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...
