BITTY BARBY BOOB, RIP

Bitty Barby Boob, RIP

My first name is Barbara, although I seldom use it, except for medical reasons, and nobody has ever called me Barby.  But in giving my last bit of concern for Barby before her life was ended on March 27, at approximately midday, I decided to thank her for all her good work over the years, tell her that it isn’t her fault she didn’t come up to my expectations, and that she did her best.  

My daughter took me to the hospital at 7 am. There were 5 of us waiting, and we each went through the various ;pre surgery routines. My surgeon, who I hadn’t met before, drew a sketch on my breast, which made it seem like she was going to do a lot of chopping and slicing.  One thing that iI wasn’t expecting was that I was asked if I would donate Barby  for medical research.  I jumped at the chance. The idea that some of my body will live on along with billions of other samples, in order to provide material for research made me very happy.  I have always carried an organ donar card but at my advanced age and problems, I doubt anyone would want to swap their organs for mine. 

I was taken into the operating theatre at 10.45, and five figures swarmed around my bed, each doing their job. One put a cannula into my arm for the medication and fluids, one put a monitor on my leg, one put a sticky substance on my forehead on which  then had a monitor placed  on it. The anaethetist was ready set, and the surgeon was sharpening her knife. 

The anasthetic was started, and someone said, You should be feeling different now.  NO.. A minutes later, you should be feeling different now.  No.  But then I did feel different, I had been given oxygen to breathe, and suddenly it seemed to stop and I was out.

I woke up in recovery around 3.   I was told that if all had gone well, I would be allowed to go home that evening and my daughter was set to pick me up to take me home at 5.  I felt well and not in any real pain.  I just rested and had my various stats taken until home time came.

I was able to walk to the car in the car park without any problems, and was looking forward to a nice meal and ice cream, and an early night. I took my required medication which included an injection of heparin.

It sounds like a pleasant ending to a long lasting problem, doesn’t it?  Well you couldn’t be more wrong.

I went to bed about 8, got up to use the toilet and empty my stoma at 11.30 - feeling fine.

At 3 a.m. I woke up with bad reflux.  I wanted to reach over to find my Rennies, but strangely found I was touching my shoes.  I felt around the area and found a plastic bag, and although it seems odd that I wasn’t concerned about the shoes were on my bed, I still wasn’t totally worried about that.  But before long and more hand explorations, I finally cottened on to the fact I was on the floor. I had no memory of how I got there, but there I was. Eventually I became aware sufficiently to try to find the bed, and managed to get myself into a kneeling position.  I stayed like that for awhile - keening - involuntarily. I then told myself to buck up and stand and get into bed. Which I did along with a bit more keening. 

My daughter was sleeping in the living room just below my bedroom, so I tried to call her, but no reply.  It turned out she had not done the right thing to block some calls, and allow mine.  So I realised I was on my own. I needed pain killers, and with the light on I could see them along with the upturned water bottle whichhad gone of the floor when I kicked the table over. I also had a straight chair near my bed and moved onto it and reached over to get the water bottle which still had some water in it, and also the required pain killers. I managed that and then went back to bed, sleeping some, but mostly waiting for dawn, when I knew my daughter would come and find me. 

She came in at 8.15, and took one look at me and was absolutely devestated. I apparently looked quite odd with various bits of half digested peas and carrots plasted over my face and clothes. I have no memory of being sick.  She knew we needed help, so she first called the hospital where I had had the operation. They didn’t want to know, but suggested calling the clinic where I get most of my treatment. They didn’t want to know, so suggested she called my GP, and she said, call 999. 

My ambulance men were called John and Phil - which was easy to remember as my husband’s name was John Philip.  Their first  job was to assess my Blood pressure staus. It was relatively OK lying down but when they had me sit, it fell, and when I stood it went to 60/50 which they said was pretty bad.  They gave me a bag of saline drip which took about an hour to empty, and after that, I was considered well enough to be transferred to the ambulance and then to the nearest hospital which was not the one where I had been operated on. 

It was about midday when we got settled in the A and E outer wings. I was rebedded 4 times during that day as better quality accommodation became available.  I was sent for a brain and body scan - looking for bleeding. I had yet more bags of fluid going into me.  

So the long day went on, and I didn’t feel in pain, just anxious.  When I was tucked up for the final time, a surgeon came to see me.  He was absolutely livid when he saw that my hematoma, blood blister, went from my shoulders to my hips, all very black and blue. He kept saying they shouldn’t have sent me home. They should be dealing with this - as it was their fault it happened.  He said he would try to contact them to take me back, but if not, he would arrange for me to have mop up surgery in the morning, so I was on Nothing by mouth again.  

There’s more but I need to have a rest now.