A bit “poorly”

[Athelstone]

 

So many people have asked, ‘What’s wrong with you’ and ‘Why are you still in hospital?’, (I’m out now) that I thought a small blog might help. Don’t get me wrong, there are many people, including on this site, who have had worse problems, often for longer. But I’ve never been this ill, so I’ll press on.

In the beginning, at the very tail end of February, some sort of bug hit me. I had no idea what it was, but it wasn’t like anything I’d had before. In less time than a bubble takes to burst, I had almost no energy, no appetite, and felt generally awful. If I wanted a shower, I had to drag myself up by the banister rail, then rest for ten minutes on the bed. I couldn’t stand for the shower, so we put a stool in. Then I began to experience moments of delirium. I just about made it into the GP’s surgery from the pavement outside where a blood test revealed a bacterial infection, and by the next day I was on antibiotics. I came back—sort of. I got worse over the next two and a half weeks or so until on a Friday in March I came downstairs and fell onto a settee. My wife began to worry about the way I was looking and speaking. She also worried about it being Friday with only 111 for help. So she called an ambulance. This saved my life. Amazingly, they came, and straight away realised it wasn’t the sniffles.

I was admitted to hospital.

Clinical diagnosis (presenting complaints)

1. Septic shock with multi organ failure on admission
2. Portal vein thrombus + SMV thrombus
3. coli bacteraema of uncertain source (intra-abdominal felt most likely) with liver abscess despite improving on antibiotics.
4. Worrisome ileo-colic nodes and caecal wall thickening – concerning for new Gi malignancy, will need endoscopic evaluation when stable.

Number 1 is fairly obvious. Number 2 needs a bit of unpacking. The Portal and SM (superior mesenteric) veins carry food-rich blood from the gut, into the liver. Somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach, something is amiss. A very large “sticky” blood clot has formed, a thrombus. Not content with this, that area has sent out a raiding party of another clot, blocking both those veins. Fortunately there are two more veins that are free, and I now gobble blood-thinners to stop more clots forming. Number 3 was just plain bad luck. Did I put my hand on a railing? Was it was in the air? Its action on me was atypical in its severity, creating abscesses in my liver and lungs. I’ve been on a huge course of antibiotics and still have a sixteen-day course to get through. Number 4 is the scary beast. I’ve been too ill, or frail to be tested yet. That’s in the near future.

I was so ill when admitted, that they were reluctant to intervene in case that itself killed me. Then, with clear signs that I was about to finish the job myself, they started me on a very strong antibiotic called Piperacillin/tazobactam, which is itself a risk. I came back to life.

There are bits missing, the main one being that I’m anaemic and low on iron

I won’t bore you with details on the next three weeks, just a skim. It started badly. Not only ill, confused, and hallucinating, at night I was woken up every 60 minutes to have my blood pressure and blood sugar level tested. I also had some new drip fitted, usually just as I was dropping off. I missed the pain and indignity of having a catheter fitted. I was unconscious. I was wide awake when they removed it – and even more awake just after. Blood tests? So many that they ran out of veins, and I had a line fitted to my neck. It wasn’t perfect though and was removed quite quickly. I went through 17 cannulas. One nurse wanted to fit another right at the end of my stay, but all the suitable-size veins on my arms were wrecked from other cannulas, injections, or blood tests. I was only taking one cannula medicine then, and it was switched to a tablet. Needless (Ho ho) to say, an even more popular move to a pill was my blood thinner, which was previously delivered, evening and morning, as a deep muscular injection directly over the stomach.

It got better. Fewer checks, fewer injections, and so on. I started exercising to try to get more mobile and a bit stronger (not fit, no discharge) under supervision.

Ooh, ooh! Before I forget. No more body rigor. This is a kind of fit which happens because your body thinks you’re too cold, often because it’s cold outside even if your temperature is bang on normal. Horrible to watch—worse to go through. Intense involuntary muscular spasms that can move teeth; almost-uncontrollable, violent trembling and shaking. I had one on my first ward after the High Dependency Unit. It was charming the way the nurses tried to calm me, but the doctors asked me to tremble less because they needed some blood.

Then one day, when I thought I was stuck for another two weeks, my doctor walked in and said, ‘Do you still want to leave?’ I said ‘yes,’ and he said, ‘How about now?’

So I’m home. On my honour to stay downstairs. I zoom around on my crutches, which are easier than a frame, as we live in a real house, not a mansion.

Some funny/weird bits:

When the ambulance arrived at our house, I was slipping in and out of consciousness. I had the vague idea it was night, although it was late afternoon. I thought I should take a nap. A rude voice woke me up, bellowing ‘William’ from close range. I opened my eyes and saw a face staring at me. I had no idea who this was. Then a woman shouted my name as well. I could hear the roar and rattle of some diesel engine nearby.

‘Leave me alone,’ I muttered. ‘I’m fine.’

‘William!’ the man bellowed again. ‘You’re not fine. You’re very ill.’

My last thought before unconsciousness. ‘Oh God. What are the neighbours going to think?’

*

When I finally came to in the hospital, my bed was rolled over to one side near a window. There was a huge mezzanine with lots of very strange people, some dressed as nurses. I thought that maybe I was on a ship. Then they had a party and wouldn’t respond when I said, ‘Excuse me.’

The whole thing was very odd, and I fell asleep.

In the morning, the weird people were milling around as ever.

‘Tell me what’s going on!’ I shouted. They didn’t answer, and I realised they didn’t like me. A couple came down, and I said, ‘You have to let me out. I need the toilet.’ One went away and came back with a large papier mâché hat. She pulled my sheets back while the other rolled me to one side and the hat was stuffed under me. Incredibly uncomfortable.

‘It’s OK to go now,’ said the one who rolled me back. They both walked away, but before they reached the steps, I announced, ‘Finished.’ It was the most defiant gesture I could muster.

The one I shall call “roller” stayed with me and washed my face, asked if I knew where I was, and was generally nice. As the sun came up, the coats that had been hanging by the door vanished, and the mezzanine became a room with beds and perfectly ordinary people in them. I realised that this was a nurse looking after me. The sense of relief, even though I had no idea where I was, was incredible.

*

My first general ward. Too soon, in the opinion of some nurses. Had a nice chat with B—(older than me). I realised that the majority of patients had diabetes, heart disease, or some variety of breathing problem, and I did wonder about the wisdom of putting somebody with an active infection, a bad cough, and diarrhoea in with them.

Then, I had a body rigor.

The room filled with slightly panicked people.

After the fit had passed and I was lying exhausted, B— revealed his secret.

‘Nurse!’ he shouted desperately. ‘Oh, please help me’ And so it went on, even after several nurses had visited. Finally, he resorted to screaming. While the other patients tossed and turned and moaned.

My great luck was that the staff shared my views about my condition, and the following morning I was moved to a side room where I remained.

*

One night I woke up and realised I was just on the point of another body rigor. Too late to do anything about it as the spasms had begun. I pressed my bell for help, but it was a very busy night, and I soon realised I’d just have to deal with it myself. I began my routine of focusing on one area, say wildly shaking arms, until I could get that to subside. Then I’d switch to another. Then back to the arms which had restarted. A full twenty minutes after the bell, the poor nursing assistant arrived. I was in full flow, and I could tell she was starting to panic. But it’s very hard to speak during a body rigor.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ was her first question.

After several attempts, I managed, ‘Cold.’ She put every blanket in the room on top of me. The fit continued unabated by the weight of polyester and wool, and finally she dashed off to summon help. She returned.

‘What do you need?’ she asked desperately.

At this stage, all I wanted was some calm company, but ten minutes after her arrival, I felt the first signs of the fit fading away. Then a doctor arrived, took one look at the mountain of blankets and, thankfully, pulled most off me and checked my pulse and breathing.

‘I heard the others lasted around half an hour,’ said the nursing assistant. ‘This one was better—only about ten minutes.’

*

So what now? I’m getting fitter and stronger. I have an appointment as an outpatient to make sure the antibiotics are clearing the abscesses where E-coli lurks. And after that—well, I know for certain that Number 4, the scary one on my admission notes up there near the start, will have to be tested for. Then, whatever will be, will be. I had this explained to me with all the possibilities quite early on and I’m reconciled with it.

For now, I’m at home and happy.

Postscript

I lost nearly two stone in weight over six weeks. Do NOT adopt this as a diet method.

My blood pressure, without any drugs to help, is perfect after years on a fistful of pills failed to bring it under control. As with dieting, don’t try this at home.

Nurses are some of the hardest-working, most patient, tolerant, and kindest, people I have ever met.

My wife visited me five times a day bringing suitable portions of food to overcome my illness-related anorexia. I couldn’t have managed without her, and still can’t.

[Janette]

Hell, Ath, this is too much for one person to put up with, and must have been (and continues to be) very frightening. I really do hope that the ‘frightening bit’ is treatable, and that you get an upturn in health very soon. Thinking of you loads and sending positive vibes your way.

[Sandra]

 

Crikey Moses, William, I’m heart-heartedly glad to hear you are home and hopefully on your way to some sort of recovery – what a torrid time you and your family must have gone through, and thank you for updating us so vividly.

Sendng love and the most healingest of good wishes

Sandra

[Athelstone]

Honestly, nobody wants to get ill and go to hospital, but I don’t regret having met the staff. From the cleaner who I talked to a lot, to the nurses who tirelessly carried horrible pots away without a single complaint, to the consultant who (I now see) was joking/hinting about discharge when she said, ‘We must get this catheter out, unless you use one at home.’ they were all cheerful and friendly.

[Thea]

Oh my goodness, Ath, what a time you’ve had! I am so glad to hear that you were well looked after in the hospital and are now home. Thank goodness for Mrs Ath’s quick thinking!

I hope you are taking things easy and making good progress. It’s great to see you back at the Den. Sending very best wishes for a speedy recovery 🙂

[Sandra]

I’ve always found the same, right up to last week with  the theatre nurse who held my hand while my eye was bring anatheasised for an op.  bless him. (all well post op.)

[Seagreen]

What an experience! I’m just glad you’re home and on the mend. Credit to you for maintaining a positive mindset and to Mrs Ath for being amazing!

Not sure if you know, Ath, but positive feedback for specific nurses ‘Natalie did this, Esme supported me with that’ can be used for their revalidation. Just saying. ☺️

[Author]

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