My Hospital Story - Part One

First of all, I would like to say how devastated I am for the patients and their families of the three children's heart surgery units that are due to close as a result of the Safe And Sustainable review by the NHS.

I'm particularly sad for the little patients of the Royal Brompton Hospital where I was looked after and cared for so well just 4 weeks ago - the hospital is a world-class unit carrying out highly regarded research into congenital heart defects in babies, even before those babies are born.

As mentioned in my previous blogs, I stayed in the hospital for just 8 nights - this is Part One of that stay.

Day One - Admission

It was a terrible day. Despite all my best efforts I couldn't stop myself crying when I said goodbye to my little girl before she went to school, and that set the tone for the whole day. I could hardly speak by the time we left the house, leaving my parents and father-in-law standing on the doorstep.

The journey to the hospital took about an hour and a half and we stopped for a sandwich in South Kensington before going into the hospital.

It took some time before there was a bed available and the seemingly interminable wait before anyone talks to you at all.  I must've said my name and date of birth a dozen times to confirm my identity.

Is it likely that a stranger would just walk in off the street and pretend to be me to get a pulmonary valve replacement?!?

Eventually we saw the registrar and he explained about the surgery and the risks involved and I had to reach for my husband's hand for support. I couldn't stop the tears once again and I think the registrar was a bit taken aback.  I got through a whole pack of tissues, as once I started I couldn't stop.

The anaesthetist arrived to go through my file and to explain his part in my surgery. He was very down-to-earth and told me that my case was not complex, it was in fact very straight-forward. He did this same surgery with the same surgeon about once or twice a week. For some reason this calmed me down and by the time my husband had to leave to find his accommodation in the hospital, I was feeling much better. I'd also been prescribed some sleeping pills, which was good news, as I don't think I would've slept otherwise.

The other ladies on the ward were friendly and we chatted until bedtime, sharing our heart stories and that made me feel better too.

Day Two - The Day of the Operation

I woke up feeling really woozy after the sleeping pills but had to rush to shower and pack all my bags, as I could only take my toilet bag with me. I even had to leave my watch and phone with my husband, which left me feeling really cut off from the world. Luckily they left me my glasses which they would put into my toilet bag once I was in surgery.

The surgeon came to see me at about 7.15am. It was the first time I'd met him and I was relieved to find him so friendly and laid-back. He didn't go into any details about the surgery but looked at my notes and asked about my family and my little girl (managed not to cry this time!). He said "See you later" and gave me a wave!

I was first in the line for surgery that day, which was a huge relief. We left the ward at 8am and my husband came with me as far as he could. By that point I was as ready as I was ever going to be for the surgery and was feeling pretty good - I remember joking with the porters, when they accidentally bumped my bed against a wall, that I didn't want to be battered and bruised before surgery!

And then suddenly we were in the room and the lovely anaesthetist from the day before was there and gave me a big thumbs-up.  They asked me what surgery I was expecting to have that day, which I found quite funny! One of the team was from Wales and he kept me talking about where I was from in Wales and whether I knew Llandovery (!), before putting an oxygen mask over my face and suddenly I was out of it!

The next thing I remember someone is calling my name and telling me they were going to remove the breathing tube. I thought "Oh no, I'm not going to like this....", but the voice asked me to cough a couple of times and out it came! No problem! I was so relieved, as I'd been dreading that bit.

I knew I was in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) but the place looked huge with lots of people moving around - in reality there were just four patients in this particular bay. Someone told me that there had been a few phone calls asking about my progress, including from my husband. I asked the time and it was 7pm, about 11 hours since I'd last been awake.

They let me have a few sips of water through a straw, but no more. It was difficult to get comfortable and get any sleep, as I was attached to so many lines. Also the specialist bed kept adjusting itself automatically (I think so that patients don't get bed sores) and the blood pressure pad squeezed my right arm at regular intervals. I asked what the time was on a few more occasions, when I could get the attention of the nurse, as I couldn't really speak very well, and that's all I remember until the next day.

Part Two of My Hospital Story will follow in my next blog.