‘Hello. Hello, are you awake?’
‘Uh, yeh,’ I mumbled. ‘Can I have some water please?’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Morning. Ok, I think, thank you.’
I was able to see a wall clock and saw it was about 2,20 pm. My operation had commenced around 8.30 am. I was woozy but thought I was clear headed.
To be honest, much of the rest of the day was a blur created by anaesthetic and morphine.
The two nurses / attendants caried out various checks before I was transferred to the ward, initially to a side room as a bed space was not available.
Here I was visited by the surgeon and his team, told I could eat toast, had no stoma bag and could go home the following afternoon!
I remember being surprised by the toast, ecstatic about the bag and very doubtful about the departure date.
My body was numb, and I felt exhausted. I was soon thereafter moved to a window spot on the ward. I gave a thumbs up to everyone I passed and settled into my new surroundings. Presently a ward nurse came to ask if I needed anything. I wanted my stuff – an overnight bag – which had my phone in. I spent the next hour sending messages off, letting people know I was alive at least and okay second.
My mother came to see me and took a picture to share on Facebook. We hugged and I cried again when I told her I did not have a bag. This was such a bonus to me.
Every hour I had my blood pressure checked, up till 22.00 then every two hours I was awoken to take it again. No chance to sleep, but I felt fairly comatosed anyway.
My diet was liquid, with yoghurt energy drinks to the fore. By the morning a bit of soreness could be felt, but with the morphine pain killer drip attached to a button, I was able to control how much. I had feared the pain, but it was bearable
It was now Saturday. My cricket club had promised to do something in support, but I had no idea what, and without access to their website or Facebook page I could not see.
My dear mother came back in the morning and again briefly in the afternoon to see me. My catheter was removed. It had been so easy to simply pee without any concerns, but now needed to use a bottle, which meant getting out of bed.
I was fed light food, soup, yoghurt and fruit juice. I was given a laxative. Yet I was still stuck in bed. I was nervous about the soup making a mess, so only had half a small bowl, which did not help my energy levels. Early afternoon two physio nurses appeared to encourage me out of bed.
Roll on to your side, dangle your legs over the side, and pushing on your arm, encourage the pendulum effect to take over and help you upright. Walking, with assistance, was achieved and I went to sit on the toilet for 10 minutes before hobbling back to bed.
My Mother came back in the afternoon, but her stay was cut short by the loud radiorothe man in the next-door bed listening to the cup final. Supper – jacket potato (do not eat the skin) with baked beans, yoghurt and fruit juice – was served shortly after her departure anyway at 5pm.
I fell asleep and dozed all night despite odd visits for my blood pressure check. This time not as frequently.
On Sunday morning I had a visit from the ward doctor to assess whether I could go home that afternoon. I was exhausted, had not eaten properly and barely left the bed, so felt it would be too soon. He agreed, preferring to know I could walk around the ward at least. Other patients on the ward had been in for longer than me, but were older and had bags or other complications, and there was no suggestion that they would be released.
I therefore asked for a bed bath and a change of gown, which was getting smelly.
My pain levels were tolerable without much medication being administered. I went for a gentle walk into the ward corridor and managed a lap finding a different toilet to use. I completed a couple of simple wordsearches and Sudokus. I needed something to occupy my mind. Lethargy had set in as well as being tried from the operation and lack of food. The assistant surgeon came to visit and confirmed he was more than happy for me to go home the following day. I was now excited at the prospect and celebrated by doing a double lap of the ward. I managed to get to the toilet just in time to deposit quite a build-up of runny poo. Up till then it had been wind. This too was a little win moment to tick off. My new bowel was working as it should be.
I had a visit from two more physios who took me off down the corridor and an off-shoot corridor to a side room with a small flight of stairs. Three up and three down, with bannisters. I negotiated them without issue. Another tick on the path to being let out.
That afternoon we had a new member of our ward team arrive. It was his first time in hospital, and he was suffering. His bowels had gone to sleep. I was asked if I minded swapping to an internal berth away from the window as his family hoped it would relax him more if he could look out at the sky.
At university I studied a philosophy course and one topic we had discussed centred on altruistic actions. Is any action truly altruistic? I felt I had come as close to achieving that goal as was possible.
That night I regretted my decision. I could not sleep. Perhaps it was as much my lack of activity as anything, but the lights from the corridor did not help. My football listening neighbour had a very bad night, having trouble with his stoma bag which he tried to empty but it went over the floor. He then filled at least two bottles with pee, some of which may have had blood in. He was not on such a good position as I was and was not happy.
In the morning, I had a great visit from my uncle. It was lovely to chat with someone about things I was interested in – Norwich’s search for a new manager; his wife who is suffering from terminal cancer; cancer insurance; as well as what I had been through. He brought me a football magazine and though he stayed over an hour, the time flew by, and I felt happy to be alive.
Depression, or certainly a low level of self-pity and a feeling to helplessness, has been a part of my make up for my whole life. I guess we all have lows, but my lows appear lower than many others and I do not want to talk with people. I was generally feeling low and lacking the confidence to do anything, worried about the future. Talking with my uncle cleared my head.
My wife and daughter in law came to pick me up mid-afternoon, but I had not received my release papers. We waited a further 2 hours before we got the final nod. I dressed and fist pumped by ward mates and wished them all the very best before slowly waddling off out of the ward, down the corridor and off to the lifts.
