I never started this as a true blog, because in all honesty I don’t feel I have anything of interest to say and besides, I am no writer! Recent events however have left me with an urge to write about them, so....whether anyone ever reads it or not, that’s exactly what I am doing.
Since we moved here (just over 7 years ago) I have got my money’s worth out of the NHS. I have had numerous trips to the local GP, one ambulance ride, one trip to Morriston A&E with a torn muscle, one trip to Singleton A&E with a staple gunned eyeball, lots of trips to Prince Phillip Hospital in Llanelli for many tests and scans and I have had three separate 5 day stays in West Wales General Hospital including one operation.
However, I have never been so grateful to the NHS as this last fortnight and never has the physical pain of my own various ailments matched the emotional pain of the worry of seeing my husband so ill.
You see, I’m the ill one, the unhealthy one, the one prone to accidents; he is always there fit and healthy to look after me, to visit me twice a day in hospital despite the 32 mile round trip and the fact he was working full time, to take care of things.
On Tuesday 18th August, Paul popped his head around just to say he was finishing work as he’d suddenly felt unwell. Nothing you could put your finger on...very tired, headachey, dizzy and a little sick. He felt bad enough the following day not to work and although it seemed like nothing serious, he went to his GP on Thursday 20th. There was no evidence of anything in particular so it was put down to a virus going around. He was sent home to rest but told to ring up straight away if anything changed.
On Saturday 22nd, he suddenly felt a pain in his abdomen. Not too severe but this was a new symptom so we rang and got an appointment that evening. There was by now some evidence of a urine infection so a prescription for antibiotics was handed to us along with information that Tesco’s pharmacy would be open the following day.
So we headed home. Within a couple of hours however, Paul collapsed on the floor. The pain had increased tenfold and I was really scared. On the one hand he kept saying not to fuss (!) but on the other he looked so unwell and was clearly in agony.
I rang an ambulance.
They arrived and took him off to hospital. I followed having hastily packed him a small bag thinking he’d be staying in. Apparently there was only one doctor and I have to say the 6 hours or so we waited while he lay there in considerable pain, was a low point. It was around 5am when we saw a doctor; they suggested keeping him in but he wanted to come home, so home we came with actual antibiotics this time, not just a prescription.
He got no better. The next two days were awful. He was completely bed ridden, and refused anything to eat. We waited for the antibiotics to work, but things only got worse. Again he insisted that he was OK where he was but on Monday, I phoned our GP and asked for a home visit.
The doctor who came was great. He frowned as soon as he saw him, looked over to me and quickly said, ‘he’s going in’. A couple of phone calls later it was all arranged for an ambulance to come to collect him (there was no way he could sit in a car) and for him to be admitted. Once again I followed on with his bag. It was early afternoon.
Once there, he was initially taken to the surgical assessment ward. He was looked at fairly quickly and as he had a bad urine infection he was admitted to Urology. The consultant he had been assigned to however did not seem very impressed with this, he was convinced that the urine infection was incidental or secondary to something else. There followed a debate between up to 4 doctors at one point and the upshot of that, was that it was appendicitis.
Ok. Appendicitis I could understand. I’d had it myself and although it meant an operation I knew it was a common problem so I was relieved.
Surgery was scheduled for the following day but Paul then took a turn for the worse and was violently sick with increased pain and a rising temperature. He managed to scare one of the other patients on the ward into running down the ward screaming for help and in no time at all he was once again surrounded by doctors. It had become an emergency and they were taking him to surgery right away.
I stayed with him holding his hand right up to the theatre door, (I’d have scrubbed in if they’d have let me), but in all honesty he was so ill he can’t remember whether I was there or not.
It was around 10pm by now so I went back to the car and phoned my parents to let them know what was going on. They go to bed fairly early so I said I would phone them the next day with an update. It just an appendectomy so shouldn’t take too long; I would wait so I could see him afterwards.
Time went on...and on...and on...I started to get worried, anxious. Gut wrenching horrible worry where each awful minute seemed to last an hour. I remember one of the nurses asking me if I had eaten and I realised that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast but (unusually for me) I didn’t want to.
When it got to midnight they suggested I go home but I couldn’t. I did all the stuff you would imagine you do in that situation. I paced, I sat, I tried to find something to distract me, I paced some more. Every time I heard anyone passing I’d jump up, only to find it was a cleaner, or a porter passing by.
Eventually, well after 1am, the surgeon walked in. I rushed towards him; he was clearly surprised I was still there. He started to explain, it wasn’t his appendix... they had found a lump in his bowel....lump had been removed...12-18 inches of bowel had been removed... lots of infection...very poorly... don’t know what lump is.....results at least a week.
It was late, I was exhausted, worried beyond reason, hadn’t eaten but I tried to listen and take it in; I tried to think of the right questions to ask. Obviously what was going through my mind was bowel cancer. Cancer. Even now, thinking back to that awful night I feel a gripping panic come over me.
Once I had asked all I could think of, I was told to go home as it could be another 2 hours before I could see him. Reluctantly I did, although I phoned up three times during the night to make sure he was OK. I didn’t sleep at all.
I went to see him as soon as they would let me the next day (technically later the same day - our anniversary incidentally). He wasn’t really able to speak to me, but I managed to find out that he had been told what they had done. I just sat with him for hours, silently holding his hand and feeling very alone.
I went every day for as long as I was allowed and eventually... he did start to get better; once the pain eased enough for him not to need morphine he was a lot more ‘with it’. That was a relief. He was allowed sips of water, then after a couple of days tea, followed by soup and porridge and eventually proper solid food.
One night when neither of us could sleep, we texted each other, alternating our choices of song which we would then listen to ‘together’. It might sound very silly, but it helped.
A couple of days after that (8 days after the operation), he came home. That was last Tuesday, 31st August. It was so wonderful to have him home but of course he was weak, tired and still in some pain, but worse than that, we had the worry of the results still hanging over us, as we still didn’t know what the lump was.
Each day there was a small improvement. On Thursday the stitches (well clips) - all 39 of them - came out, and his appetite has got better and better each day. Then finally yesterday, on Saturday 4th September, we got the results through.
Our post doesn’t get put through our front door, but instead our postbox is at the top of a long private lane; when I went to collect the post and saw a letter from the hospital I drove back down at a stupid speed, wishing I could open it...but of course it was addressed to Paul.
I gave the letter to him and he wanted to see first. Torture! So I stepped into the kitchen for all of 5 seconds before insisting he let me see. He handed the letter to me but the broad smile told me all I needed to know. I read the letter anyway. It was only two sentences. The second one is my favourite. It says ‘Therefore there is no cause for concern here’.
Imagine if you can, the world’s hugest sigh followed by the world’s most heartfelt (but gentle) hug, along with tears of relief)! A flurry of phone calls and updates later and the world (well our little world) knew the good news.
So...it’s a long recovery but at last life seems to be more normal again. The terrible bleak gut wrenching days of worry have gone and although he is frustrated that he can’t do anything and I am tired (for the same reason), it is going to get better; it will just take time.
This afternoon, it would appear to most people to be a typical Sunday afternoon; rubbish on the telly, both sat doing nothing much with a cup of tea, but when I looked and saw him sat there, pain free, on the mend and home...I just felt like the luckiest person alive.
Perspective can do that.
