“Four walls,
a wash basin, prison bed” – Cold Chisel
I used to have a friend whom I could relate all my
medical struggles with. No subject was off-limits, even though this friend is female,
and I am male. One thing we often found together would be hospital admissions.
We joked that we were in jail or prison, depending where you are from. The
thing is, if you have had a fair amount of time in hospitals and have even a vague
understanding of prisons, you should be able to understand the correlation of
the two places.
For all the things I have been through medically, I am
still a terrible person when injured/sick. That’s my own opinion of myself. The
song ‘Restless’ by Switchfoot comes to mind here. I get irritable very easily.
My last surgery only on August 22nd comes to mind. I had
neurological symptoms for about 2 weeks before I finally called an ambulance
around 6pm on the 21st because I felt like I would pass out and
potentially not wake. I felt too faint to get anywhere under my own strength, even
struggled from bedroom to bathroom, maybe 5 metres. Ambulance arrived and took
blood pressure first. It was 155/90, which for a man of my size is very high.
Two paramedics looked at each other as if to say, ‘we need to move it quick’. I
knew when I saw that I did the right thing in calling an ambulance.
I got to
the hospital and we would wait a fair while. But once I was moved around to the
ED, things moved rather quick. They got a good handover from the paramedics,
for which I am grateful. Immediately checked basic observations, which were
obviously inconsistent and concerning. Then within a few minutes, there was
blood and urine samples taken and an IV line put into my arm and a bag of iv
fluids hung up. Then one of the ED doctors did a basic vision test where the
patient is instructed to follow the doctor’s finger, moving only their eyes. I knew
I would struggle with this. My vision the last few days was terrible and
headache pain score was seriously 12/10. His finger was far left but my eyes
went right. When this happened, he said it’s officially a neurology case and he
wanted an urgent CT of both the head and abdominal shunt as soon as possible
for confirmation. I was simultaneously scared and relieved in the same breath. Relieved
because I knew I did the right thing in calling the ambulance and being in the
emergency department. Scared because that one symptom proved to me, I would need
my 8th shunt revision surgery, and what’s more, in the middle of
Covid-19 pandemic. Would I go home? No clue. Seriously. By about 4am he came
back to confirm my shunt had problems in multiple spots, from neck down and
that I would need surgery today. Me: you mean now? Doctor: no, we will operate
during daylight hours, between 8am and 5pm. You’re on IV, 30 min observations
and right outside the nursing desk so you’ll be ok. Try get some rest. He came
back a few minutes later to tell me it looks like I will be in surgery for
hopefully midday. The theatre staff came to get me at around 10am. Most of the
preparation was already done, so I was moved down promptly. Only thing I didn’t
have was a proper chlorhexidine wash, but that is easily fixed in surgery. I
was prepared at the 4am bedside visit for multiple surgical incisions this
time, as he had told me there were multiple issues with the shunt this time. I was
still awake in the operating theatre, something rare for me. They had music going
and it looked like as happy place as it can be, for someone about to undergo
life-saving neurosurgery in a pandemic. One person even had a Marvel hair net,
seriously. I managed to get to sleep quick this time, most likely because I was
already so unwell.
I would wake up in the recovery room and I took note
of one thing. I only noticed three people in the room: myself, nurse at my
right hand controlling my observations and pain level and a nurse walked past
my left, bragging about her chocolate stash. If I can pause here and say one
thing to medical professionals, please do not do this to patients straight out
of surgery. We are all tired, hungry and sore. Either share the snacks or keep
it to yourself, please and thank you.
Later that night I would be moved to the high dependence
unit. I was in normal pain levels for this kind of surgery and they didn’t
bother offering the bottom level painkillers and went straight to the strong
ones, something rare these days. Catering would offer dinner. Me being me, I obviously
wanted it, especially because I hadn’t eaten more than a snack in days,
literally. Nurse was quick to advise not to eat as I had abdominal surgery just
now and eating heavy food quickly post-surgery may cause further issues. I gave
her a look as if to say I’m hungry, sore and tired and don’t care about
consequences. We met in the middle and agreed on eating the soup. It went down
fine.
Next day I was moved to the neurology ward as I started
feeling a lot better. This is when I would wake a lot better and notice just
what happened in theater. Physios were quick to come in, as always, and wanted
me to get out of bed on day one. Thankfully, nursing staff overruled them and
said not today. My head felt fine, but abdomen was still very sore and would be
for a week or two yet.
It’s this part of surgery recovery I struggle with the
most and the reason I relate to the song I quoted for the title here. I wouldn’t
go home for another 3 days, despite feeling like my pain levels were ok, nausea
gone, keeping food and fluids down. I would genuinely question why I couldn’t
go home yet and became irritable and restless mentally. But obviously now that I
have had more surgeries than birthdays, when I calm down, I get it. It took until
the Friday morning to have the paperwork complete, enough support in place for
discharge but more importantly, bowel to open. Without going into graphic
detail, this is especially important when one has had abdominal surgery.
The next ten days, I would go home with staples in both
my head and abdomen. Like I said above, the head wound didn’t hurt much at all,
other than itching because of hair growth and tangling. It was the abdominal
wound that would hurt a fair bit. Thankfully they sent me home with good pain
relief as well. I would learn the hard way something I have been told for
years: literally everything goes through the abdomen, which is why it is called
‘the core’. Sneezing, coughing, laughing and even talking would hurt. Sitting up
and transfers from bed to chair would take a lot longer. I do have a cool scar
on there now. I would then question my nurse why I couldn’t go home. She very
plainly said, “Mr. Cunningham, you’ve literally just had life-saving brain
surgery in a pandemic, and you have spina-bifida, just rest.” She didn’t even
have to put any exaggeration on it. That’s as blunt as it could be. I think
sometimes even I tend to belittle some things I have fought and won, even brain
surgery in a pandemic.
So,
friends, family and anyone else reading, therefore I would miss the very last
western derby and Damo's retirement announcement. I was simply too unwell to keep my eyes open. Some things are
bigger than sport, I guess.
