I Go Back On The Ward

I  Go Back On The Ward

At last I was given the great news: "We're going to take you back to your room on the ward!" and I was wheeled in the bed back to the ward. I felt this was good progress, to be out of Intensive Care and, hopefully, on to the next stage of recovery. 

There was a hiccup along the way: I was not put back in the room I'd occupied when I was admitted, but instead found myself "parked" in a much smaller "box room."  It did have a t.v., and a bathroom, but it was shaped like a square box, with enough room for my bed to fit in, and not much else. Talk about being claustrophobic - there was not space to swing half a cat. 

It was really hard not being allowed visitors, but I was very prepared to abide by the restrictions caused by the virus. It helped that I was beginning to feel more able to make sensible calls, and although I still made some errors in my messages, Bob and Wendy were able to contact me, and I could tell them what sort of a horrible room I was in now. 

Unbeknown to me, Bob then telephoned the ward sister, and complained on my behalf. I have no idea what was said - he is very tactful, extremely diplomatic, but can get his displeasure across when he has to! and a little while after that, my lovely nurse came in to see me again and said, "We're going to move you, back to your original room!" 

I think she realised how pleased I was to be out of such cramped conditions, and soon I transferred back to the same place I started off in, on Sunday afternoon. It felt like a welcome homecoming, where there was space to breathe.

Over the next few days, I made progress.  I saw my surgeon every day, and he was very pleased with the way I was getting on; every morning and every afternoon, I had physiotherapy, going for short walks out of my room, along the corridor, with a very reassuring lady who held my hand (I felt quite wobbly!) as I tottered along. It was all a heavy effort, but I knew I had to make it, and there were other patients in the same boat as I was, grimly lurching forward and determinedly going as well as they could. It was encouraging to see the people who were further along the recovery path than I was, walking more confidently. 

I remember from the time 52 years ago, when I broke my sternum after a car accident, how painful it is whilst the bones heal; at the age of 22, my breast bone mended after a couple of months, but even at that young age, it hurt terribly when I coughed - or laughed, or sneezed! (Please don't tell me any funny jokes for a while...!) 

I was given a rolled up towel to hug when I needed to cough, to try and hold myself together, and it did help; but mostly I was able to try sitting up and put my arms around myself to keep everything as still as possible. 

After the operation, I had gained 7 kilos - going from 62 kg to 69 kg, so I was put on diuretics, and weighed every day, to check the fluid was dispersing; it was working, but of course meant I wanted to spend a penny very frequently! 

Another problem was that I was now anaemic. Before surgery, my blood count had been 14, which was good, but during the operations, I had lost so much blood, and even though I had had a transfusion of 6 units, that had brought me back up to a count of only 9. It was no wonder, then, that I felt weak and tired and a bit "maisy" - dizzy - on occasions. 

The nurses all reminded me of the mantra: "CALL, DON'T FALL" and I followed their advice to the letter. It meant they were in and out of my room to make sure I was safe getting to the loo, and it was also bliss when I could get to the bathroom and wash my face, leaning against the side of the basin for support, and brush my teeth. It was pretty exhausting, but so worth the effort to feel fresh again. Yippee!

I managed to eat something every day - at breakfast I had a few cornflakes and tea, and for lunch and dinner, I ordered the same thing - plain chicken, well done, with boiled potatoes and butter, and ice cream. Even though it was not exactly to my taste (the boiled potatoes were whole, tiny, new potatoes, left unpeeled - and also quite hard!) it served well enough. I could eat only a few mouthfuls anyway, because it hurt so much to expand my chest, but I did try. 

The best thing was, Wendy  made me more sandwiches, and got them delivered to me via the porter on the front desk.  She knows exactly what I like, and made a few with lovely crumbly cheese, some with orange shredless marmalade, and the rest with strawberry jam - delicious. She wrapped them all individually, and I put them in the fridge in my room; I didn't starve.  

During my regular peregrinations along the ward corridor with the physiotherapist, I made the effort to try and re-establish singing and talking. Having had the tubes down my throat for so long, I was really worried about damage to my vocal chords; my voice was pretty rough to begin with, but gradually I was able to complete one short chorus of Steel Rails, and on other occasions, I recited my poem I'd written about the West Somerset Railway, "Steam Dreams."  The first few attempts were pretty dire, but at least I felt I was trying, and concentrating on poetry and song took my mind off how I was feeling! To my delight, the physiotherapist asked me if I knew the work of William Butler Yeats and of course I immediately said he was one of my favourite poets. I launched into "When you are old, and grey, and full of sleep..." She knew the poem as well, and the sad story of lost love behind it; it was so nice to have that rapport with her. 

By the Sunday, I was still gently toddling along, and prepared to stay in hospital for a couple more days, as arranged. I saw another physiotherapist, a gentleman, who was really terrific, and he got me confident about walking up and down two flights of stairs; I took my time, but it was a great feeling to know I could do it, especially as there would be stairs to climb when I got home. 

My consultant came to see me again and, to my great surprise, asked how I would like to go home that evening?!  He said he felt I was well enough, and I would make better progress continuing my recovery at home. There followed a few phone calls and, within a very short time, it was agreed I could be discharged  - talk about swift decisions! but I was pleased the consensus was that it would be good to get me home. 

I had to have a couple of stitches taken out, from where drains had been removed; up until then, I had been wearing hospital gowns, and another lovely nurse who cared for me helped me have a shower, and got me dressed in my own clothes.

So there we were. It did not take me long to re-pack! and in the evening, Wendy and Bob drove to the hospital and waited for me whilst the porter brought me downstairs - I had to use a wheelchair, but I knew that would only be a temporary form of transport. 

It was wonderful having the evening air on my face! and I managed just fine in the car. Although I gather if you have recently had open heart surgery, wearing a seat belt is not obligatory, but I put a cushion up against my chest before fastening it, and felt safe enough like that. 

And so we got home. Wendy made me tea, and never has a home-brewed cuppa tasted so good. I was able to check out the post, check my e-mails... and see what had been going on during the week - that feeling of normality gave me such a mental boost! and I felt very prepared to continue my recovery at my own pace.