I visited my GP on Monday with a severe stomachache and no other concerns. The nurse practitioner arranged for me to have an ultrasound scan for suspected gallbladder issues the following day. I wasn’t too worried, I knew a few people who had had their gallbladders removed and had not had any long-term problems. i was a little surprised at the speed and urgency with which she had booked the hospital appointment.
I went along to the ultrasound suite at the hospital and was examined by a member of staff who looked a long time and pressed quite hard on the tender part of my tummy. She stopped and asked if I minded them bringing in a doctor to have a look. They told me nothing but sent me up to the Surgical Assessment Unit. I was not worried and was still thinking about Gallstones
The staff in the SAU were kind but told me that the scan results were inconclusive, so to be on the safe side, I should have a CT scan. After waiting for a long time, I was instructed to proceed to the scanning suite but to return to the SAU afterwards. My husband had a broken toe and was finding the trekking around the hospital very painful. So I took myself off to find the CT scanning suite (I don’t have a good sense of direction, and I find hospitals confusing). I found the Outpatients CT waiting room and sat again for a long time until I was told I was in the wrong place, as I was now an inpatient. Also, one of the CT scanners was broken, and everyone who was non-urgent was sent home. After the scan, I went back to the SAU. The doctor told me I had an obstruction on my right bowel and would need emergency surgery. It was a tumour, and if it wasn’t removed, my bowel could rupture. I internalised the shock and was very calm and logical, I think I was in a kind of stupor which lasted for next three weeks.
He was very honest and clear and described that the wall of my bowel showed thickening consistent with cancer, and there was a danger that it may have found its way into my lymph nodes, so they would need to remove some lymph nodes as well. There was a strong possibility that I would be given stoma. I then had to sign the permission form for the surgery. I was taken down to ward 5, where I was well looked after; they even found me a phone charger. I was completely unprepared, with no nightdress or toothbrush. No time to process the information. A quick conversation with an anaesthetist who mentioned an epidural, which scared me a bit.
The next day I was catheterised and (the worst part) had to take a plastic tube down down through my nose into my throat to my stomach to relieve pressure during the operation. I thought I was going to choke.
The stoma nurses came in and marked my tummy with a marker pen in case I needed a stoma.
I was given an epidural, which was not as bad as I had expected, and then I was out for the count.
When I woke up in recovery, the staff wanted to ask me questions, but all I wanted was to go back to sleep.
They had done an amazing job and managed to rejoin my bowel and ileum and avoid giving me a stoma, for which I am grateful.
The surgery had taken 6 hours, and I was taken to the High Dependency Unit. It was like a room in a police procedural drama, I was the victim of an attack linked up to tubes and monitors watching the rhythm of my life spelt out in peaks and troughs on a big screen. They were monitoring my blood pressure automatically and noisily every 15 minutes, day and night. I was on a range of drips and wasn't really with it. I was there for nearly a week, but now I can barely remember it. I remember a terrible storm with rain hammering on the skylights and lightning flashing through the windows I also remember my daughter arriving from Scotland with a haggis cuddly toy. (I called Colin)
My blood pressure was worrying them, and I was unable to get out of bed.
Eventually, I was taken to a normal ward where I stayed for another week. I met some wonderful people, including critical care nurses and cancer care nurses who were helpful and encouraging.
My bowel started working, and they removed the catheter, but despite drinking a lot of water, I had forgotten how to pee. The nurse was not happy and woke me up at two in the morning to be re-catheterised to reduce the strain on my bladder. This was a step backwards; I had just been revelling in my lack of tubes. Eventually and after a lot of effort and support from a kind student nurse, I was able to start weeing without a catheter.l
I was discharged to a rehab facility because I was still having problems with my blood pressure and couldn't stand up unaided.
I was issued with a walking stick and the staff were instructed to accompany me to the loo, following me with a commode in case I couldn't make it. (This mental picture caused my husband a great deal of amusement.)
While at the rehab centre, I had a telephone consultation with the doctor about the surgery, and he confirmed what we already knew: I had cancer and would be referred for Chemo
Three weeks on an out-of-control roller coaster. I still hadn't caught my breath
Finally, I was discharged home in time for Wimbledon. Still in a daze, still feeling unsure of what had just happened.
This week I went to see the oncologist and now have a clearer picture of the situation;
I’m doing the chemo.
A few weeks ago, I was OK, no clue I had stage 3 cancer.
I feel well after the surgery, but the cancer is in my lymphatic system, so I do not want to take the risk.
Yes, I am scared, but I am basically a fairly healthy 64-year-old.
I can do this.
I will try to keep up regular posts, observations, and thoughts as things progress.
