Post 58: Not Out of the Woods
Briefly: I’m still here in CCU, and yesterday’s palpitations took a full 17 hours to settle back into sinus rhythm. (See photo)
The ward is mostly quiet—except for two particularly challenging patients who are hoovering up all of the nurses’ patience and the attention of security. One of them, the loudmouth, is right opposite my bed, and frankly, it feels like he’s shouting at me. I know he’s not, but that doesn’t make it any less harrowing. It’s like being trapped in a really bad episode of Casualty, minus the credits and the ending.
⸻
Doctors, Dead Ends, and Disappointments
Today I was a mess, especially after the doctors’ round. It offered little by way of clarity or comfort—until I snapped. My emotional rant might have startled the crowd of medical students following the consultant like ducklings, but it did finally prompt some proper attention. The result? A promise to establish clearer coordination between cardiology and oncology.
Progress? Perhaps. We’ll see.
Then came the email bombshell: Oncology had cancelled my Carboplatin. The moment they heard about my latest AFib episode in A&E, that was it.
Disappointing doesn’t quite cut it.
Devastating is more like it.
Next up, I was told I’d be staying another night in CCU—under observation, with the idea that if I go into AFib again, they’ll try a new drug regimen to stop it.
Except here’s the kicker: they’ll only trial that if I have another episode while on the ward. So basically, no problem = no solution.
Great. Just great.
⸻
Then Came the Sentence
Later, an oncology specialist nurse came to my bedside with what felt like a courtroom verdict.
She told me:
“Chemo will only happen if you have a full week clear of any cardiac events.”
I was stunned. Not angry, not tearful—just… stunned. If I’m averaging two AFib events a week, then what she’s saying is that I may never be eligible for chemo again.
I was reeling. My mood sank even further.
⸻
But Then: Rob to the Rescue
Enter Rob, a compassionate and seriously proactive nurse. He advocated for me right there and then, grabbing a cardio registrar for an impromptu meeting—just as My Darling and our youngest had arrived during visiting hours.
The three of us laid out the issue, bluntly:
“If oncology won’t proceed until cardiology acts, and cardiology won’t move until oncology treats—where does that leave me?”
The registrar, bless her, said:
“There’s no way we’re dealing with your leaky valve until after the chemo.”
And there it was: stalemate.
But instead of brushing us off, she made a brilliant suggestion:
Let’s have a joint meeting tomorrow (Friday), with cardiology, oncology, me, and my family all present.
Now that’s what I call progress.
Actual teamwork. Actual hope.
I was beyond grateful and My Darling procured and gave Rob a well-earned box of luxury chocolates for his kindness and tenacity, which obviously he shared around with his colleagues. What a difference a good nurse makes.
⸻
The Day Ends Quieter, Kinder
Before his shift ended, Rob got me moved into the step-down annexe—a peaceful sanctuary compared to the chaos of the main ward.
What a star. What a difference.
By 8pm, I was utterly exhausted. My Darling had come back down to visit and left me in much better spirits, settled in this quieter space.
Just as I was getting ready for bed, I was hit with sudden lower back pain out of nowhere. My Darling did her best to massage the area while I curled into a kneeling fetal position on the bed. The night shift nurses—who’d just come on duty—acted fast and gave me some IV pain relief.
Within minutes, I was asleep.
My Darling kissed me goodnight and gave me a sleepy hug as I drifted off, already dreaming of tomorrow’s meeting…
