by R. A. Lang
The only chance I had of surviving was to make it to Morriston Hospital. The flight attendant understood and made the requested arrangements before we landed. By the time I landed in Cardiff, I was basically on my last legs and fading fast, leaning forward and could no longer sit back in my seat. I was supported while walking down the steps at the aircraft’s door, as I was in a terrible state once we’d landed, and met by a man with the wheelchair. Time became everything and I was fast-tracked through the airport until I finally passed through the little arrivals area. It felt comforting to be back home on my own turf!
Chapter 25
Hospitalised
Soon, I left the arrivals area, where my sister was already waiting for me. It was the first time I’d seen her for several years, but it was a comfort to know that family are always around when you needed them the most.
The airport assistant pushed me all the way to my sister’s car, and off we went. Due to the state I was in, my sister drove me directly to Morriston Hospital’s casualty wing. My colour was so grey by this time and I could barely talk due to the agony I was enduring.
In the accident and emergency arrivals room, I was taken in by wheelchair pushed by my sister and seen immediately. A nurse asked whether I knew what my problem was, and I managed to squeeze out the word ‘pancreatitis’. A doctor was informed and he immediately ordered morphine, which seemed to be routine when treating someone with pancreatitis.
I heard the nurse attending to me tell my sister that I wasn’t going anywhere for a few days. Not long after, arrangements were made to admit me to Ward G, where I was to remain for the following two weeks.
I was administered a daily regimen of painkillers and a fat-free, light diet that was designed to be pancreas friendly. Basically, I ate baby food. It was in Morriston Hospital that I finally learnt what a complex and important organ the pancreas was. Apart from manufacturing digestive enzymes, it also manufactured insulin. As my pancreatic duct was blocked, my pancreas was basically eating itself every time it produced digestive enzymes.
After two weeks I was discharged with a large prescription of drugs that would last four weeks, until my much-needed operation. The normal waiting time for my operation was six months, which I certainly would not have survived, so I had to go privately. Four weeks later, I returned to Morriston Hospital to get prepared for what is known as the Beger procedure.
Emotions were running rather high while I lay there alone in a different part of the ward, waiting for the surgery I would undergo in the morning. All I kept thinking about was the 67% survival rate after such a massive operation.
I was confident that, with my luck, I would be among the 33% that didn’t make it, but I was damned if I was going to give up without a fight! I kept thinking of what Haitian had promised me, and that I didn’t want her to have the satisfaction that she’d succeeded in killing me.
At half past five the next morning, after a sleepless night, a nurse came to my bed and told me that I needed to shower and prepare for surgery. That shower felt very different. I felt like I was showering without any feelings or emotions. I felt like I was showering for the very last time. I felt so terribly alone.
I returned back to my bed in a kind of semi-shock, not really aware of my surroundings anymore. Soon after, the anaesthetist booked to take care of my pain and sleep administration visited me to explain the forthcoming procedure and the risks associated with having an epidural needle inserted high up inside my spinal column.
He was extremely detailed in his explanations, which added the fear of God to how I was already feeling. He produced a document that I needed to sign my authorisation to continue. It cleared him of any responsibility in the event that my body did not perform in the right manner.
In less than an hour, my surgeon came to my bedside to inform me that, because there had been a serious accident, there was not a free bed available for me in the high dependency unit for post-surgery care. Just my luck, I thought as I began to dress again for the journey home.
I was picked up a couple of hours later by my mother for the second time, along with another big prescription of drugs to help with my discomfort and taken back to my sister’s house. A couple of days later, I received a second surgery date for a month later. I repeated the very same procedure a month later, but everything felt different. After all the same activities as the previous month, my surgeon greeted me, instead of the anaesthetist.
He informed me that there had been another big accident, and my overdue operation had been cancelled yet again! I told him I was not leaving, as I knew inside I was not able to fight for life much longer, and off he went to see what he could do to change things.
After a half hour, a nurse came to my bed, accompanied by a porter, to take me down to the operating theatre. I owe my life to that surgeon in Morriston Hospital, Swansea and will never forget that he put his neck out to save my life. This is the reason why I was able to write Andy’s Story, and no other.
Before entering the theatre, I was pushed into a room where I met the very same anaesthetist who had visited me before. He was already in surgical green, and prepared me for surgery in a room just outside the operating theatre. He started by numbing my spine where he was about to insert the epidural needle.
Next came a shock: I felt an extremely sharp pain as the epidural touched a nerve that was not yet numbed. The anaesthetist gave me another numbing injection and repeated the process several more times until the epidural had been inserted all the way up my spine. He then taped it firmly in place and made me lie back on the bed.
While he was carefully positioning the needle, a male nurse pushed gently against my shoulders to stop me pushing forward when I felt each stabbing pain. This gives a new meaning of being stabbed in the back, I thought. He was also professionally and genuinely sympathetic with what I was going through and very comforting and reassuring.
The anaesthetist then placed a mask over my mouth and nose and encouraged me to breathe in the oxygen, as he put it, which had a slightly sweet smell about it. I pulled it away from my face and laughingly said it’s not just oxygen, smiled and placed it back in position on my face and inhaled deeply. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the evening in the high dependency unit with tubes coming out all over my body.
I had four tubes coming out of my neck, two coming out of my left arm, one coming out of my right arm, a catheter, two drains coming out of my lower abdomen, and a tube that had been inserted into my nose and down into my stomach.
I was assigned a dedicated nurse to watch over me, as well as a doctor. Soon after waking up, my mother arrived to see how I was doing after the ten hour procedure. With all the medication being pumped into me, I was feeling somewhat comfortable considering I just had my stomach, pancreas, gall bladder, and several feet of small intestine worked on.
Life seemed to have a totally new meaning after that. A woman in the next cubicle was not so lucky. After a team spent over an hour and a half trying to resuscitate her after a similar operation, she passed away. It made me feel so guilty to be alive. I was thinking, she must have a husband and children and I hadn’t, so why her and not me? I would have taken her place without thinking if only it were possible.
After what I’d seen, I persuaded the high dependency unit to let them have my bed for someone else more in need than I was. After three nights, they transferred me back to Ward G. I was in a different part of the ward this time, close to its reception so they could keep a close eye on me. The nursing staff were amazing there, and they did everything they could to make me feel comfortable.
Soon after arriving in the ward, they came to remove my catheter and asked whether a young student nurse could remove it, as it would be her first time, which I agreed to. Expecting a little discomfort, I waited for the pain. Fortunately, the pain I was expecting didn’t come. Instead, it was all over in just a couple of seconds.
Because I still hadn’t been reconnected to the morphine machine, I decided to go for
a walk, get some fresh outside air, and smoke a cigarette. I was rather light-headed, and it took me about ten minutes to walk down the long corridor before taking the elevator to the ground floor, buy a newspaper from the shop at the hospital entrance and finally get outside.
I continually kept holding my stomach area throughout the walk. After a couple of puffs on the cigarette, I became really faint and giddy. Luckily, I had a wall to fall against. After that, I made my way back to Ward G.
Very soon, an incredible pain beset me where they had done the amazing operation. It grew worse and worse, which caused me to take little tiny steps as I slowly returned the way I’d come. After almost half an hour, I made it back to my bed. Seconds later, one of the nurses appeared and helped me back onto my bed just in time before I passed out with the pain. She wondered where the hell I had been.
She asked where I had got the newspaper from which was under my arm, and I replied, “The shop at the hospital entrance.” I received my first reprimanding and was told in no uncertain terms that I was not to walk anywhere. The nurse added that walking around could result in my insides becoming outsides as I was only clipped together.
Once I was hooked back up to the morphine machine and tinkering with my iPad out, things began to feel more normal again. My mother visited me every afternoon, and my sister every evening. I was well taken care of. The nursing staff in Ward G continued to do all they could for all the patients to help raise morale, and they were simply amazing.
One unfortunate old man was admitted to my ward after having a severe heart attack at the age of ninety-six. He lay on his bed all day, completely still and unable to talk. I often wondered whether he was aware of his surroundings or whether he could hear people talking around him. His tongue was hanging out of the side of his mouth, and it was a deep purple colour.
Five days after my surgery, I became increasingly aware of my pain level rising. It became stronger by the minute until I could not move or speak. I couldn’t even turn and reach for the attention buzzer to call for help. I eventually managed to get the attention of an eighty-six-year-old man in the next bed, and he used his buzzer to call for help.
Every time a nurse came to see what was wrong, the ninety-six year old heart attack victim saw the nurse and started making all kinds of noises. He stole the show every time, leaving me completely ignored.
My pain soon became unbearable, and I wanted to die. A few times, I got lucky and a nurse came to my bed and checked my equipment. She said it appeared to be working fine, but something was certainly not fine because I could no longer take any more pain, a fact I made clear for everyone in my ward. Finally, a young anaesthetist came to see what was wrong.
I had a button attached to the morphine machine that I could press for extra doses of morphine in between the pre-set dosages.
It didn’t matter how many times the button was pressed, the machine was set to not give any doses more frequently than five minutes. The young anaesthetist noticed that I had pressed the button over four thousand times, so he realised that there was something seriously wrong.
He asked me whether I could lean forward so he could check my epidural needle, but all the pain had made me too weak to move. Two nurses helped me bend forward causing more agony so he could lift up my T-shirt and check my needle.
As soon as he could see my back, he immediately gave the instruction to bring a portable dose administrator because my epidural needle had moved out of position and was not able to block my pain at all.
The ward sister came quickly to my bed to apologise for all my intense pain, and she offered to have another epidural needle fitted. After remembering what it felt like when it was originally fitted, I declined her kind offer and chose to go with the portable unit to see whether it could do the same job.
Actually, the portable unit was not anything like as effective as the epidural block, but I was so well used to being in agony by that time, I basically didn’t care anymore and at least I could see the needle in my arm rather than having a needle up inside my spine. The added advantage was that the new unit had wheels, which meant I could be mobile again! As a child, I could never keep still for long, much to my mother’s dismay!
An hour later, equipped with my new portable machine, I headed down the corridor to buy a newspaper and pop outside for a quick smoke. The nurses began to give me a break because they knew it was better for my circulation to be mobile a few times per day.
On my seventh day in the ward, two physiotherapists visited me.
They told me I needed to accompany them for a short walk, and they’d be each side of me in case I wobbled. Much to their surprise, I asked whether we were going outside. They explained that that wouldn’t be possible until a few more days of practice, and that they would just take me as far as the main corridor.
When I explained that I went down to the end of it a few times per day, took the elevator down to the ground floor, and went outside the main entrance, they just looked at each other in total disbelief.
So off we went with my morphine machine by my side in the direction of the shop to buy another newspaper. Halfway to the shop, the two ladies said that I’d gone far enough for one day and that it was time to return to my bed.
Okay, I thought, I won’t be a problem patient. I did what I was told and returned to my bed and remained there for a few minutes until after they had gone and the coast was clear. Shortly after, I went for a newspaper for the eighty-six-year-old gentleman in the next bed and a quick smoke for myself.
My surgeon visited me most days to check on my progress. His entourage always accompanied him. He was pleased to see me progressing in the right direction, better and better every day.
Due to a shortage of hospital beds, I volunteered to give up my bed just nine days after surgery and continue my recovery at my sister’s home. I guess we all make mistakes, but that was a big one. I nearly undid all my surgeon’s handiwork … and nearly succeeded in killing myself.
I did not know which foods I should avoid or which I should never eat again, nor had I been prescribed an amazing medicine called Creon. Creon is a pancreas enzyme that I needed to take every time I ate food. I chose to have smoked salmon with Philadelphia cream cheese and brown bread and butter.
Because it was so soon after being stitched back together, my pancreas was not able to cope with all the fat and grease, and I became very sick that night. I was awake most of the night with stomach pains that became progressively worse. I had terrible indigestion, until the pain became impossible to deal with.
My sister had already left for work in the morning as she owned the Mumbles Beauty Clinic, so I was alone to cope as best as I could. The best I could do, however, was not enough. All I managed to do was get down the stairs and find a phone to call my mother.
When she picked up the phone, I couldn’t speak. She couldn’t hear anything coming from my end until I forced one word out of my mouth: “Help.” She immediately feared the worst, dropped everything, and drove over to my sister’s house. She found me curled up into a ball on the floor of the living room in terrible agony, clutching my stomach.
She helped me half to my feet so I could make it to her car, but I was still curled up. I was able to walk a little, and slowly made my way to her car. A few minutes later, after avoiding most of the holes and bumps in the road we arrived at my mother’s house where she could take care of me. Every bump in the road, which we couldn’t avoid, was like being shot.
My condition deteriorated rapidly. Soon, I was in the bathroom vomiting bright yellow bile. I was in intense agony every time my newly stitched stomach muscles went into spasms.
Eventually, after the yellow bile was depleted a dark green fluid was thrown out. At that point, there was absolutely nothing left in my stomach to bring up, but that was only the beginning of my pain.
I continued to deteriorate until I ended up kneeling on the living room carpet with my arms on the sofa. The pain was similar to the pain I experienced when my
epidural needle had shifted out of place.
My mother called the hospital, and the reception at Ward G told her to dial 999 and ask for an ambulance because I was in a very dangerous condition. I remember thinking that it was the second time in my life that my mother had called an ambulance for me.
The ambulance was called, but it had to leave from Morriston Hospital, which was quite a long drive away.
The ambulance controllers, true professionals in South Wales, also alerted the quick response vehicle, which arrived in just ten minutes. The paramedic entered my mother’s house and found me in the same position I was in when the ambulance was alerted. He couldn’t move me in the condition I was in until he had reduced my pain.
He began to give me gas, which was a safe option with no side effects for anyone, but it didn’t help. He tried to push an intravenous needle into my arm, which took several attempts because my veins had learnt to hide from needles after my time in hospital.
Eventually, the ambulance arrived with two more paramedics to take me back to hospital. I was helped to my feet, but I was still curled up and not feeling any better. The paramedics surrounded me in case I fell as we made our way to the ambulance.
Those guys were fantastic. They were also very understanding and sympathetic to the discomfort I was enduring. They were fully familiar with what the pancreas can hand out. In the ambulance, the quick response paramedic was able to get an intravenous needle into my arm and hook me up to a liquid paracetamol drip. After that, they securely strapped me in for the ride back to the hospital, which I’d only left twenty-four hours before.
My mother called my sister, and she immediately cancelled all her afternoon appointments at her beauty salon so she was able to drive back to the hospital to see me.