During, but mainly after our holiday in the summer - which was amazing, I started getting cramps in my tummy, a feeling of being full and constipated. I put it down to overindulging on holiday, eating rubbish and drinking too much. My team prescribed laxatives, which helped to some extent, but even after the initial clearout I still wasn’t right. 3 weeks(ish) later, on the 26th August, after starting to throw up black vomit, the lady on the treatment helpline advised me to go to A&E. We phoned 999, and were advised that ambulances were a 6hr wait, and if someone could drive me down, that would be the best course of action. I called David, who was at work and let him know what was going on. Jack was bundled to my friend’s house and my mum drove me to the hospital.
A&E was not exactly where I had planned to spend Friday night. It seemed like there were very few people there with actual emergencies, a number of patients were trying to score stronger pain killers - she didn’t want none of that Tramadol shit, and one fella thought friday night would be the best time to go to the hospital about a non urgent injury he had on holiday and was clearly well enough to fly home with. Never-the-less, I checked into triage and set up camp next to the toilet.
It was next to the toilet I realised my first error. In my rush to leave the house, I had grabbed an old scratched, weather worn mixing bowl as a sick bucket for the journey to the hospital. Little did I know that my bowl game was simply not good enough. Opposite me, was another lady, with an immaculate, new washing up bowl. I was put to shame. Not that it mattered much, we were both in the same situation and subsequently tag teamed the porcelain in a spew relay which had no visible finish line.
I had been checked over by the A&E doctor, and advised that my black vomit wasn’t blood as I had thought, but was in actual fact, poo. I was spewing actual shit instead of the verbal diarrhoea I normally get when I’m excited/ nervous. Nice. I then got to go through the magic doors (tonight Matthew I’ll be…) and was given a bed on the A&E ward. I was given anti-sickness meds to stop the vom, and some Oramorph for the pain. Fair to say I was off my tits with the Oramorph, in my head it had absolutely no effect on me, however if you speak to David or my Mum, they will tell you a different story. Imagine my usual jibber jabber, but dialled up to 11. No wonder the woman from earlier was turning down the tramadol.
My abdomen was scanned, and I was told that my tumour was now causing a blockage in my bowel and that I’d have to have an Ileostomy. Giving a whole new meaning to a ‘bag for life’. I met my surgeon and less than 12hrs later I was having the operation.
Now for a normal person, that would be it. I’d now be regaling you with how marvellously I’m getting on and running marathons, and swimming in open water and hosting seminars on ‘living your best life’ with my new friend. Except I’m not normal and things got fucked up. I’m not going to give you a blow by blow account, but I’ll give you the highlights. Strap in.
I came round from the anaesthetic well enough and by all accounts, the surgery had gone well. They were able to carry out the surgery laparoscopically (keyhole) rather than opening me up fully. Except that once back on the ward my blood pressure started tanking, lower than the integrity levels at a tory party conference. The doctors made the decision to send me to the intensive care unit, to get a line in (the neck) and to give me meds to raise my blood pressure. I also got an arterial line, and I can’t even remember how many cannula’s I had on the go. The doctors and nurses in the ITU were absolutely amazing. They put me at ease, and really took care of me when I was really in quite a dangerous unwell state.
I was on medication for low blood pressure, and a shit ton of pain meds, so I thought I was doing ok. Except I wasn’t. Sepsis kicked in, as well as Cellulitis around my stomach. I was put on a cocktail of IV antibiotics to try and get things under control, things were seemingly getting better. I also had a friendly face on ITU, turns out I knew one of the members of staff - small world! It looked like I was getting better. I must have felt quite at home there too as I tried to turn off the ward lights using Alexa, and in a loud clear voice instructed ‘Alexa, lights off’. ITU is noisy and bright.
The thing about ITU, is there’s usually someone who’s more poorly than you, and if an emergency case comes in, the ‘least likely to die’ person gets moved to HDU - High dependency unit - even at 4 o’clock in the friggin’ morning. Yup, that person was me. Dazed and confused I was wheeled over to another ward.
Turns out HDU wasn’t so bad, I met a lady who had competed for team GB in the paralympics and was really lovely to chat to. I was there for a day or so before they moved me back to Ward 8. However I was still having outrageous spikes in temperature. 40 degrees, and full on rigors - the shakes - feeling so cold and shivery, but not being able to wrap up because I was actually hot. Nurses putting cold flannels over me and frozen bottles behind my neck. We had previously spotted two black ‘blisters’ while I was having a wash, which had appeared on the left hand side of my abdomen. Turns out I’d manage to go and get necrotizing fasciitis which meant I needed another surgery to cut out the rotting flesh I had going on - technical term ‘debridement’.
So, back into surgery, back out of surgery, back into recovery, and back to ward 8 for a day. But I was still having spikes in temperature despite all the antibiotics. Back into surgery for another debridement. Back out again, still having temperatures, and then back in 2 more times. The last time, they made the decision to keep me sedated for a day to see if they needed to go in a fifth time. I knew that this was a possibility, but when they brought me round on ITU (yup, was there again) I was told,thankfully, there didn’t need to be a fifth surgery, I saw the intubating tubes and declared, “I don’t need those, don’t know why they’re there!” Mum and David just rolled their eyes.
I’ve also learned since having been sedated, that the drugs they give you can be hallucinogenic which will explain the crazy ass existential crisis I had, is there a god? How do I know it’s the right one? Could I actually open myself up to love and thoughts and best wishes, and allow them to enter my body and make me better? What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t know what to think for a while after, did I need a priest or a straight jacket? 5 surgeries in 2 weeks, through the mill and back again. Emotions all over the place, thankfully some very kind people sat and listened and helped me regain some composure, perspective and positivity.
After the last surgery, I was on ITU again for 2-3 days and then moved to HDU once I had stabilised where I was for 4-5 days. I was still having temperatures, so was pumped full of the human equivalent to bleach to get rid of any and all leftover infections. My wounds (I had 5) were being unpacked and repacked daily - they still are - however, the largest wound, instead of taking 2x 15cmx15cm packing sheets, is now down to one 10cmx10cm sheet - so they are improving.
I did meet some lovely people in the hospital. I hope it goes without saying that the nurses and nursing assistants, doctors, anaesthetists, stoma nurses, Velindre Liasion Nurse, dieticians, phlebotomists, physiotherapists, dinner ladies and cleaners were fantastic. I was in a side room to avoid further infections on my own for much of my stay on ward 8 so to have them to chat to was invaluable. I should mention that I’m a pain in the arse to get a needle into, for cannula’s or blood, so quite often they’d be there a while smacking my arm like a junkie tying to get a vein to the surface - if you can’t have a laugh and a chat while they’re doing that then you’d collapse into a heap and not get up again. Actually, the anaesthetists got to play with some new vein finding gadgets while they were looking so it kept them entertained.
However there were some proper arseholes on the ward too. The woman in the HDU who kept trying to vape next to the oxygen tanks and nearly blew us all up, then called the police to complain that her vape had been taken away from her, all the while swearing at the staff. How they kept their cool I don’t know. David and I sat there with popcorn watching the show, it was incredible.
The man, either in HDU or ITU, I can’t remember which one, who complained about not being fed, even after he’d been brought food and that the ward was too noisy to sleep. Granted the ward is noisy, but the gentleman in question had the loudest snore in the entire fucking land, so we all knew he was totally bullshitting about not being able to sleep.
I’d like to put it on record now that the food in hospital is dire. Granted I had to have a soft diet for a few days while my bowel woke up and started working again, but most of the meals were brown slop and mash. Blergh! If you didn’t fancy brown slop, there was dry fish and still frozen chips, or bbq chicken and rice roulette - take a spoon of rice and find out whether it’s got uncooked pieces in there or not. None of that taking your fancy? You can always have a sad sandwich. Tempted? No, I didn't think so. There was one day I was tempted by the menu, a Chicken Dinner was on offer - I was excited. I was imagining carrots, peas, moist juicy roast chicken, crispy roast potatoes, sweet parsnips roasted in the juices of the meat, yorkshire puddings the size of your head, gravy that would stick to your ribs and stuffing, I was salivating, I was really, really looking forward to my dinner. However it was not to be, my imagination had got the better of me. I was told they’d run out of mixed veg, and was presented with a lump of beige chicken in the shape of a nose, 2 ice cream scoops of grey mash and congealed gravy. I nearly cried. I pushed it away and rang David to ask him to bring me some food.
Not surprisingly I lost 2 stone in hospital, and the doctors and stoma nurses were constantly reminding me to eat, I was to make sure I got plenty of calories and protein. One particular lecture was just after breakfast. For breakfast there was the choice of Rice Krispy Dust, Cornflake Dust, Porridge, or soggy toast - somehow it is acceptable to call something that has been toasted, buttered, kept under foil with its own condensation to get super soggy, toast. It’s not. It’s an atrocity. I mentioned this in my ever diplomatic, not at all hangry manor, and was promptly put on the yellow sheet for the dieticians and was then allowed a cooked breakfast from the canteen - winning! It didn’t improve the lunches or dinners.
I can’t let the valiant efforts of one lady go unmentioned either - the amazing Sue, who was incharge of feeding us on HDU. She would go above and beyond to get you what you wanted. She magicked up a ham and cheese toastie one lunch time, and even managed to produce… Fruit!
So it was coming towards the end of September, and I had had all the surgeries. I had spent our wedding anniversary in HDU instead of a romantic castle getaway. We also, In a bid to have a normal family moment when I was back on ward 8, had Domino's pizza in my side room to try and be a bit normal. It was still 2 weeks before I would be discharged. I was still a bit on the warm side and needed to be monitored, I had to be able to manage my stoma myself, physiotherapy had to sign me off, and my wounds had to stop leaking everywhere and be signed off by the Tissue Viability Nurse. There were a lot of ducks to get in a row before I could be discharged.
I consider myself well and truly blessed to have had the support from David, Jack, my mum, my sister and my friends, for managing everything at home, bringing me good tea, and ferrying washing back and forth to the hospital, making sure I had enough snacks and anything else I needed. The thought of getting back to my family kept me going, especially on my darkest days, I had to fight to be here for them.
I don’t usually like the word fight, but I certainly had to work feckin’ hard to get the motivation to get up, show up, get dressed, get to grips with the stoma, and get over the shit storm of stuff that’s happened and will continue to happen to my body. Even now, while I’m healing, and I thought things were going well, my hair has decided to start falling out - seriously, if you don’t laugh… Anyway, I was finally discharged on the 14th October, and I cried, alot.
I’ve by no means covered everything that happened in those 7 weeks, but I think I’ve covered the main bits and it can explain why I went M.I.A for nearly 2 months. I still have the tumour, and we’re waiting for tests and scans before we can progress with treatment for that, but I am recovering from the surgeries, my wounds are healing and I can now change my new Dolce and Gabagga bag confidently. I’m taking things slowly, to be honest I don’t have a lot of choice in that, but I’m getting there.
Look! No more cannuals!
My wounds and bag
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