(...) Woke at 1AM with major cramp pain. Got up, shifted about a bit and took some paracetamol to try and relieve pain. Didn't help much. Went back to bed to toss and turn and generally wake Sarah up (unintentionally). At 6AM took some more paracetamol, still no better.
Bag empty - tummy bum surprisingly quiet after all I'd eaten yesterday. This was clearly bad news. Sarah phoned the consultant's secretary who advised we should go to the RUH where Mr. T would be operating today. It's a long journey into hospital in Sas' bouncy mini which shakes every internal stitch, on top of a background of constant, acute guts-ache pain.
I think I may have over-cooked it with the fibre and fresh veggies yesterday and this is definitely not a price worth paying.
It's unbelievable how much it costs you in parking before you can access the free for all services of the NHS. According to today's Times newspaper - hospital trusts collect £600M in parking fees annually. I managed to avoid the optional fees for watching TV since watching the second hand on the wall clock is infinitely more stimulating than daytime TV. Do you know how much it costs your loved ones to dial-in to the bedside phone -- 49p per minute. What will they think of next - admission fees for visitors?
I hate being in hospital - it either seems to be a battle to get attention when you're screaming with pain or a constant stream of obs, drug rounds and cuppa's when you've just managed to get to sleep after being awake all night. Worse of all, I'm not very brave and hate needles. So when Charlotte, a young doctor arrives (this will be my 2nd year med school niece Jo in a few years time) to take blood and insert a cannula into my left hand - suddenly I'm soaked with sweat and my vision is starting to go a bit monochrome. Sarah spots this, slaps me about a bit and gets me on the heavy breathing and somehow I manage to stay on the unfeasibly narrow bed -- thank God she's here (again!).
I guess it didn't help to not know what's in front of me. No word from Mr. T, but the young doctor has instructions to take blood, get x-rays and admit me. What! Why? Can't somebody just jiggle me around a bit and unkink the hose? Apparently not: a serious obstruction usually means surgery. Ahhh!
Sarah nips off to shove a couple of fivers into the car-park-thief-machine and while she's gone Dave arrives. Without doubt the chirpiest person I have met today. He announces that we are off to X-ray and goes looking for a wheelchair (just to remind me that I'm still a sickboy). I thought he was a porter, but apparently he's the radiographer - all the porters have disappeared. He tells me that 7 years ago he was in the RUH for 8 weeks following a serious car accident. He was so affected by the care he was given which set him on the road to a full recovery, he went back to school - took some exams and then went to college, now he just loves his job (and life judging by his demeanor). A great lesson to those of us with seemingly bleak conditions such as colon cancer - a good example of how to make something good out of a bad situation. I wonder what will become my own story?
The X-ray is good fun (because of Dave) - he shows me all the kit and even agrees to let me have a look at the digital x-rays on his monitor, provided I agree not to ask him for a diagnosis. Most impressive shots of my pelvis and spine - which looks a bit twisty (not even a contender for today's most distorted spine, say's Dave). If only I had a USB key with me - they would be up here!
I'm admitted to a side ward with two other beds containing two sleeping companions. Nil-by-mouth with a drip to keep me wet and 30ml of water per hour - just in case I need to go to theatre. Sas leaves to collect the kids and attend a school meeting while I settle in to watch the clock. Alone, I become aware of the pain subsiding, or more accurately, coming in waves - like contractions (I guess! but getting further apart). Not regular, but every 3-6 minutes and then it lasts just 20-30 seconds. I become intimately familiar with the clock - the type face of the numerals; the jiggle action of the second hand; the make ... bloody hell it's 15 minutes slow! no matter, the minute hand is all I need. I really don't want surgery - then it occurs that I can fix this myself. I relax, breath deeply, take in my surroundings and focus on the 'contractions'. This must be peristalsis against the obstruction. I think of flowing, like a river, and as I relax I am aware of a few bubbles at my stoma. After a further 30 minutes, the pain is almost gone and I have a full bag! I'm so excited about this I tell the nurse but, of course, she isn't impressed: "You'll see the consultant after five". This continues for the next couple of hours and I know that I am in the clear.
Mr. T's registrar, Chris arrives about 6pm with an entourage of students in tow (which I ignore). He's a nice guy and very helpful - he confirms my suspicions and confirms that I can go home, but suggests that I try a little food before I go and hang on a hour or so to see how that works. I have a piece of dry white toast and a cup of tea - one of the best in years. It's all in the bag within 15 minutes. Once again, I become aware of that familiar feeling of exhaustion. Aside from the toast, which clearly isn't getting absorbed, I haven't eaten in 24 hours. But I am so relieved - at least I know the obstruction is clear.
Sas and the kids arrive just after 8pm - it's great to see them, I'm so ready to go home. What a day, all down to a carrot stick. But hey? What a relief to be discharged.
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