, to find out about them, particularly if they, like me, feel like outsiders, losers, rejects. It's what we all have in common! It's just, we realise it, and revel in it.
So, there were two groups having two huge conversations; there was the clique, and there was MY people - the anti-clique! Not elitist, not exclusionary, anyone can join, in fact anyone not in The Clique are, by default, in my anti-clique. And you are all welcome, because you are do not think you are cool. And this is why I think you are cool. And welcome to chat with me anyday.
Friday, 24 August 2007
Deeper into the past.
I don't know what happened to me, although I suspect the 1990's had something to do with it! I hated the 90s. The most nondescript, boring, uneventful time in the history of my life. The 1980's was the decade in which I came of age, so it will always be special for me. They were my "formative" years, and even though the most life-changing and significant development in my life happened around 1998, its seeds were sown in the 80s, and it is still the 1980's, and my early secondary school years, that I keep heading back to in my more tranquil moments.
It is total hindsight - I spend 30% of my moments reflecting on what actually happened around that time, and 70% imagining what I would, could and should have done differently! But quite why I feel such a strong desire to change this period of my history - rather than enhance my current status - I don't know. Freud, c'mere!
It is total hindsight - I spend 30% of my moments reflecting on what actually happened around that time, and 70% imagining what I would, could and should have done differently! But quite why I feel such a strong desire to change this period of my history - rather than enhance my current status - I don't know. Freud, c'mere!
Like lots of people, I had a tough time as a teenager. I was always 'different' from the other kids at school (and those that know me personally will understand what I truly mean by that, and agree!), but the toughest thing I guess, was growing up in a house that was marred, literally daily, by violence. My Mother was an alcoholic. Her partner (not my Father thank God) was an extremely violent, psychotic, ex-soldier who spent every day beating the hell out of her, then coming up to my room to goad me - "I just broke your Mother's nose! What are you going to do about it?!". Looking back, what a dick! But at the time, I didn't really understand much, I just knew that none of this was happening with my friend's families. I went to their houses after school, and they were clean, comfortable, light, Mum and Dad happily married. Mine was dark, noisy and heavy. Teacher's would always ask me, in front of the whole class, why I hadn't done my homework. It never occurred to me to say "Well, the sounds of my Mother being thrown around the living room, the smashing of glass, the thud as objects hit the wall, and Dire Straits being played at full volume over the stereo in order to drown out some of the noise of the fighting made it hard for me to concentrate on the difference between gas and liquid molecules." Instead, I always found myself trying to come up with various pathetic excuses such as "I didn't feel very well" or "I forgot".
Like, I am sure, a lot of people in my situation, music helped. I would never have been able to get through it if it hadn't been for my trusty, and beloved, 80's Sony Walkman that my Father had brought for me. Every single evening I would hide under my quilt, and play at full volume the cassettes that I loved at the time. "Bat out of Hell" by Meat Loaf was on constant rotation - the rock Opera as an escape from reality. "Now That's what I call Music Vol 5" had some great songs on it, including "Icing on the Cake" by Stephen "Tin Tin" Duffy, a song which struck a particularly strong chord with me. He takes on the role of protector to some social misfit, and even though I could have been the latter, I so wanted to be the former! I would listen to that song over and over and imagine I were singing it, singing about protecting whichever lost soul at school I had a crush on at that particular time.
"The Word Girl" by Scritti Politti had a really nice melody, "Out in the Fields" by Gary Moore and Phil Lynott you couldn't argue with. Lots of "Queen", and for some reason, "Hole in my Shoe" by Neil from the first "The Hits Tape" took me to a wonderful place - don't laugh! It did!
It's so hard to believe all this was about 25 years ago - and that now people younger than that are calling me "babe" and asking if I have "MSN" on a regular basis! That quarter of a Century has flown by - where did it go?!
I still have most of the cassettes, but the Walkman was long gone. So, imagine my joy when, browsing the internet, I came across the very model I used to have! Of course, I bought it straight away, heralding much comment from my friends who are always criticising me for living in the past. Meh. I don't care! It brought me so much happiness to hold such a Walkman in my hands again, and to play those same tapes, through the same Walkman again, it felt like.. home, safety, comfort. The same as it felt when I would play the tapes at full voume as a teenager, and escape the violence and shouting, and suddenly I was immersed in my music, and safe. All those old feelings came flooding back. Plus, I can't believe how loud music used to be! Modern walkmans or mp3 players, certainly not portable CD players, they could NEVER get close to the sheer volume of those old 80s Walkmans! I can't believe I made it out of my teens with such good hearing!
The strangest part of it all, is that by playing the old cassettes on the old Walkman, I appear to have tapped into.. something. I can close my eyes, and almost see the past right in front of me. Moments I had completely forgotten about came flooding back. Not major events either. Silly things, like walking through a playground, or sitting in the living room. Moments I would have no need to remember, they are all still there in my head. Suddenly my life feels like a book, and I can open any page and read any specific paragraph I care too. So it seems that as my health falters, and I perhaps should be concentrating more on the present, I am going deeper and deeper into my past, and have no desire to come back out of it anytime soon.
About me - an introduction:
I am 34 years old *ouch* and from West London.
I am mainly nocturnal, working permanent night shift, and spending most of my nights off up and about.
I am NOT a goth, but do like Gothic.
I like photography, particularly at night.
I love storms, and winter. I do NOT like the Sun, or Summer.
I like most music from before 1986, but little since (though there are exceptions)
And... I enjoy writing, so let's see where this takes me.
I am mainly nocturnal, working permanent night shift, and spending most of my nights off up and about.
I am NOT a goth, but do like Gothic.
I like photography, particularly at night.
I love storms, and winter. I do NOT like the Sun, or Summer.
I like most music from before 1986, but little since (though there are exceptions)
And... I enjoy writing, so let's see where this takes me.
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