OK, it’s never been easy, those post-chemo weeks, but I never counted on a week in hospital. I had had my few days of gastric-hell and was looking forward to my 2 weeks of feeling human again, before chemo, when the infection hit. I was feeling sick that Tuesday, like I was sub-human. Walking around in a sort of haze, indescribably ill. Without going into horrible details which would gross everyone out, let’s leave it at my mastectomy wound was infected, under my skin. Without hesitation I called the emergency at the hospital and they told me to come in and that I should expect to be admitted…that I had already figured out and was throwing underwear and jammies in my Red Cape Breton/Canada overnight bag while I was still on the phone. I would be once again and formally, a patient.
I should have known my hospital stay would have been eventful when we were met at the almost impenetrable doors of the emergency department by a very young, doll-like creature who introduced herself to us as “the doctor”. She had both the voice and the demeanor of a frightened child as she examined me and wrote down my history and present complaints. The pin-cushion treatment then began with everyone having a go at my left arm, the only place available to draw blood or to start IV’s. I was also seen by a surgeon who told me I’d be going to the OR sometime the next day to clean out my wound!! EEEK! Meanwhile, a very sympathetic anaesthesist skillfully started my IV, I was given antibiotics right away and swept up to a private room on the surgical unit to await my fate. It had gone almost too smooth until I was in my room and THINGS STARTED TO GO WRONG. I was being interviewed by a cheerful night nurse until I started to get searing pain in my left hand…she had just started my second antibiotic on top of the first one which I had received in the ER…obviously “not-done” as the entire IV tubing crystalized and these crystals were entering my blood!! The nurse was in quite the panic, pulled out my precious IV and was gone in an instant..and returned with everyone and their brother and began what I’ll call “keeping Susan unnaturally awake all night by shining lights in her face, taking her blood pressure and asking her if she was ok”. The sympathetic anaesthesist returned from home smelling highly of cologne and miraculously found another place for an IV first shot. I still am thankful for the skills of few. Over the next few days and questioning EVERYTHING which occurred, I came to realize how lucky I was that the crystalized-antibiotic situation was not worse than it was…
I am quite aware that perhaps I made the nurses and lab technicians nervous during my stay, but I didn’t really care. Everyone knew I was a nurse and although I wasn’t expecting special care, I certainly wasn’t going to accept sub-standard care, either. That being said, I cannot impress how often I found discrepancies with my care…who was ordering what and doing what and saying what, too many doctors involved. The morning after my admission the surgical staff and their exalted leader marched into my room and boomed that not only was I NOT going to the OR, but I was to be sent home with antibiotics and wound care administered to me by homecare!!! Before I could digest what was said, they were gone. I grabbed my mobile phone to relay this info to Wilfried and before I could hang up someone else stood by my bed telling me I’d be in hospital for a few days and certainly WASN’T going home! I then realized everyone was great at shouting orders, but no one wanted to take full responsibility allowing for my discharge either and I ended up staying till the weekend.
My hospital days were filled with wound care, people walking in my room without knocking, being pricked countless times, sometimes unnecessarily and dreading the foodcart. Thank god for my daily visits from Wilfried, something pleasant to look forward to each day. I had also been told by the dietitian that I absolutely HAD to eat, that my weight-loss was severe and that I was starving, essentially. How could I, the greatest food-lover on earth, get to this point of actually hating the sight of food? I also managed to ask for a scale, to finally confront my weight. As I teetered on the scale, I waited for the needle to indicate a soaring number I had always feared, however was surprised to see I now weighed less than I had years ago when Sonja Bakker and jogging were my best friends and I had dropped 25kgs. Strange to feel ones bones, to be able to cross ones legs, to easily be able to pick something up off the ground…feels like I’m in a stranger’s body. Thin, nauseous and weak….and picking at bits of food, counting grams of protein, hopefully able to swallow a few grams/day allowing my body to heal itself. May I add here how incredible difficult it is to force onesself to eat when nauseated…just in case someone feels like telling me just eat, already!
So here I am back home, happily where I belong and not without an almost ridiculous set of circumstances getting set up with home care. My dreaded chemo is cancelled this week, a week reprieve allowing me to heal a bit inside and out.
I know I sound ungrateful for the care I’ve received but that’s not entirely true. I have had incredibly kind and gentle nurses in the hospital, skilled caregivers and listening ears…a funny and surprisingly warm dietitian whom I gave a big bag of courgettes to, telling her how very healthy they are, and so far, super home care nurses who have taken over the tasks of the hospital staff. Yes, this has been a bump in my journey towards health, but it is what it is…I’m crawling over it now and will come running down the other side very soon. Thank you to all my friends who have supported me so far, you are, without sounding mushy, the wind beneath my wings….
Journey 