As usual for me, we didn’t follow plan A for long. Everything was going well, we arrived at the brand new surgical centre at our allotted time and I found out I was one of the first in. I met my surgeon and the anaesthetist and then got taken through for keyhole surgery.
Over four hours later I felt the odd sensation of being transferred from one bed to another as someone explained I was being transferred to the larger hospital half an hour away. The ambulance journey was hazy, all I can remember is the cool strip lights in the ceiling and the staff apologising because of a traffic jam which the driver had to get out and manage – very surreal!
It turns out that my planned keyhole surgery quickly turned to major surgery as my gallbladder had healed itself by sticking to anything in its vicinity including my duodenum, stomach, liver etc. I’m forever grateful to my surgeon who persevered rather than putting me back on the waiting list. Can you imagine waking up thinking it’s all over with only to find out nothing had really changed? No, me neither.
Once safely ensconced in the ward bed, I remember my husband and daughter visiting and me struggling to string a coherent sentence together. Apparently 24 hours later I was much better, and that day I had updates from the assisting surgeon (who said it was the worst gallbladder he had seen in his 5 years of surgery) and my lovely surgeon.
The days that followed saw steady improvements and the physio team were happy to send me home. However my temperature started to spike, resulting in a quick backtrack from the planned discharge to ‘we need to investigate what’s going on’. I spent the day crying and feeling sorry for myself. A chest x ray led to a CT scan quickly followed by an MRI (scary stuff for a claustrophobic anxiety filled person).
Cause discovered, antibiotics administered and eventually my temperature was back under control again. 10 days after surgery I was being sent home with antibiotics to finish the course and lots of rest.
You would think that was the end of the saga, but no, my body had other ideas. 24 hours after getting home, my wound started to ooze. The ooze became a continuous dribble which we struggled to manage overnight. The next morning we headed off to our urgent treatment centre who sent us back to the main hospital for help. After lots of blood tests, swabs and faffing, a wound infection was diagnosed and yet more antibiotics prescribed. Dressing after dressing was swamped, so a surgeon came and removed some staples, opened up the infected end and gave it a thorough clean out. That dressing got swamped again so back to the hospital we went where they fitted a drainage bag (delightful!) and sent me home.
I’m now in the care of the lovely nursing team at my GP’s and although I still have a hole in my tummy I’m hopeful that I’m finally on the road to recovery. The remaining staples have been removed and they are seeing me daily to change my dressing and give me a clean up. I am forever grateful to our amazing NHS who looked after me (they need more staff on the ‘shop floor’ but that’s a post for another time) and I sincerely hope I don’t need their help again anytime soon!
