I mentioned a rather important thing that happened in my life just lately, but parts of it were still a little “fuzzy” in my head when I wrote it.
After speaking to my wife on the phone I’ve gathered a bit more info on how I got to the bed I’m rigged to now, and it’s even more frightening than I first thought.
Right now, I’m at the QE Hospital in Birmingham. Just before I was a bit further north in a hospital called Good Hope.
The last few days there were a little “messed up” in my head so I skipped over them in the previous post.
This is what I can now piece together based on some lengthy chats with my gorgeous rock of a wife.
After I’d been admitted (and we knew it was cancer etc), I started getting really hot and sweating. My actual real body temperature was fairly normal. Turns out my body was failing me. When a kind offer of “pain relief” came along, I took it – perhaps foolishly thinking I was getting paracetamol.
My wife has opened up to me on what actually was happening. It wasn’t paracetamol. I was off my absolute tree on morphine.
My kidneys were going – I think they were operating at about 30% and the doctors kept pushing me to drink more else I’d be on dialysis.
In my “normal head” I thought I was somehow getting super-special treatment because my wife was at my bedside. This is something strictly not allowed at the height of the COVID-19 problems we have now, but I thought I’d some how “swung it” because I had the gift of the gab or something.
Wrong. Another morphine cloud.
The reality is harder to digest. Just minutes ago I got a flashback of the words, “Palliative Care” and – with my morphine-filled brain flopping along – I remember saying, “Oh, that’s not good news for me is it?”
No, Leigh. No it’s not. It’s bloody devastating. It’s end-of-life stuff.
My wife was dealing with all this. My son had been told he wouldn’t see me again. I was in a magical planet of drugs where having hours left to live or hitting a dialysis machine was a minor bump in the road. I might have enough time for a brew. Weeeee…..
The biopsy took a while to process, to test, to check. There were two things it could be. The consultant had a “hunch” which one, but couldn’t go too far up that road without totally blocking off option two
I was a mess. I fought, I kicked, I tried to get up and walk around – my stats were screwed.
The fluid on my belly was now on my chest. I couldn’t breathe in or out properly. The fluid wasn’t draining. I was bouncing around tachycardia, with almost every observation making me look like I’d run 20 miles.
I was allowed a bedside visit because I was dying.
Then, in the nick of time, the biopsy result came back. Somehow a drain eventually went in and started working. The “hunch” was right, I started responding. Things balanced. I got dropped on an ambulance to the QE and, somehow, I’m still here.
I’ve compared this to buying a lottery ticket and then going on to win the jackpot. Somehow I’ve managed to get this far.
So this morning, I was awoken by nurses at 5.30AM. I watched the rain, and I cried like a lunatic…
Morning guys. You don’t know how happy I am just to be able to look at the rain.
Being alive. It’s brilliant. pic.twitter.com/UGo8vjLnVO
— Gears (@gears) August 25, 2020
The “Beating Cancer” Spotify playlist grows as my world slows down a bit…