As I told you in my last post, I was readmitted to hospital on Thursday 28th Jan with a suspected infection in my wound. It was back to theatre late on the Friday afternoon for a full clean and restitch and I wasn't back in the ward until after 8pm. I was all over the show. God knows what drugs they'd given me during surgery but I kept asking for more in recovery as I was really feeling much more pain this time around. Although I was up walking that night for the toilet etc, it certainly wasn't the same bounce back I'd had the previous week. I was drowsy, sore and had no appetite. The next few days were a bit of slog while the nurses pumped weapons grade iv antibiotics into me, and dealt with my pain with a concoction of paracetamol, tramadol and morphine. As you can imagine, all these drugs aren't without their own side effects, so I had more drugs to deal with these secondary problems. Combined with the truly awful GF food options, it's little wonder then, that I'd completely lost my appetite over the weekend and was forcing myself to eat even just little parts of the meals they were serving. Thank Christ for nut bars, fruit and yoghurts. Erugh.
I spent the weekend using my time well by writing my blog, catching up with people on facetime, and watching a wee bit of Netflix. Once I'd gotten over the weekend, I had one eye on getting home (the Doc had said Tuesday at the earliest) and it lifted my spirits no end. I was tired (so watching way more Netflix than I've done in my life!) but positive. The nurses were also happy with how my wound was looking.
By Tuesday night, however, my patience was wearing thin. My proposed discharge date had passed and I was still in, the food continued to be horrific, and I was sure that I had a problem with my line. I kept asking for it to be checked but when anyone turned up, they told me it was fine. I knew it wasn't as it was slowly leaking over me and I was concerned it meant I wasn't getting the right amount of antibiotics. The third time I asked for help, someone actually took notice, but frustratingly, I didn't have the language skills to describe the problem, and instead of the nurse just adjusting the drip tubing, she decided to put a whole new cannula in. And as you can see from the second photo, didn't do a very good job of it. In the words of Vicki McCaig; "Who put that in? A porter?!" In different circumstances, I might have found the situation funny as she was trying to show a student nurse how to do it at the time. Classic.
On Wednesday morning, the dietician showed up to discuss my meal options for the day. The thought of spending another night in there sent me over the edge and I burst into tears whilst trying to talk to her. I had had enough.
Later that morning my surgeon turned up, quickly followed by the anaesthetist. I have never been so happy to see two doctors in my life. When they told me that lab cultures still weren't back but they were willing to let me home, I could have hugged them. They gave me a load of ordonnances for antibiotics, pain relief, district nurse support, a scan, and follow up appointments. Five weeks of antibiotics. Mental. But I was just so bloody happy to be getting home. I got all my stuff packed, had my final round of IV drugs, got my line out and finally went down to meet Iain and William. It was just so brilliant to see William running through the reception towards me with a massive smile on his face. I'd missed them both so much,
Home again, home again. And hopefully that's where I'll stay.
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