Hospital Blog 3: Day by Day

But First: The Octopus Experience

Today (27 March) was sunny and bright so we headed for the sea.  We went to Nopigia beach.  Not really a beach, but a track runs parallel to the sea, with stones and rocks down to the water’s edge.  We walked for about 20 minutes then scrambled down to the water, sheltered by a boulder from the wind.  I took my Crocs and leggings off and paddled in amongst the stones and next to another boulder.  I had been splashing about for a few minutes when I felt something next to my leg.  I did what any reasonable person would do and screamed ‘sea monster’ and splashed to shore.  I think I might have said ‘it’s chasing me’.  It sort of was, so we got a great view of an octopus in shallow water.  Al offered it a finger, and the octopus, for it was such a creature, suckered it.  Also was able to take a few photos before it headed back home.  What an unusual experience though!  When snorkelling we have searched and searched and only had one sighting, then, when we least expected it…
So, Al is getting back to normal life.  Baby steps.

 

 

At the end of the last Hospital Blog we left Al in his high dependency bed, wired and tubed everywhere.  The full weight of this experience is fading now; that first day, I really can’t remember what we said when I first saw him.  I think I told Al about my experience, and he shared his feelings about the ICU (see Hospital Tapes link in the last blog).   Of course I was overwhelmed with panic and relief.  I sat by the bed, occasionally getting out of the way for nurses taking blood, temperature, pressure, changing bags of stuff going in, stuff coming out.  Al mostly dozed, I read, got out of the way, maybe fetched tea…. It really is a blur now.
The nights were quite peculiar.  By now it is Saturday following his operation on the Thursday.  I think it was this first night when there was a panic over Al’s blood pressure, which was low.  At one time there were 4 people around the bed, including a very nice young female doctor who had been called down from the ICU upstairs since there was no ward doctor on our floor.  They worked away on various stats and eventually decided on a blood transfusion.  Half a bag of blood later, he seemed to have responded well, and panic over.  But Al was very uncomfortable.  Everything was uncomfortable.  he had to be on his back, propped up to help breathing. An awkward line into neck for speedy drug administration.  Thingy in arm for transfusions, drugs etc.  The young doctor from upstairs (Samvika, I think, although I may not have the spelling exactly right) struggled to make him more settled, propping him up with a pillow lifting his left side a little.  
Once we were left quiet again, I curled up on the bed-chair with my toes against Al’s arm so that he could wake me if he needed anything by pulling on them.  It worked!
Each of the following days was pretty much the same with bursts of activity, dozing, reading.  I am shocked at how little I can remember.  After the blood pressure panic, I realised that we were still not completely in the clear.  There could be problems in almost any major organ.  
There was quite a lot of ‘hands on help' - adjusting the bed, pillows, sheet etc.  I can remember that Al was very warm.  He was wearing the green post-op gown for the first few days.    Maybe on the Monday I went back to the house, fed and played with Our Cat, grabbed anything useful and headed back to the hospital.  Each day there was one tube or wire less, like a game of Pick up Sticks.
Nights were still difficult, although I was sleeping more.  Al not so much.  He was waking feeling as though he couldn’t breath, like a panic attack.  Only one other bed in the room, occupied by a heart valve chap, probably in his 40s, and his wife also sleeping next to him on a reclining chair.  (These more comfortable than aeroplane seats, at least in Economy.) They were ideal considerate neighbours.  After what seemed like an eternity of disturbed nights (I think maybe 2), Al was given a sleep inducing tablet, and that made things a little better.  

Maybe on Tuesday the nurses asked me where were Al's clothes.  Nobody had told me what he would need post ICU.  He had no pyjamas, but I had brought a bright green dressing gown that we share. I made a dash to the local supermarket to see what I could find in the pyjama department.  Actually, nothing.  Bottoms, no tops, all too small.  I found
- a pale blue cotton thin shirt, very large
- a red plaid brushed cotton shirt, right size
- a set on women’s XL pyjamas, blue with a white pattern that I hoped could pass.  (They didn't.)
The reason for the flurry of activity?  It was time to get out of bed and get dressed.
Al had been sitting in the chair for a while each day, twice after the first day.  Encouraged to spend as much time as possible in vertical mode.  But today was clearly special in terms of milestones to the exit door.  I modified the shirt, cutting off the collar and sleeves, and it worked fine.  Of course, because of the scar, the dressings etc. a front fastening garment was needed.  That and light track bottoms sorted the costume issue.  

On Wednesday it was bath time.  Two jolly nurses gave him a bed bath, including, at Al’s request, a hair wash, ingeniously rigged up using a bin liner as a washbasin.  I will draw a modesty veil over the rest.  Then we were shunted out to a sort of limbo ward where we were pretty much left to get on with ourselves, preparatory to going home.  Al was still getting a little dizzy at this stage, not sleeping well at all, and blood pressure still lower than the surgeon would like.  So instead of being discharged on Thursday, just a week after the operation, he was given an extra day.  By this time I had discovered the coffee shop in the basement, the mini market that sold chocolate digestives and the take away across the road from the hospital that did souvlaki and a couple of vegetarian dishes every day..

This room mate was cheerful but in pain with his kidneys and definitely did not suffer in silence.  Who could blame him for the moans and groans?  Also no wife to help him out, so I added him to the morning cafe  and tiropeta run.  
Nights were still difficult with breathlessness and panic attacks - seemed interminable to Al.  One night I got into bed with him.  A nurse came, took his blood pressure and left again, like a ghost without disturbing us at all. Always a relief when 7 o’clock rolled around and we could start the day. 

On Friday 25 February, one last check from Dr Kiparakis in the morning and we were pretty much free to go.
I packed our bags - fetched the car.  Went to buy a pillow.  Got a Covid test so that I could get back into the hospital.  Al was given a wheelchair for the long trek to the main entrance, and eventually, with a pillow between his chest and the seatbelt, off we went to the little house in Amoudara and a very grateful cat.  
Looking back on it all, it seems amazing that  only 8 days elapsed between the life-saving hours in the operating theatre and leaving the hospital under our own steam.  
The recovery period had begun.

                                            ***
 

It's probably time to bring the blog up to date now, staying in the present.  But thank you for accompanying us through the hospital experience.  Writing has helped me process this, and knowing that you have read it has also made me feel less alone.  Of course some of you respond, and I love that.  But thanks also to the silent readers. 

Hospital Blog 3: Day by Day

But First: The Octopus Experience

Today (27 March) was sunny and bright so we headed for the sea.  We went to Nopigia beach.  Not really a beach, but a track runs parallel to the sea, with stones and rocks down to the water’s edge.  We walked for about 20 minutes then scrambled down to the water, sheltered by a boulder from the wind.  I took my Crocs and leggings off and paddled in amongst the stones and next to another boulder.  I had been splashing about for a few minutes when I felt something next to my leg.  I did what any reasonable person would do and screamed ‘sea monster’ and splashed to shore.  I think I might have said ‘it’s chasing me’.  It sort of was, so we got a great view of an octopus in shallow water.  Al offered it a finger, and the octopus, for it was such a creature, suckered it.  Also was able to take a few photos before it headed back home.  What an unusual experience though!  When snorkelling we have searched and searched and only had one sighting, then, when we least expected it…
So, Al is getting back to normal life.  Baby steps.

 

 

At the end of the last Hospital Blog we left Al in his high dependency bed, wired and tubed everywhere.  The full weight of this experience is fading now; that first day, I really can’t remember what we said when I first saw him.  I think I told Al about my experience, and he shared his feelings about the ICU (see Hospital Tapes link in the last blog).   Of course I was overwhelmed with panic and relief.  I sat by the bed, occasionally getting out of the way for nurses taking blood, temperature, pressure, changing bags of stuff going in, stuff coming out.  Al mostly dozed, I read, got out of the way, maybe fetched tea…. It really is a blur now.
The nights were quite peculiar.  By now it is Saturday following his operation on the Thursday.  I think it was this first night when there was a panic over Al’s blood pressure, which was low.  At one time there were 4 people around the bed, including a very nice young female doctor who had been called down from the ICU upstairs since there was no ward doctor on our floor.  They worked away on various stats and eventually decided on a blood transfusion.  Half a bag of blood later, he seemed to have responded well, and panic over.  But Al was very uncomfortable.  Everything was uncomfortable.  he had to be on his back, propped up to help breathing. An awkward line into neck for speedy drug administration.  Thingy in arm for transfusions, drugs etc.  The young doctor from upstairs (Samvika, I think, although I may not have the spelling exactly right) struggled to make him more settled, propping him up with a pillow lifting his left side a little.  
Once we were left quiet again, I curled up on the bed-chair with my toes against Al’s arm so that he could wake me if he needed anything by pulling on them.  It worked!
Each of the following days was pretty much the same with bursts of activity, dozing, reading.  I am shocked at how little I can remember.  After the blood pressure panic, I realised that we were still not completely in the clear.  There could be problems in almost any major organ.  
There was quite a lot of ‘hands on help' - adjusting the bed, pillows, sheet etc.  I can remember that Al was very warm.  He was wearing the green post-op gown for the first few days.    Maybe on the Monday I went back to the house, fed and played with Our Cat, grabbed anything useful and headed back to the hospital.  Each day there was one tube or wire less, like a game of Pick up Sticks.
Nights were still difficult, although I was sleeping more.  Al not so much.  He was waking feeling as though he couldn’t breath, like a panic attack.  Only one other bed in the room, occupied by a heart valve chap, probably in his 40s, and his wife also sleeping next to him on a reclining chair.  (These more comfortable than aeroplane seats, at least in Economy.) They were ideal considerate neighbours.  After what seemed like an eternity of disturbed nights (I think maybe 2), Al was given a sleep inducing tablet, and that made things a little better.  

Maybe on Tuesday the nurses asked me where were Al's clothes.  Nobody had told me what he would need post ICU.  He had no pyjamas, but I had brought a bright green dressing gown that we share. I made a dash to the local supermarket to see what I could find in the pyjama department.  Actually, nothing.  Bottoms, no tops, all too small.  I found
- a pale blue cotton thin shirt, very large
- a red plaid brushed cotton shirt, right size
- a set on women’s XL pyjamas, blue with a white pattern that I hoped could pass.  (They didn't.)
The reason for the flurry of activity?  It was time to get out of bed and get dressed.
Al had been sitting in the chair for a while each day, twice after the first day.  Encouraged to spend as much time as possible in vertical mode.  But today was clearly special in terms of milestones to the exit door.  I modified the shirt, cutting off the collar and sleeves, and it worked fine.  Of course, because of the scar, the dressings etc. a front fastening garment was needed.  That and light track bottoms sorted the costume issue.  

On Wednesday it was bath time.  Two jolly nurses gave him a bed bath, including, at Al’s request, a hair wash, ingeniously rigged up using a bin liner as a washbasin.  I will draw a modesty veil over the rest.  Then we were shunted out to a sort of limbo ward where we were pretty much left to get on with ourselves, preparatory to going home.  Al was still getting a little dizzy at this stage, not sleeping well at all, and blood pressure still lower than the surgeon would like.  So instead of being discharged on Thursday, just a week after the operation, he was given an extra day.  By this time I had discovered the coffee shop in the basement, the mini market that sold chocolate digestives and the take away across the road from the hospital that did souvlaki and a couple of vegetarian dishes every day..

This room mate was cheerful but in pain with his kidneys and definitely did not suffer in silence.  Who could blame him for the moans and groans?  Also no wife to help him out, so I added him to the morning cafe  and tiropeta run.  
Nights were still difficult with breathlessness and panic attacks - seemed interminable to Al.  One night I got into bed with him.  A nurse came, took his blood pressure and left again, like a ghost without disturbing us at all. Always a relief when 7 o’clock rolled around and we could start the day. 

On Friday 25 February, one last check from Dr Kiparakis in the morning and we were pretty much free to go.
I packed our bags - fetched the car.  Went to buy a pillow.  Got a Covid test so that I could get back into the hospital.  Al was given a wheelchair for the long trek to the main entrance, and eventually, with a pillow between his chest and the seatbelt, off we went to the little house in Amoudara and a very grateful cat.  
Looking back on it all, it seems amazing that  only 8 days elapsed between the life-saving hours in the operating theatre and leaving the hospital under our own steam.  
The recovery period had begun.

                                            ***
 

It's probably time to bring the blog up to date now, staying in the present.  But thank you for accompanying us through the hospital experience.  Writing has helped me process this, and knowing that you have read it has also made me feel less alone.  Of course some of you respond, and I love that.  But thanks also to the silent readers.