Last Thursday I was in Gloucester Royal Hospital with an ectopic pregnancy, having a Laparoscopy (camera and probes in the belly) and one of my fallopian tubes removed. This was keyhole surgery, although I must say – my surgeon must have some rather large keys on his keyring, as my scar is over an inch long. (Photo at the end of this post – if you like gore!)
I was quite poorly after surgery, unable to swallow on the first night and sick for the first 12 hours. The pain was horrendous and in the early hours of Saturday morning I asked them to test me for a urine infection, because the pain seemed to be getting worse instead of better. I was right, and it turned out that on top of the surgery pain and all the pain of the gas pumped into my abdomen during surgery, I had a UTI.
I was on a vast concoction of painkillers and antibiotics, still in pain and developed a fever, but I was discharged on Sunday night regardless.
I didn’t feel ready, but I didn’t have much choice. There’s no remote controlled bed at home to help me get comfy, so I didn’t sleep well the first night. Half a day alone with the children, when I could barely move, was difficult too.
My friend came over on Monday afternoon and is staying a few days to look after me and the girls, which is easing the pressure. I’ve mostly been sleeping since she’s been here. I feel very weak. The doctors have said it takes 4-6 weeks to recover, which is making me panic about my #EmmasArmy against Cancer campaign. Will I be fit enough to walk 104 miles in May on no training? I’m not allowed to drive for 2-4 weeks or work for 4-6 either so funds will be tight for the girls birthdays.
People don’t realise, until they’ve spent as much time in hospital as me, the impact it has on a families finances.
Emotionally, I’m coping. I have weak moments where I cry. I wasn’t aware that I was pregnant for very long and I wasn’t very far gone, but it still would have been my baby and I am still feeling a loss, much more than I thought I would.
I had a crying session in hospital, where the feeling of grief hit me hard and suddenly. I sat up in bed and started sobbing hard. I went to leave the room to hide in the toilet and in that moment, I wanted to leave the hospital. I didn’t know where I wanted to go, but I felt crushed and trapped at the same time. After a cuddle with the patient in the next bed and a chat and reassuring arm from the nurse, I got back into bed, knowing I wasn’t well enough to leave.
I didn’t look after myself in hospital. I had no motivation to do anything. I refused to let the nurses change my bedding, I refused to follow the nurses advice to “mobilise” by walking up and down the corridor and I refused to wash. All I did in that hospital bed, was sleep, and sleep, and sleep, with the occasional cry or visitor in between. I woke only for blood pressure checks, food, the toilet and more painkillers.
In between sleeps I’d have short conversations with the other patients. We all knew each others bladder and bowel movements by time we left. I bonded well with the other patients in my room, and they kept me sane, but one by one they were discharged, until it was just me and one other left, that I’d spoken to.
Since I’ve been home, I’ve had a bath and changed my dressings, which made me feel a lot better. Recovery is going to be a long slow process, but I’ll get there. I always do.
Gory wound photo below…