I’m home from hospital. The surgery was last Tuesday
afternoon and took three hours. After several more hours in the recovery room,
I was back on the ward. The surgeon told me that the procedure had been a success.
I had a foot-long wound across my back and around my side, held together by a
line of surgical clips. But I felt little pain, only mild discomfort in my shoulder.
I had an epidural line inserted into my spine between my shoulder blades which
pumped in Fentanyl, a very strong synthetic opiate, making the central band of
my ribs completely numb. This had been there throughout the operation and would
stay to enable me to reinflate my lung without pain.
The surgeon found that my stomach had become twisted
through the hole in my diaphragm and had stuck to the lower part of my left
lung, with my spleen compressed against my ribcage. No wonder I had gastric and
breathing problems. The surgeon also said that correcting these defects had
been very timely as serious and potentially fatal problems could easily have
developed. He told me that my diaphragm was thick and healthy with a good blood
supply (a legacy from many years of running and mountaineering) so that the mesh
repair should be strong and lasting. I was very relieved, as I went into this
surgery not knowing what exactly would be found and whether a repair would be
possible.
For the first two days I was attached to eight
different devices. My vital signs were recorded and monitored, I had an oxygen
mask, a saline drip, the Fentanyl was pumped in through the epidural, and my
chest was drained of fluid as was my bladder. There were tubes and lines
everywhere. I felt exhausted and lightheaded. On the second day I was got out
of bed for several hours and moved around the ward by two physiotherapists who
carried all the equipment and shouted encouragement.
On the third day the chest drain and the epidural
were removed. Then came the pain. It stabbed across my back around my side and
into the centre of my chest with every little move of my torso. They gave me
morphine, but it wasn’t enough. They increased the dose. It still wasn’t enough.
They added in another type of painkiller and gave me liquid morphine on demand.
This began to take the edge of the pain.
They said I would soon be ready to go home. I complained,
I was barely able to move myself off the bed and into the chair. My prostate
came to my aid. When they took out the catheter I was hardly able to pee. They
put the catheter back in, at the third attempt, and put me on prostate reducing
drugs. I sat in bed with a very sore penis and stabbing pains across my chest.
Nights were the worst. However comfortably the bed had
been set up, I would invariably wake up a few hours later in agony. I would
ring the nurse and request my morphine. She would bring it in a small needle-less
syringe. I would squirt the morphine into my mouth and suck the end of the
syringe. It tasted both salty and remotely fruity. But it worked and quickly. A
warmth spread across my wounded chest and I would relax into sleep, until I
again woke in agony.
After two more days the catheter was taken out and
my pee was normal. They gave me an enema, which worked, and pronounced me fit
to be discharged. I said I wasn’t sure that I was ready to go home because my guts didn't feel right and asked to
stay for one more night. They told me firmly that I was being discharged and that
my bed had been booked for another patient who needed surgery.
After work, T drove me home. People rushed past us,
scooting back for tea or to the supermarket. The busyness of everything seemed
faintly absurd. The sun was setting and newly fallen leaves skidded on the wind.
I was glad to be at her side again. Despite the challenges, we would make the
best of it. After all I had a big bag of medications with me, including my own
bottle of liquid morphine.
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