Operation- the waiting game...

After my chemotherapy sessions, which ran from September through to November 2020, the various scans had shown that the tumours had responded well to chemotherapy. This meant they had shrunk enough to allow surgery!

After chemo, they can’t operate for at least 6 weeks, so the operation was due to take place late December/early January. This meant I was able to enjoy Christmas with the family without feeling like utter rubbish! Although I worried about the risks involved in major surgery and the potential of waking up with a stoma bag, I knew if it saved my life, it would be worth it.

My date was finally secured as 12th January 2021 (later than my consultant wanted but at least it was getting done asap!) The day had finally arrived! Covid tests done, self-isolation for 14 days done, bags were packed, kids were sorted, bowels were prepped, and I was ready to go!

Unfortunately, Covid had other ideas. We found ourselves in the midst of the second wave. The hospitals were overwhelmed and as I sat on the ward watching the clock from 6.30am-10.30am, I had a bad feeling. My worries we’re confirmed by the surgeon who informed me that my operation was cancelled due to having no beds available in the Intensive Care Unit for my after care. This is when the pandemic really hit home for me. I was a mess. I knew I wasn’t the only one in this situation by a long stretch, but I also knew this operation was life-saving, and the longer it was left, the lower my chances became.

They weren’t able to give me a definite date of when they would reschedule, and I literally didn’t know what to do. Going private would have been tens of thousands of pounds, and many waiting lists for private surgeons were months anyway! Luckily after speaking with my consultant that night he pushed for me to have the operation the following week. I was relieved but also apprehensive as the Covid situation wasn’t getting any better.

A week after and I was back in. I sat on the green (Covid secure) ward for 5 hours full of anxiety, waiting to hear if there would be a bed available for my aftercare. The surgeon came in to inform me there wasn’t. There was an alternative though, they would look to remove the large segment of bowel and the lymph nodes, but instead of cutting the liver section they would ablate it (effectively burn the cancerous area) this would mean I would not necessarily need an ICU bed. There was also no guarantee that I would be put back on a green ward after surgery as Covid cases were building hour by hour. I decided to take my chances and go ahead with the operation.

Hospitals are never the nicest of places to be at the best of times, but it was quite intimidating entering the operating theatre to 10 people all wearing masks. Usually, you would be anaesthetised in a separate room, but due to the circumstances it was all done in theatre. I was given an epidural to help with the pain post-surgery which wasn’t a nice experience- (well done to all you ladies who had one whilst in labour pain!) It was similar to my lumbar puncture, lots of sweating and wanting to be sick. The poor doctor who’s hand I was squeezing the life out of, was probably in equal amounts of pain! After my somewhat unglamourous arrival into surgery, I’m sure they were quite relived when I was finally asleep!

After 5 ½ hours in surgery I woke up to 4 nurses hovering over me. I briefly mumbled a few random words and fell back to sleep. I woke up sometime the following day. I obviously hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for over 72 hours but to be honest I wasn’t hungry. I did manage to drink some orange juice though. Unfortunately, I got the taste for it and must have drunk about a litre and a half of the stuff! Which wasn’t great news when the nurses hauled me out of bed, struggled to get me in a chair and spent quite a while giving me a bath, for me to instantly throw up all over myself! I could see the disappointment on their faces. As I sat there smelling of Tropicana, I remember thinking, this is a low moment.

I spent a week in hospital, obviously no visitors were allowed, so a lot of online shopping was done. The neighbours must have questioned the number of boxes being delivered at my house and I assured my husband they were all essential items!

Every morning I would be visited by various nurses, doctors and consultants. A couple of days after surgery, I was informed the ‘pain team’ were on their way. I wasn’t too sure I liked the sound of this dubious squad. However, they were very concerned with my inability to cough, due to the high risk of me developing a chest infection. With 2 of them behind me and the other one thrusting a cushion under my chest, I managed a pathetic whisper of a cough. They were not impressed by my valiant attempt and informed me they would be back tomorrow for more.

I had been told I would be allowed home when I could pass wind. Which on the face of it sounds simple. Unfortunately, due to having half my insides removed and then sewn back together, this was not a easy task.

My stomach had bloated to the size of a balloon and I had no stomach muscles to even get out of bed. I effectively looked like a beached whale flailing my arms and legs around trying to sit up. On day 4, I decided I would try to walk the 10 metres to the bathroom. Still attached to a catheter and morphine drip, I wheeled my trolly towards the door. It had taken about 5 minutes of awkward small talk and sympathetic looks with my ward buddies as I shuffled towards the door, but I got there in the end!

Really pleased with myself, I got my wash bag out, while doing this, hooking my bucket of wee onto the trolly. I turned around to check out at my hideous face in the mirror and manged to knock said bucket off, smashing onto the floor. Whilst paddling through my own urine, I managed to call the nurse who kindly came to help me. I’m not really sure what I had managed to achieve there, but at least I was finally up. I just needed to trump now, and we were onto a winner!

After a week or so, look at the difference!