I will soon be running out of analogies for my titles so really hope this run of hospitalisations stops soon.
I had been feeling a bit rubbish (read really poorly) since my chemo on Thursday 9 May. That had not gone well as I was very sick not long into my treatment. The drip was stopped and I was topped up with antisickness meds. Four hours after I started, with the unit closing around us Mr G and I made our escape. To be honest, the Saturday and Sunday passed in a blur and I should probably have sought medical advice.
Monday arrived, and I was feeling bilious, until finally my poor tum could take no more and I was very sick. To put it bluntly all the food and drink I had consumed for 18 hours returned untouched. I realised that this was very bad news and rang the Little Hospital Chemo Unit. In truth I knew what the answer would be, go straight to the Big hospital Oncology unit as quickly as possible. Fortunately Mr G arrived home in time to take me to hospital. We tried for an ambulance but we would have had to wait an hour and a half and I could not wait.
We were greeted by the now familiar staff on the Oncology Ward. I had a cannula inserted and a dose of mega antibiotic was delivered. Once it was established I had some functioning immune system I was taken to the four bed ladies bay. Much of the next few days is a bit of a blur (mercifully). It transpired that my permanent drain was badly infected (and part of my tummy with it) and that my kidneys were not working well at all. I was given fluids and minerals via drip and large amounts of mega antibiotic.
There was a very unpleasant interlude regarding the removal of my drain. The type of drain I had is unfamiliar in the Big Hospital and the surgical team were sure that they could 'pull it out' with the aid of some local anaesthetic. I vigorously disagreed with this pleading with them to contact the Little Hospital for advice. My pleas were ignored and the surgical team set about removing my drain under local on my bed on the ward. It took them far too long to realise that I was right and that the WHOLE procedure should have been undertaken under a general anaesthetic in theatre. I was put on the emergency list for the next day.
I was nil by mouth from 6am. By 9.15pm the ward staff and Mr G were becoming very concerned, I had had nothing to eat or drink for 15 hours, and we still did not know if I was to have surgery or not.
After phone calls it became apparent that I had been triaged off the list as being less needy that the others. At this point I lost the plot. I could not believe that I was considered so unimportant that I was not even worth notifying about my surgery. For the first time in my life I was sedated, and I am very grateful to the ward staff for doing so to spare me more distress.
The next day was Friday. I was once again nil by mouth and eventually went to theatre mid afternoon. There was an unfortunate incident regarding me, a bedpan and an embarrassed male anaesthetist that I can nearly (but not quite) laugh about now. When I got back to that ward I was drowsy, sick and sore and glad to hunker down and sleep my trials off.
On Saturday morning I felt a bit morning after the night before, but was able to take me and my drip to the bathroom where I was horrified to see a bruise on my chest displaying knuckle marks. Before you ask, no it was not in the heart restarting place! I asked how this could have happened and the answer came back that the procedure had been more difficult than anticipated (NO sh*t Sherlock) I was not really satisfied with this, nor were my nurses but evidently there were no further notes.
I rested and slept through the remainder of Saturday and Sunday.
Monday 20 May marked a whole week in hospital. I was still on mega antibiotics, still having my kidney function treated and to cap it off, I developed a cold sore on my shoulder which meant I was moved to a single room. This meant that at last I was away from batty lady and her long and ill timed episodes on the commode!
To be continued...