Stuck in a swealtingly hot ward, no chance of washng my hair as I couldn’t shower with the dressing on and wasn’t allowed to get the wound wet; all I wanted to do was go home…
Friday, and the drugs were working! The IV antibiotcs were fighting off whatever nasty bugs were eating away at me, and the paracetamol had brought the fever down below borderline. My nurse was amazing, she was rooting for me! She even brought me orange juice on Friday because she knew the anaesthetic had made pooping impossible, and I’d mentioned orange juice normally got things moving… too much information, sorry!
I felt better once I’d pooped. Only problem then was I couldn’t stop. At this point I wasn’t sure whether it was my Bile Salt Diahorrea flaring up, the infection or the antibiotics causing it, but it was bad. Two and a half weeks on it’s still causing problems so I can only assume it is Antibiotic – associated runs, that will hopefully clear up soon.
Come that evening, and I’d not had a single spike in temperature all day. I feel literally a million times better. So I pleaded with the nurses to let me go home. “Tomorrow, hopefully, if the fever stays away” was all they would commit to.
The ward was quiet now; being next to the kitchens I heard them saying that they only had 3 hot dinners to serve. That night I actually got some proper rest – the nurses on duty were quiet and considerate, the lights were dimmed at a reasonable hour, and I slept soundly until 5am when a lady in labour on the floor below started really screaming, which I imagine woke a lot of people up.
As my temp had stayed down, I had my last dose of IV antibiotic, then the doctor agreed I could go home later that day! I was ecstatic, started slowly packing up my room and finding actual clothes to go home in. The nurses came round to change my dressing and give me some painkillers to take home… and then they said bye. We had to chase them to ask where my antibiotics were as the doctor wanted me on tablets for another week. Once that was sorted, Rob helped me get dressed – putting a bra on made me realise just how swollen my whole stomach was. It barely fit me, it was so tight. And then we left! Woohoo! I was free! Rob sat me downstairs in the cafe, which brought back a lot of emotions from being pregnant – the cafe is outside the main antenatal unit where I had all my scans and consultant appointments – he went to fetch the car so I wouldn’t have to walk too far. I’d not had any painkillers so walking was quite difficult. Just as I was about to sit in the car, my mobile rang. It was a nurse from the ward, asking me to come back up as the doctor wanted to run another lot of blood tests to make sure the antibiotics were working.
I could have cried. Rob drove the car back to the car park while I enjoyed a bit of fresh air. I felt like an imposter in the waiting room, holding my poor battered, swollen tummy to ease the pain, surrounded by pregnant women and emotional parents leaving the special care unit. We trudged back to the ward, where the doctor drew the blood, and then told us we’d have to wait for the results. Which would take an hour and a half. I was so close to tears now – I just wanted to go home! I was missing my baby, I was tired and sore, and uncomfortable, and I wanted to veg in front of the tv after a nice shower. Not sit in yet another waiting room, potentially to be told that I’d have to go back to bed and suffer more needles and blood pressure cuffs.
Rob went back to the desk an hour and a half later; he asked the nurse if the results were back. They were, just, but the doctor needed to check them over. He started back towards the waiting room when the nurse yelled after him to wait. She rang the doctor, who agreed we could leave, so leave we did!
I made the mistake of walking all the way to the car, delirious with my new found freedom. Every bump in the road was agony, and by the time we actually got home I was exhausted and in a lot of discomfort. I attempted a shower – it was the quickest of my life, standing upright was not only painful, but knackering, and I soon felt dizzy. Rob changed my dressing for a dry one, and helped me put on some clean pyjamas. Rob’s Mum was on her way from Rugby with the little man, and while I was excited to see him, I was nervous how he would react.
I mean, the poor kid hadn’t seen me in a week – would he even remember me?!
When they arrived, Xander had just woken up from a nap and was totally spaced out – he looked about as confused and sleepy as I felt! All I wanted to do was pick him up, but I couldn’t; all I could do was hug him while he stood up against the sofa. It totally broke my heart.
In Part 4 – Recovery… I am almost 3 weeks post the op now, and I’m slowly getting there…