Sigh, yes, I'm back at the coalface. I'm still taking paracetamol and a codeine at night, but I'm feeling 100%. Most of the floral tributes went into the bin today, apart from Mum's bouquet, which for some reason is still going strong. I picked out a few stems from the rest that were still ok and put them in with her bunch.
My real recovery started on Thursday, when I drove into town for a dental appointment. I left the car in the suburbs and bussed the rest of the way, not trusting myself to heavy traffic. It went ok though. I ended up walking a lot, did some shopping as well. I was a bit tired after all that, but not shattered.
Bertie arrived home on Saturday afternoon. He was pleased to see me, but wanted to go "home" when Colin left and seemed a bit confused for a couple of days. He's back into the routine again now though -- especially since we visited the pet supermarket yesterday and stocked up on treats. It's been good getting back to regular walking.
Also at the weekend I washed the car and mowed the lawn. For carwashing I used the hose I bought the day I went to the dentist. It turned out to be fiendishly complicated to fit all the bits on, so the whole operation took half the day. Again, it was tiring but not shattering.
Right now I feel like I could do with a nap -- it's 11pm, two hours to go before home time.
For anyone who's interested, here's a blow-by-blow of my hospital visit:
Day one: Caught the bus to town at some ungodly hour in the morning, walked through town to the old hospital. Made a tour of various departments before finding the right one. Stripped off in cubicle, donned chic hospital gown and was fitted with charming anti-embolism stockings by nurse. (Ironic given I was there for an embolisation procedure.)
The anaesthetist fitted me to the morphine pump and I lay around for a while on a trolley watching other patients coming and going. Finally I was wheeled into the theatre. Compared to the outer area this was a Star Trek set. I was offloaded on to a motorised table, next to a set of computer monitors on a motorised arm and under a huge X-ray camera, also motorised. All the personnel -- and there seemed to be dozens -- wore lead aprons or were behind glass in a separate control room, watching more monitors.
Dr Ingram arrived first and administered the local before making the incisions and getting the catheters set up. At least I think that's what she was doing. Before she set to work my table was whizzed back and the camera came down -- right in front of my face. After a bit Dr Gillespie arrived too and they really got down to business, which was threading the catheters through to the womb.
"You've got very weird anatomy," Dr Gillespie said. "Your arteries should come to a V, but they're like trouser legs."
"What he's trying to say is that you're a very complex woman," said Dr Ingram.
At one point Dr Gillespie said the catheter had "turned back on itself" and pulled it out. "Get me a Sidewinder," he told one of the nurses, and she went to a big cupboard full of long packets on hangers and brought him one. It seemed to do the trick.
After the procedure, the two doctors stood on either side of me with their thumbs pressed on to the incision sites for ten minutes, to make sure they didn't bleed. Then Dr Gillespie went through the pictures with me, showing me my wonky arteries and the big blobs of fibroids. It was very interesting and I wish I could have watched as it happened.
After that excitement I was flopped back on to a trolley and pushed back out to the recovery area, where I dozed away a couple of hours waiting for the ambulance to take me to my bed in the new hospital. The research sister, Helen Dewart, was with me through the transfer, must have been boring for her. Riding in an ambulance was odd -- you can't see out the windows so you have no conception of where you are.
But eventually I was wheeled in to the ward and slid on to the bed, where I had to lie flat for at least four hours. People kept asking me if I could eat. "I think so, I didn't have a general anaesthetic, and I'm
very hungry," I'd say pathetically. "I'll just go and ask the nurse/sister/doctor," they'd say and disappear. Finally I was allowed to sit up and have some toast and soup. Delicious! After a little while longer I staggered off to the toilet unaided, trailing my little wheeled morphine dispenser behind me.
That night I slept like a log.
Day two: Pretty much a drug-assisted haze, with meals a highlight. In hospital the day starts early, about 6am it seemed, with a visit from the night nurse. Various medical personnel visited through the day: Dr Ingram; Sister Dewart; Dr West, whose ward I was in, and her entourage of students; the nurses.
I read most of the novel I brought in and chatted with my three ward mates. After they were discharged I succumbed to boredom and shuffled off in search of the machine that dispenses cards that work the bedside tv/phone combo. I didn't have the right change, so shuffled off further afield in search of the shop, where I had to buy something to get change. Shuffled back off upstairs and discovered the machine was out of £3.50 cards, so had to buy a £5 card. Shuffled back to bed, where I discovered the headphones didn't work right. Shuffled around the ward swapping headphones and found that mine were in fact the ward's finest pair. Sigh. Watched TV and dozed and read and ate. Faye's flowers arrived, a huge beautiful bunch with acres of cellophane and big ribbons.
There was a drama in the evening with the arrival of a young woman who I think was either miscarrying or had an ectopic pregnancy. She was very upset anyway, and so was her family -- husband and parents were all there. She was taken straight into the theatre.
Slept like a log again, after a slight hiccup. I hadn't used much of the morphine; so little in fact that the stent clogged up. I realised there was a problem after I clicked for my night-night dose and instead of drifting off I slowly become more and more alert. The nurse tried to clear it with an injection of saline, then called the duty doctor. She managed to clear it with an injection of blood-thinner, and gave it a click. Added to my earlier dose, still in the pipeline, that sent me off to dreamland like a mallet on the head.
Day three: A flurry of medical visitors in the morning, with a promise of early release. I called Leslie from the bedside bat-phone and she said she and Chad would collect me at about noon. And they did! I felt a tiny bit woozy, but walked to the van without any problem. Once home I even made them a cup of tea. Later in the afternoon I ventured out to collect some more flowers that had been left next door and also went down to the library.
So there you go: a big anticlimax given all the scare stories I've been given. I've been really very lucky as far as recovery goes, but I put at least some of it down to positive mental attitude. I think pushing the envelope a bit with gentle exercise and so on helps recovery by keeping the blood circulating.
Next step is to see Dr Gillespie again in a couple of weeks -- him or Helen Dewart, I'm not sure. Then at six months I have another MRI scan to see what progress has been made. I'm supposed to be keeping a diary of symptoms etc, but there hasn't been anything to report so far.
