After a horrible day of Picolax (bowel prep) and Preload (high carb drink to aid recovery after surgery) we both had a really broken, troubled sleep. We were both starting to think about what surgery actually meant - there was a 2.8% chance he wouldn't even wake up. Sounds small (and I'm sure most of those people who don't wake up are 90 year olds having cardiac arrests on the operating table, not 30 year old men who are otherwise fit and healthy) but still in the back of our minds was "1 in 28 people die during this operation."
We woke up at 5.45am on Thursday 6th September, surgery day, for Steve to have his last Preload drink. Luckily, we needed to be in hospital by 7.15am and he was being taken into theatre by 8.30am - we'd have all gone crazy with nerves if we'd had to wait any longer.
Steve's mum and I both went into hospital and were allowed to stay with Steve until he was taken to theatre.
Mr H said he'd call me as soon as Steve was out of theatre to let us know how the operation went - it would take a minimum of 4 hours, probably closer to 6.
Needless to say it was a terrifying day, although considering the situation we did manage to keep ourselves busy and almost distracted.
We were having a coffee at 2.15pm when I got the call from Mr H. He was really pleased with how the surgery went, he said it was very successful and he was confident he had gotten rid of the cancer. We were told Steve would be in recovery for an hour or two.
We visited as soon as we were allowed, and I felt a stab of guilt. Steve had a blood pressure cuff on his left arm, a cannula in his left hand, something attached to a finger on his right hand, a boot on each foot that puffed up every minute (I assume something to do with preventing blood clots?), a catheter, a drain out of his bottom wound, an epidural in his back and 6 keyhole wounds covered with clear dressings. And then of course there was all the medication.
Understandably he was very drowsy. He was given injections to make sure he wasn't sick, and wasn't allowed any morphine for half an hour after being injected. He was in agony, and very emotional after what his body and mind had gone through.
Living and working with Steve meant I never had a chance to be upset since his diagnosis. I was determined not to let him see me cry - so I just didn't cry. After seeing him in hospital that night, I went home to our empty house, and 2 months of fear, anger, anxiety, nerves, and now relief and happiness poured out of me and I cried for hours and hours. My head was aching from crying and I completely tired myself out. I had tried to accept what was happening, and did a good job of pretending that I had, but that night I screamed and cried about how unfair and evil this was. My Steve did not deserve this and for those few hours, I hated the world.
It was so difficult to see him all wired up to things, and to make matters worse he wasn't allowed to lay on his back or sit down, and won't be allowed to for at least another 4 weeks. His legs and hips have been in excruciating pain from taking constant pressure. In hospital he had to switch sides every half an hour because the pain got too much - quite a challenge when you have numerous things attached to every joint of every limb.
Each day in hospital he seemed to get a little bit better - I never missed a visiting hour, 3-4 and 7-8, religiously I'd be waiting to be let into the ward. Nothing else mattered. Every time I saw Steve, one of the many things he was attached to had been removed and although it still devastated me, I left the hospital more content every time because I could see an improvement. By Saturday, he was walking 1500m when they told him 250m would be fantastic. Obviously that wasn't straight away - he was full of drugs, very dizzy and therefore passed out a couple of times, but once he got started there was no stopping him. One visiting hour I even found him waiting in the corridor for me.
By Monday 10th September he was allowed home with me, and despite what we'd gone through and what was inevitably ahead of us, that was when I knew what it was to be happy.
No comments:
Post a Comment