At last the waiting was over. After all the tests and unpleasantness, which I might get round to some time, I had to be on the ward at 0700 for surgery yesterday. My PA was on hand. She had slept here the night before, was taking me to the hospital and then returning to look after Molly Cat. So far so good.
The evening before (i.e. Tuesday) we had supper with a friend, but by eight I was exhausted and excused myself. I needed an early night. By nine I was asleep. Molly was in and out. She was clearly confused. I woke intermittently and by 2.30 a.m. was pretty much awake. Molly kept trying to get me to talk to her. By 5.30 there was no point in pretending any more. I got up, fed her, went to have my bath. Normally I am the person who cuts everything too fine, but I was too twitchy and nervous that morning. I could hardly bear to say goodbye to Molly. We left the house in a hurry at about 06.30.
On arrival, we were directed to the waiting room. Why do staff feel it necessary to have day-time television on at these times? I really did not wish to see the shenanigans of the special police, or the latest in house re-design. At last, my consultant arrived: she was kind and welcoming, and immediately took me to my room: wonderful surprise, I had my own room and toilet.
We went over the procedure again. I was consented for everything. The anaesthetist came. Every potential complication was explained. For the first time that day, I started to calm down. They were so obviously competent. Then they disappeared. Next step, Nuclear Medicine for the injection of the radioactive material for the sentinel node biopsy. Only problem, nobody had told me. I got the shakes again.
At last it was time. Gowned, tested and starved, I was wheeled to theatre by a cheerful porter. He chatted and made me laugh. He told me about the patient charter and how he 'had to be nice to patients these days'. He got me there rapidly and safely.
I shall gloss over the unpleasantness of the fact that my veins had shut down. Happily, I was not aware as the difficulties mounted in theatre and my blood pressure soared to 220. The next thing I remember is being in the Recovery Suite. It seemed like only minutes later that I was on my way back to the ward. That was about 4.30 p.m. yesterday. By 11.00 this morning, I was home. How did this miracle happen?
Firstly, I cannot praise the staff highly enough. Every individual felt professional, unrushed and competent. They explained, they offered support and they never tired of responding. Within minutes of being back, I was given a cup of tea in a beaker with a straw. They explained that I had had morphine in theatre. They explained the analgesia that had been written up. They told me about the drains, organised the bed, helped me to be comfortable. Within ten minutes, my brother and I were having a normal conversation and a good laugh.
Shorty thereafter, the consultant joined us. She had asked me previously if she could speak freely in front of my brother: she now confirmed this. She told us how the surgery had gone, what the next steps were and the timescales involved. As far as I could tell, she had nothing else to do that evening, although I knew that she had been there since eight that morning.
By now, my cheerfulness knew no bounds. No doubt, some of it was the morphine euphoria, and a lot of it was relief at the operation being over, but I was pain free, eating and drinking (they had kept a cheese sandwich for me to eat after 7 pm: how kind was that?) and, despite the discomfort of the two drains and the drips, I felt fine. My brother was amazed; a confirmed believer in private medicine, he was almost converted to the wonders of the NHS.
I will not bore you with more details, but suffice it to say that I needed no more than four paracetomols through the night, that my sheets were changed when I went to the bathroom, that the observations were carried out competently and quietly, and that I slept as well as could be expected. By 6.30, I was waiting to find out if I could go home. Three conditions had been set, and I had met them all, but the drains were pouring fluid and I was afraid that I would have to stay another night. Despite the kindness, I wanted to come home!!
The Consultant team was on the ward by 07.45. I was going to be allowed home. There was a list of things to do: 'what time can I go?' I asked, 'so that I can tell my brother'. About 10.00 they said. I was disbelieving. My recollection from my days as a hospital doctor was that patients rarely left the ward in the morning. Incredibly, by 10.00, my drips were down, I had been shown how to empty, measure and re-set my drains, I was dressed, I had all my letters and appointments and had fitted with a temporary prosthesis. I even had my sunglasses on when my brother arrived.
It is now coming towards eight in the evening. I am relaxed. I have had two more doses of paracetomol. I cannot believe how smoothly it has all gone. I know this will not last. I know there are rough waters ahead. But I have seen the best of our NHS and I want to pay tribute. We cannot let it die.
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