Well, no kippers, just toast.
The high pace of my medical treatment continues. On 2nd July, we have a video consultation with a heart procedure specialist from the Royal Brompton hospital. They describe the ‘mitra clip’ procedure; feeding equipment up a vein from the groin and linking the poorly functioning side of the valve to the efficient side, so enabling a more effective valve closure. The procedure does involve making a hole from one side of my heart to access the other side! The doctor will use images relayed from an echocardiogram probe in my oesophagus to guide their work. This is keyhole surgery, but still quite a major intervention. I will have a few nights in hospital. They will ‘bump’ me up the waiting list because of the cancer, and the procedure will probably be in a few weeks time.
Monday 8th July, MRI scan. Sunday 15th July, CT scan.
Monday 16th July at 08.20; a phone call from the Royal Brompton. About my heart procedure, which is scheduled for Thursday; ‘just checking that you are OK for being admitted tomorrow?’ Well, I can be…
Tuesday 17th July. I catch the 06.20 from Taunton to Paddington and, 3 hours later, present myself to the Royal Brompton in Kensington. The train into London is surprisingly quiet, until Reading, and it’s an uneventful journey in. I buy a coffee, and one for a homeless person, at South Kensington tube station and walk through Onslow Square to Sydney Street. The disparities in our society appear greater now, or, maybe, my more pronounced grasp of mortality is making me more conscious of them? Someone with nothing, cadging a hot drink from a passerby, within touching distance (we didn’t) of parked Lamborghinis. Can a new government change this? And do we care enough to press them to?
As usual, the cardiac ward is on the top floor. And I use the stairs. Something, I won’t be doing in a few days time. Tuesday is a day of admission process. I have another ECG and another echocardiogram, bloods are taken and one of the procedure team gives me a briefing on what to expect. I ask permission to leave the ward and go down to the café on the ground floor for a decent coffee; ‘just keep your phone with you’ and ‘don’t be more than 5 minutes away’. I feel like a bit of a fraud, everybody else in the 6-bed room is plainly quite unwell, and they are all carrying small bags containing a personal ECG, the NHS equivalent of an ankle curfew tag.
Opposite the hospital is St Luke’s church, Chelsea. I have a look around, and a sit in the small adjacent park. Charles Dickens got married here. I give my brother a call and we arrange to meet later in the afternoon.
Back on the ward, I get to know my fellow inmates. They are all older than me and are having or have had various cardiac interventions. One of them is working, just a little too hard, to make light of the situation and another is hiding behind his closed curtains. The staff are all very lovely, professional and managing a bunch of sick old guys gently and firmly. When my brother arrives, I am allowed to escape into the sunny afternoon, ‘don’t be more than 5 minutes away’. My brother used to live very close to the Royal Brompton, and we explore his old neighbourhood. The metropolitan police accommodation is now rather plush apartments, complete with Japanese style garden and an actual concierge. We loop around to the Kings Road and back to the hospital.
This will be my first overnight in hospital for many years. The evening meal is OK, I choose mushroom risotto, followed by jelly. A paper liner on the tray tells me that the Royal Brompton has been awarded a ‘silver award’ for it’s food by the Soil Association. The bed is comfortable, but it is very noisy, traffic and street noise keep me awake to well after mid-night. However, I do get to sleep and awake at 7am to find a nurse waiting to check my blood pressure and temperature. Wednesday is a day of waiting and meeting various new, to me, doctors. Including the person who will be doing the actual procedure. They caution me that they will only release me into the care of a competent adult and to take it easy for a week following the operation. I contact my brother and arrange to spend the weekend with him.
I am ‘nil by mouth’ from midnight and sleep really quite well. On Thursday morning, the anaesthetist visits and explains what their team will do. I shower with anti-bacterial gel and get into a gown; these are open at the back, and I have learnt to ensure that they ‘drape’ effectively to preclude unplanned mooning. And at 1pm, we are off to the ‘cath lab’. There are several people present, and this is just the anaesthetic team. Cannulas are inserted into both my wrists and a mask placed over my face.
‘Nice deep breaths’
‘You are doing really well’
I am just laying on my back looking at the ceiling but good to know that I am doing this well. I consciously focus on the mask and the ceiling.
And then I am awake again. In a recovery ward. I am helped to have a drink of water. My throat feels a little sore, but otherwise no apparent side effects, yet.
The rest of Thursday is a post-general anaesthetic blur. I can’t remember the trundle back to the ward. I do have to stay horizontal for several hours, to allow the wound in my groin to heal. There is a pressure dressing on this, which has air removed from it every so often. I have two cannulas in my left arm and one in my right, and a line in the right-hand side of my neck. I am allowed to eat and drink, using a straw and staying as horizontal as possible. Mobilisation is delayed until the following morning to allow the groin wound to heal; ‘try not to move your right leg’.
Friday morning and mobilisation. Sit up, stand up, walk around. All seems good. All the medics are happy. I shower and go down to get a decent coffee, using the lift this time. One of the nurses explains what the various cannulas were for and these are removed. I have a sore groin, sore neck and my left arm is quite bruised. And my heart appears to be doing well. I know have my own portable ECG monitor.
And Saturday, I am discharged into the care of my brother. Cautioned not to drive for 4 weeks and provided with a month’s supply of anti-coagulant tablets. I spend Saturday napping on my brother’s sofa and on Sunday, am put on a train back to Taunton.
48 hours later and I am waiting for an oncology appointment, tomorrow, to discuss latest scans. These will determine if the cancer surgery can go ahead. If yes, then I can expect this in a month. If no, well, my repaired heart will see me out.
(23rd June 2024)
