Back on a trolley a cheerful man propels me to the ward, passing normal people, upright people, all going about their business. We enter the strange insular world of a ward and I am pushed into a wing that holds six beds, five containing the “old lags” the sixth is for me. I am lifted gently into bed and propped up on pillows, the old lags launch into welcomes, well the three that were awake did, the 95 year old on my right rarely woke up and the guy opposite him, sadly, had serious problems.
After hello’s and introductions the man on my left happily tells me about some recent excitement, a man on our ward had recently died of a heart attack while on the toilet, he went on to tell me the strain of, well, straining often killed heart attack victims. I did not poo for over a week and the first was a very tentative affair!!!
For a while the old lags swapped “my heart attack was worse that yours” stories but I was too exhausted to join in. Being on the ward brings me back to the world with a thump, I discovered a toxic substance unique to hospitals, hospital food, nutritionally useless, cold, brown shapeless lumps passed off as meals. Apparently this food is cooked miles away in a factory and transported by lorry and then trolley to be delivered in an inedible state. Don’t the NHS know that bodies need nutrients, especially sick bodies.
Moving my body is a major effort so I mostly lay in one position and get to know my new world. There are three tribes in the ward, staff, patients and a worried looking fidgety bunch called visitors. Most of my sympathy is for the visitors, they lovingly drag themselves across the county, put vast sums into the parking ticket machines, to visit people who just want to be asleep.
My wife and daughter looked strained during their first visit, I had obviously frightened them a lot. My wife is a soft, feminine woman, not comfortable with driving, navigation or spiders luckily she has a strong core of inner strength. I suspect she needs it living with me, me full of big ideas and forever charging off in different directions, me who is useless around the house, me who once dragged the whole household down with a long bout of depression. For reasons best known to herself she seems to love and need me and of course I have taken her for granted. I now take her on another scary ride with a heart attack. My daughter is only just into her teens she should not be worrying about me, she should be having fun. Luckily she has her mothers strong core so we will all get through this.
My parents also look scared, having already lost a child this is just piling on the pressure, they put on a brave face but their eyes show fear. Visitors leave and we all settle down to rest, excitement comes in the form of panic caused by a twinge in the chest, this makes me press the panic button only to have to apologise for the false alarm.
Before I go on I should insert the ubiquitous praise for doctors and nurses, overworked but kind and caring, where they get their energy and compassion from is beyond me. I need to stress this, they are amazing.
My first night on the ward was introspective and sleepless. As the activity of the day subsides and the lights are dimmed all there is to do is think. I almost died, there is no getting away from it, I almost died. But aside from the worries about my family it was not all bad, there was that light, joy and feeling of connection that I had while laying in resuss. I also have a nagging feeling that there is something else I should know, or remember, that nagging feeling will have a profound effect on my life for years to come.
I see the clock creep into the early hours, then daylight appears through the window.
Day two and my heart is still going, which is good. I’m not sure that I trust it yet so I am keeping a check on it, beat by beat.
After breakfast, as they insist on calling it, a specialist arrives with news he can confirm that I had
suffered a heart attack, he seemed pleased, perhaps he has a target to reach. But there was good news, he was going to insert new plumbing into my heart and I would then be better,
next was the punch line it could be a month before they could fit me up with the new pipes. I said “but, but, but… I need to get back to work, what about my family, they need me fit and working?”
The crowd at the end of my bed went into a huddle, then they came back around my bed (did I mention specialists travel with a group of supporters?) “OK” he announced we will do it tomorrow. Blimey!
When the specialist, and crowd, left a kind nurse explained what would actually happen but I did not like the sound of what she was describing so I stopped listening. Then she got my full attention, the surgery would take place in London which surprised me because I was in a hospital in Chelmsford.
Back to my new pastime of nurse watching and I start to develop a huge respect for nurses, I don’t know what fuel they run on but they should tell NASA. Nurses move constantly, lifting people about, delivering pills, translating for doctors and they smile and laugh as they work. They take your pulse with warm hands and kind eyes. You can hide your fear behind rude jokes but they still see it and give compassion, I want to take them all home when I go.
The rest of the day passes slowly, people come and go usually taking some of my blood with them. We
are fed, ha, ha, thankfully my visitors are bringing some real food later. That evening my visitors turn up, with food, and I tell them the plan for tomorrow but I think that they stop listening when I get to the new plumbing bit, just as well because I was not sure of the details myself, perhaps I should have listened after all. Funny how quickly the words scalpel and cut can cause a change of subject.
My family have all developed even more strained expressions “what have I done to them” I think.
The man with the vampire badge arrives and takes blood from my wrist, it hurts more the heart attack but he smiles all the time. I was beginning to have serious doubts about him, how did I know that he actually worked for the hospital and was not just coming in for a “take away”.
That night I met the kindest person in the world, Lucy, the night nurse, the reality of my day caught up with me so she sat by my bed, held my hand, and chatted for hours on and off throughout the night. I wake early in the morning, assuming that I have slept at all, I must have been good during the night because they did not make me eat the stuff called breakfast.
My new tribe tell me a selection of heart surgery mishap stories and then wish me well as they wave me off to London for my new plumbing.
