The hospital stay I’ll never forget
Ray Thomas left his family farm in South Australia when he was in his 20s and moved to New Zealand. He has always loved writing short stories and watching sport. He married an amazing woman 16 years ago and they both retired three years ago. They love family life, travelling, spending time in their large garden and fostering young children.
I have limited knowledge of the human body, but it would seem to me that the human brain is a unique and special organ. It is the source of our thoughts, feelings, and emotions (among other things) and because of it, we have the ability to recall previous experiences in our lives. Some people however, are not so fortunate. Because of various medical conditions unfortunately they lose part, if not all of those abilities.
This is a personal, honest and I hope an interesting journey of my own life. The older I become, I am even more thankful that my brain allows me to recall most of those precious events. Those associated with close family and friends, many of whom have long since died I value even more so.
Before I begin however, I have to fill you on a few medical experiences that have happened to me in recent years. There is nothing unusual or special about my story, but instances that have left a lasting impression on my life, thereby enabling me to recall those I remember times with ease.
For the last 16 years my life has been great. I have been happily married to an amazing woman. We both retired almost 3 years ago. I usually kept good health. The only time I visited my GP was for a prescription to control my on-going problem with high blood pressure.
I remember not feeling well one day. After a quick, unscheduled visit to my GP within 24 hours, was admitted to hospital to undergo various tests. The results showed that I needed to have two stents placed in my heart a few days later.
I have always been a fairly independent person, and now suddenly I had no control of my life which for me was extremely frightening.
When I had my first angina attack in the hospital, Iwas asked “Are you allergic to any kinds of medication”. I had no idea, so rather timidly replied “I don’t know”. A short time later, they gave me morphine, and within seconds, I vomited everywhere and over everything including nurses who unfortunately happened to be in the firing line. From then on, if I experienced any kind of angina attack, I was administered alternative medication, which unfortunately made little difference.
I remember feeling confused, upset, anxious and alone which was not helped when I became totally aware of what was about to happen, and what could happen in the unlikely event of something going wrong.
I was also missing my wife, who visited and spent as much time with me as she could, but she still had to work, while travelling 45 minutes into work each day and then home again. I don’t particularly enjoy having needles or any kinds of injections. I (clearly) remember that day when a nurse placed a needle in the back of my hand for the drugs, and I can vividly remember the dreadful smell (to me) which I later learnt to be a saline solution.
Once in the operating theatre, I remember a needle going into my groin, which would later bruise and take many days before it disappeared. Into that needle, a very fine wire and stents were entered before placed in the correct places of my heart. Being conscious throughout the entire process was a little surreal. The procedure itself was not as painful as I had feared.
Time is a great healer, so for a period of time, I largely forgot about those I remember moments.
In more recent years I have undergone various procedures, and immediately have experienced those two I remember moments, which I hoped I would forget, but unfortunately, hadn’t.
If there was a “good side” to those procedures it was the fact that at least my heart was not involved. Instead other parts of my body had let me down. In many cases (although not all) were performed in different hospitals both in Christchurch and overseas. With different surroundings, different affected parts and although given a choice I would not have been in those situations, at least these were a kind of “new adventures”.
Around the middle of last year, I again began to have problems associated with my heart. After visiting a specialist, another angiogram was performed at a different hospital, which as suspected, showed that I did not require further stents. Again I was faced with those two, I remember moments, and despite various changes to medication, it made little difference, with the same inevitable (nauseous) result. I felt sorry for the staff and was really embarrassed.
After yet another visit to see the specialist, I was placed on a waiting list of approximately 3-4 months for a procedure similar to when the stents were done. I wasn’t sure where or when the procedure would be done, so my wife and I continued with our lives, even booking a fully escorted, organised, overseas holiday.
I was advised the procedure was to be performed less than three weeks before our holiday and in the same hospital where the stents were done, and the expected similarities, most of which were not pleasant. I immediately rang the booking clerk, and advised her that we were booked for a holiday in a matter of days, and asked her if she thought I would be able to travel without discomfort, by then. She replied, in a bright, positive voice, “Yes” she said, “you will be fine”.
Then the reality of what I was about to face really began to concern me. Previous procedures did not unduly upset me, but now my life had turned full circle. Now I was faced with something that was largely familiar, and instinctively new I was about to face numerous I remember moments.
I tried to think beyond the procedure and its inevitable pain and discomfort, but rather try to focus on the holiday my wife and I were to experience. With the best of intentions and even with the help and support of my wife, this was not easy. Finally, the day had arrived and we were on our way to the hospital.
After being admitted, we were advised that the procedure may not be successful. In that unlikely scenario, I would be sent home again with various kinds of medication which would help rectify my problem. This was not the news we wanted, and we hoped for the best.
A male nurse came and took my blood pressure. Having had relatively high blood pressure for the majority of my adult life, I felt this was one medical area which I thought I knew something about. After completion I casually asked “What was it?”
With no change in his voice, he casually replied “217/107”
“Hmm,” I thought to myself, “even for me that seemed a little on the high side, but if he was not concerned about then I certainly wasn’t about to say anything”.
He then asked me to remove my clothes and put on the obligatory hospital pyjamas, before walking out of the cubicle, closing the curtains behind him. A short time later he returned, and I noticed he had a small electric razor in his hand. Having had a shave earlier in the day, I knew that meant only one thing. He asked me lie down and remove my pyjama bottoms to expose my groin area. I attempted to make idle conversation with him, and avoided eye contact with him, as he gave me a “trim”. During this procedure, he seemed totally focused on what he was doing, which was just as well, because he could have cut or nicked me. Finally, he was finished. I was allowed to pull up my pants and regain my dignity as he walked out, opening the curtains behind him as he did so.
A little later, a lady nurse came in and informed me she was going to put the PICC line in my arm for anaesthetics. She was looking for a suitable vein inside my left elbow. I thought we were off to a good start, as previously that was done in the painful area in the back of my hand. The needle went in. However, she was not entirely happy and only took enough blood for a blood test. She then withdrew the needle and began the process with the other arm. Finally, she said “success” with a smile on her face, while I grimaced in pain she slowly pushed the needle further into my arm. Immediately I thought to myself “I’m glad that’s over” before coming back to reality when suddenly I had a real I remember moment, the dreadful smell of the saline solution.
Once that was done, I told anyone, that I thought would listen, the fear I had about drugs being administered that could cause me to nauseous. They assured me that by using different alternatives that this time everything would be alright.
I then walked down to the room where the procedure was to be performed, with a chap who was obviously part of the procedure team. I was chatting to him and probably appeared to be carefree and confident about what was to happen. I suspect he had no idea of how anxious I was feeling.
Upon entering the room, I stopped briefly and had a quick look around. I had another I remember moment, as everything looked vaguely familiar, being surrounded by numerous, friendly staff.
I then lifted myself onto a flat looking bench/table as staff covered my body from my shoulders down, with various sheets. Then I was asked to lower my pyjama bottoms down to about my knees. I thought about asking the question “Why wasn’t I wearing a hospital gown instead of pyjamas?” but felt that was probably not the ideal time to ask such a question. Suddenly, a sharp, painful jab as a needle was placed in my groin, through which the procedure would be done… I had forgotten about that!!
I quickly felt something oozing in my right groin area. I hoped it was some kind of other liquid, but strongly suspected it was my blood. I thought about asking but accepted that my question may be a little trivial at that particular time.
Lying flat on the table, I was able to look around the room. As I looked to my left, I could see a screen that looked like about a 60-inch TV screen, about which I commented “Can you get SKY on that?’ which made some of the staff laugh. It consisted of many coloured lines going in different directions. I had no idea what they all meant, but felt as long as they did not flat line, then I would be alright.
The procedure lasted approximately 60 minutes. Frequently the surgeon would say words like “That’s a good one” to which I would hear a woman say something medical that made no sense to me. Sometimes he would talk to me just to make sure I was alright, which I really appreciated.
While this was happening I stopped and thought about the situation I was faced with right at that time. Here I was, lying on a flat and not particularly comfortable bench, with a needle in my groin (a very short distance my “manliness” area), talking to a surgeon while he is feeding a wire into a vein, which travelled in the close vicinity of my heart. The bench appeared to be constantly moving. I also noticed something large and square shaped which again seemed to be moving in close proximity to my heart and chest area. I guessed it was some kind of X-ray machine, but I didn’t have the courage to ask.
Did it feel uncomfortable? The answer is certainly yes, but certainly it was not unbearable. I could best describe it as having a child sitting on my chest.
I soon learnt that when the surgeon sounded really excited, he had an animated discussions with the woman, and that he had found what he was looking for. At times like that, he quickly informed me of increasing discomfort for a short period of time. He was not joking about the discomfort. Usually I have a low tolerance of pain, and this was way out of my comfort zone, but (surprisingly) I said nothing. Instinctively, I must have known this was for my benefit, so I was pleased I said nothing.
The sensation, slightly to the right centre of my chest was the weirdest I have ever experienced and different to when I had the stents inserted. Certainly a I (will) remember experience, and not a negative one. If, in the future I was faced with a similar situation, I would not be fearful of it.
Finally, the procedure was completed. I heard and saw the surgeon remove his gloves and walk out the room. I was left in the room with two middle-aged men, whom I guessed were some kind of theatre assistants. They were casually talking to each other and ignoring me. Suddenly, and without warning, they removed all the sheeting from me, leaving me totally exposed from my waist to my pyjama bottoms, which were still in the vicinity of knees. At that particular stage, it did not seem appropriate to engage either of them in any kind of conversation. I casually glanced down at that area, and noticed what appeared to me, to be a fair amount of blood from my right groin almost down to my knee, and on the sheet underneath me. Almost nonchalantly one of the men grabbed some type of tissues and wiped the blood off me.
The surgeon later told me that although it was not totally 100 per cent successful, he was happy and that my life would certainly change for the better. That was more than enough for me.
As I left, I thanked everybody within ear-shot as I was so excited. It was the first procedure I had been through that I had not vomited. Now I was wheeled back to the ward where I was when I had my stents, almost 5 ½ years before, to begin my recovery.
I was wheeled passed the room where previously I had been. It was very much a “I remember” moment. It was the very room where several nurses had worked on me for a period of time because my health deteriorated rapidly shortly after the stents were inserted.
Further down the corridor, I saw my single bedroom, where I had spent for 5 days alone before the stents were done. Many I remember highly emotional moments both good and bad times where many tears and laughter were shared with family, friends and in some instances, nurses.
Finally I was wheeled into my room, and my wife soon joined me. I felt fantastic. I had to lie still for several hours to allow the wound a chance to heal.
Many hours later, and long after I had devoured my evening meal, and after my wife had left, I faced another I remember moment.
Previously, the pain in my groin prevented me from walking normally for several days. Was this going to be the same? Before doing so however, I thought it probably best that I pull my pyjama pants up around my waist. This I managed to achieve quite easily.
This time however, it felt great so I gingerly put the weight on my leg, and was hugely relieved that I could walk the short distance to the ward lounge room, with very little discomfort.
When I had been in the lounge previously I remembered looking out the window at people (mainly hospital staff) as they scurried to or from work, sometimes with umbrellas when it was raining, or sometimes walking more slowly in the spring sunshine. Sometimes I just liked to sit and watch the traffic rushing along the busy road.
I remembered the time spent in that room talking to friends/relatives about anything and everything and sharing with some people the mental turmoil I was experiencing.
I remembered walking from my room nearby and looking out the window at night when I could not sleep, and crying and just wanting to feel “normal.”
This time it was different.
This time I felt fine.
This time I knew the worst was behind me.
I stayed in the lounge for several hours, watching TV and reading.
By now it was getting quite late, so I decided I should get back to my room. Because I was feeling fairly emotional about everything that had happened during the recent hours, I doubted I would sleep very well.
When I stood up, I sensed something was wrong. Fortunately I was alone, so had a quick glance at my groin area. I was dis-appointed to discover that I was bleeding a little. I drew it to the attention of my nurse at the time, who escorted me to my bed, where she closed the curtains around us, and carefully examined and treated my offending groin.
As I expected I had very little sleep. I woke early next morning and eagerly checked my groin. I was thrilled to notice that it had not bled during the night.
I was released from hospital, a little over 25 hours after being admitted. I felt fine (although a little tender in both the chest and groin area which was to be expected) and happily walked hand in hand with my wife, back to the car. It felt “strange” having to sit in the passenger side, as I was told not to drive for two weeks.
Will I have any more I remember moments in the future? Who knows, and in a way I hope that I do, because then I will have some indication that at least my brain is still working relatively normally, and I will still hopefully have the ability to write stories, even if other parts of me have slightly deteriorated.
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