Cancer 16

Apologies in advance for errors and general weirdness in this blog as I am writing it on my phone a few hours after waking up from the operation.

‘You must accept your treatment not just with faith but with joy! That’s the only way you’ll ever recover.’ Alexander Solzhenitzin, Cancer Ward.

Until going for an operation I had very limited knowledge of what actually happens. I realise many people go through the process every day, but I think many people are as ignorant as me.

I am writing this as the day progresses, though I will probably stop when I am being operated on.

I was due to be at the hospital at 0700, but being me and due to the snow we arrived about 0615, so after the two of us waited in the corridor until 0700 we said goodbye and I entered for processing (come on, dom’t compare it to Birkenau) and for the initial waiting period, TV blaring while trying to read Solzhenitsyn. First, blood was taken. I then spoke to the anaesthetist and the consultant, both of whom provided details of what was happening, answered questions, and were generally checking that I was fit for operating on. Being numerical, I am interested in risk, so it is 1.47% risk of death within 30 days, 10% chance of serious compications, and under 10% risk of having a stoma. I feel better knowing these numbers.

I informed the consultant about my sister’s funeral on Tuesday, saying that I would like to attend if possible but obviously my care takes priority. There is a chance I will be out on Monday if all goes well and my bowel is working. Alternatively I may be allowed out for a few hours for the funeral, or let out but have to return for a review.

It is likely that my operation will start late morning and will take some time. I may be waking by 1800, after which there will be an hour on recovery and then either the ward or step down (the latter if there is a problem). Both the consultant and the anaesthetist are happy with my fitness and general condition.

The unusual part was that after these chats the consultant turned up with two medical students and asked if they could have a chat with me. They were Nottingham Medical School 3rd years, ie, where I work. Fortunately I don’t know them! They will be observing during the operation. We discussed dermatology, PhDs, medical projects, and their research topics.

I had my clothes, phone and, horror of horrors, my books taken away, I was transported to the theatre area, and was prepped by the anaesthetists (I had two of them), with several needles in my hands, and injections through my spine.

Apparently as I woke I was asking for a roast dinner followed by chocolate pudding and custard. Those who know me will recognisee the relevance of this meal. As to be expected I was a little confused for a while.

The operation did not go as expected (damn my eternal optimism!). There were complications, I am the 1 in 10 mentioned earlier. I will provide more details in a later blog, but the robotic keyhole approach had to be abandoned in favour of a larger hole, and I have a stoma. Apparently many people name their stomas. Naming things is not really my thing, a little council-ish to my way of thinking, but I do wonder whether ‘Sexy Beast’ might be an appropriate appellation under the circumstances?

I was in recovery for a couple of hours, where I had a drink of water. I am still only.allowed water. I have not eaten for 55 hours.

My woumd has.bledna liyyle, which mwqmr³³³

Try again, as Spike Milligan has on his gravestonrle, ‘I told you I was ill’. My wound started bleeding, which meant the dressings, my gown and the bedsheets had to be changed – a bloody mess. I have had several changes of substances enterimg my body, been swabbed and creamed, injected into my abdomen, and various other things all evening.

I have chatted with one chap about aeroplanes crashing in the Dark Peak, particularly the B29 supèrfortress on Bleaklow. My neighbour across the way reminds me of the hospital scene in All Quiet on the Western Front – the book or the first film, certainly not the recent one with the same name and different storyline. He has the expertise of one who has been in this in Chad, works for a firm that does a lot of work for Rolls Royce, is 42 years old with a wife and 2 young children. He is happy in his line of work and doesn’t know anything about me. How is a chap meant to read his book?

Just gone midnight. The alarms started going off, waking me up from a deep sleep. It appears my breathing rate went down to 0 bpm, so they have had to connected me to oxygen with the little pipes up my nose (which means I can’t pick my nose). Shortly afterwards my blood pressure shot up to 350/250. Again, quickly sorted out. I am glad I am not on the ordinary ward. That was 15 minutes ago, so now I am monitor watching. It still keeps beeping. I am not sure my catheter is still in the right place. I sort of want a wazz but it doesn’t get worse.

I keep falling asleep while writing this.