Sunday 23rd June and I head back to London. I have an 8am appointment for an angiogram at Northwick Park Hospital. It’s a pretty awful journey. I get to the station to find my fast train has been cancelled; but I’m just in time for an earlier train. This service stops absolutely everywhere between Taunton and Paddington; Bridgwater, Bristol, Bath, Bob’s Farm and the corner shop. And it gets slower and arrives 40 minutes later than my scheduled train. Of course, it’s super-crowded as it has passengers from two cancelled trains on board. I still look like a fit and able person, but I don’t have the endurance to offer up my seat anymore and I sit feeling mildly guilty, and increasingly needing a pee.
I stay in the same Premier Inn as last week and it’s only a 20-minute walk and I am on the 9th floor and in the same day unit as last week. It’s just before 8am. We go through the admission process; check name and date of birth, blood pressure taken, canula into left elbow vein, and confirm that I have been nil by mouth since midnight.
The doctor doing the procedure arrives. He is a really good communicator and explains clearly what will happen. I feel reassured by his attitude and more confident for my safety than I did with last week’s unhappy team. A tube will be inserted into a wrist artery and fed around to my heart. Dye will be pumped through this, and X-rays taken. This will allow an assessment to be made of the health of my cardiac blood vessels. There is a 1 in 1000 chance of death.
There are four male patients in my side of the day unit. They all appear more symptomatic than me and, from the snatches of conversation that I inevitably hear, will be having more involved versions of an angiogram; with the potential for stents to be inserted.
I am first in and wheeled around a couple of corridors and left outside a door. I am expecting to be taken into the procedure on the bed and am surprised when a nurse appears and asks me to ‘hop off the bed and walk this way’. The procedure room, or ‘lab’ as the staff call it, is much larger than last week’s cramped space. And there are loads of people bustling about. I count 8.
I lay on a narrow table and am cautioned not to fall off. Leads are connected to sticky pads on my chest and a tube attached to the canula. Everyone is moving purposefully and quietly. The doctor greets me and then calls for a time-out. What? What he is actually doing is getting everyone’s attention for a pre-procedure briefing. My identity and procedure are confirmed, and various staff members confirm details. It is all reassuringly calm and professional.
The doctor sits on my right and explains that he will give me a small amount of sedation and a drug that will relax me. I might feel some discomfort from the insertion of the tube. In case my right wrist is not suitable, they prepare the top of my left leg as an alternative entry point. The doctor shows me the thin tube and wire that will soon be snaking its way up my arm and into my heart.
And then we’re in. It really is not a painful experience at all. The doctor gives various instructions to team members and talks with me throughout the procedure. He is also having a conversation with a radiographer, out of my eyeline but operating an x-ray machine that is hovering over my chest and moving to different angles. The doctor and radiographer are talking in medical co-ordinates which mean nothing to me. I am reassured when they say ‘good image’ several times.
Being mildly sedated is a strange experience. I think I have a good recollection of this procedure, but I can’t say how long it took or exactly what happened and in what order. I can say that it was one of the least unpleasant examinations that I have experienced over the last year. And the team in the room were very professional and seemed really happy in their work.
For my return to the ward, my bed is brought alongside the table and I bum-shuffle across. I check the ward clock, it is 10.15am. I notice that I am wearing a strange bracelet on my right wrist. This is a natty, inflated, pressure pad. One of my arteries has been pierced and this needs to be carefully managed until it has clotted and repaired itself. I have had more cannulas and blood samples taken than I can remember, and these have always been into veins. Veins are low pressure blood vessels and a minute or two of finger pressure is enough to stop them bleeding. Arteries are under pressure and need a bit more care to ensure successful sealing.
Although only mildly sedated, I dose for the next couple of hours, aware periodically of a nurse removing some air from the bracelet.
Around midday, I am asked what I would like to eat and drink. This week I can have a hot drink. So, it’s tea (always a safer choice on a hospital ward than coffee!), orange juice, a cheese sandwich, and several glasses of water. I don’t feel especially hungry, but I am thirsty. And it is recommended to drink plenty to help flush the dye out of the kidneys.
Last week’s graduated recovery is repeated; move to a chair and sit for a while, then stand up and walk around, and then go for a wee. All good. At around 1.30pm a nurse brings my discharge papers, and I am free to go. Prior to this procedure, I had been cautioned that I would not be able to travel by public transport and that I should not be alone for the next 24 hours. But the nursing team are super happy with me and with a cheery ‘this is not a prison’, send me on my way.
I meet my older brother and we spend the afternoon sitting in Regents Park and he talks about our parents and various childhood happenings. I sit and enjoy the sunshine; And in the morning have a smooth and comfortable journey home, bizarrely it is £50 cheaper to travel First Class than standard? I get home and flop on the sofa, but my planned nap is disrupted by a phone call from the cardiac team. They have reviewed my case, and their opinion is I need the valve sorted prior to the cancer surgery. They have referred me to another London Hospital, The Royal Brompton, and a doctor who specialises in a form of keyhole cardiac surgery called ‘mitra-clip’. The specialist should be in contact soon.
The specialist is in contact soon, actually within an hour of the referral being made and within another 24 hours I have a consultation appointment made for the following Monday. It feels like the race to save me is back on.
(26th June 2024)
