#Flashback Friday

A piece I wrote back when I was heavily under the influence of a concoction of painkillers after a cardio version...

I hurt. My ribs hurt, my neck hurts, my throat hurts, my arms hurt. I hurt. It feels like I've been hit by a train, and not one of those little single carriage Great Western ones either, no. I'm talking about the massive American style juggernauts... Choo Choo! WHAM!... 'Medic!'

But I suppose that's the after effects of being zapped with however many jolts to get your heart back into rhythm. My fault, my bad.

It wasn't in Carmarthen this time or the BRI, no it was in Prince Philip Hospital. Lovely place I have to say, I'd certainly recommend it to a friend, 7 and a 1/2 syringes on the surgical recommend-o-meter for sure. The place was clean and tidy, the staff were extremely friendly, kind, helpful and reassuring. Hey, and they didn't have to be, they were well within their right to slap me onto the table, give my heart the shock it needed and send me on my way.. 'Bye Mr Smith, hope to not see you again'. It's not their job to ensure I have enough pillows, or that my coffee cup is topped up... It's unlikely they spent hours writing a paper on the standard etiquette's of pillow plumping back in their university days. No, I'm pretty sure it consisted of far more important subjects as 'What to do if a patient starts dying on you from lack of oxygen due a to collapsed lung'.

Maybe they're scared of being sued, or at least having a complaint written in against them, because what's saving someone's life if the TV isn't at an acceptable angle and the reminder hasn't been set for Jeremy Kyle?

There was one time I was due to leave the BRI, I'd been there a good few days having had surgery and I couldn't wait to go home. I was literally putting on my shoes ready to depart when a nurse came running in all flustered. Something was wrong. She revealed that she had accidentally mis-dosed me that morning and I had taken double of my beta blockers. It wasn't life threatening or the end of the world, but she said due to the mistake I would have to stay in for another 6 hours to ensure there were no ill effects or that I didnt die. I was mad. It was a two hour drive back and I just wanted to get home. I got a little short with her and she apologised and apologised and apologised some more. The BRI is a training hospital and this nurse had probably only just started her career. In reality I couldn't possibly fathom the weight of responsibility that was on her shoulders.

When I returned home I was so angry with myself for being a bit of a prick to this young nurse who was trying to do nothing but her job I wrote a letter to the ward, thanking them for taking care of me and apologising to the nurse for my bluntness.

Unfortunately we now seem to live in a society who look first to blame rather than to thank. It's all a bit sad when we think about it.

But back to my current predicament...
It felt less of an emergency hospital visit and more of a hotel stay. I half expected Lenny Henry to pop his head round the door and remind me the only thing that wasn't premiere was the price. No, Lenny wasn't there, but that's understandable, he's a busy man.

So aside from the loveliness of the place, it all went rather smoothly. I arrived with a fixed heart rate of around 180 bpm, I reiterate to multiple nurses and doctors that I'm 'Dextrocarida' which in some instances was met with the kind of face you make when trying decipher the meaning of life or work out how to use your new TV, to these I explain that my heart is on the other side, so please don't go sticking your stethoscope on my chest announcing...
'Hang on, this guy doesn't have palpations, he's lying!'
'What's that doctor?' a nurse would swoon.
'This man, he has no heart rate... this man is dead! Mortician!'

The radiographer strolls in with her big X-ray machine... nobody tells her the big secret... She slides the cold hard slab behind my back, I feel it's coldness, its hardness, it's slabiness. I pose momentarily, smile for no reason at all and, Click.
She smiles back and strolls out the door, tapping away at her machine for the print out. 30 seconds later she's back.
'Erm, this may be a silly question, but, erm, his heart isn't...'
'Yes' we all reply in choir'd unison.

I feel that sometimes maybe I should apologise for my awkwardness, that the entire process would be cut by well over half if my heart was situated on the right side, I mean left side, the standard, normal, everyday persons side. 'Excuse me doctor, before we start and you attempt to analyse this unfortunate predicament I am in, I must first have you accept this letter of my sincerist apologies for the task that will shortly be undertaken.' Oh well, at least these kids are learning aye?

In the end the decision was unanimous, probably brought together by a congregation of doctors in a small darkened room smoking the finest Cuban cigars.
'It seems a jolt of electricity is the only thing that is going to bring this strange little mans heart rate back down to normality' one doctor would suggest.'With that I propose... a cardioversion!'
'Shocking' another would reply, as the entire room burst into guffaw at the incredibly clever pun.
'By gawd are we the cleverest bastards on this earth' a third would admit, before blowing thick cigar smoke into the air of the compacted room.
An evil laughter erupting from the corner of the darkness before a figure appeared through the thick, heavy cigar smoke.
'I shall do the work myself' the evil voice states. He brings his hands into view, revealing two jump leads as he sparks them together laughing manically as each connection lights up the room.

Thankfully there were no jump leads involved, at least not that I'm aware of, I was unconscious after all so who knows and where would attach it to... oh.
Well, they stickered me up with these two large pads that would apply the electrical current into my chest. I reiterated that my heart was on the opposite side and they nodded at each other before removing them and swapping them to the opposite sides. Bullet dodged.

The whole affair didn't take long and a mere half hour had passed before I started to come too. It had been a complete success. Afterwards, once I started to regain my bearings from the anaesthetic, we high fived, drank champagne and partied deep into the night. Light entertainment was supplied by Olly Murs who spent the evening belting out hits such as Heart Skips a Beat, Right Place Right Time, Please Don't Let Me Go and Never Been Better...

But then you do get some strange dreams when sleeping off a concoction of drugs.

Road to Recovery

Day Six of recovery and Andrew is in the Park...

The peaceful tranquillity washes over me as I take in the beauty of Llangunnors evergreen. The morning light breaking through the tree's, mist silently hovering above the playing fields, my dog taking a crap on the grass... Milo! You couldn't wait until we got home could you? He looks at me with his big brown eyes the same as anyone would look at you whilst relieving themselves, 'Dude seriously, some privacy?'

Oh well, I suppose the bending will help with the circulation, yet it doesn't make the big black bruise down my leg any less painful. It feels good to get out, get that fresh air into my lungs. Though every step rocks me with fear, that I'll feel that ectopic beat that has tormented me these past months, that un-synchronised misstep within my hearts rhythm that sends it tunnelling down the path of no return.

With each step I hope that it won't be the case. The signal up here on the mountain carries the same strength as the caffeine in a hospital coffee... and I'm not sure what I'd be more upset about if my heart kicked into one of its episodes? That the past surgery was for nothing and I was back to square one or that I'd have to drag my body through the wet grass of the misty playing fields like some kind of commando who should have been kicked out the helicopter long before it left the cadet school.  And then there's the dog, it's not like I've got myself a Lassie here, who would run immediately to alert the neighbours of my peril... 

'Whats that boy? Andrews stuck down a well?... Oh, Andrews unwell! Quick show me, John! John! Get help!'

No, I tell my dog I need help and he'd happily sit there licking my face. It might have been more beneficial for me if I'd have gotten a Husky or one of those St Bernard's where I could just hang onto his neck and he could just drag me home. Unfortunately my little Cavalier King Charles can barely drag his big floppy ears along without tripping over them...I didn't quite think this through.

But nevertheless each step also fills me with great hope. There is no missed beat, quickened heart rate or any divergence from my pace makers stabled rhythm (as of yet). Yes my thigh where they fed the tubes feels like its had a knife grinding away against the bone, my chest holds all kinds of discomforts which seem to come and go as they please and the painkillers I've been consuming to fend off the pains make me want to do nothing but sleep. But at least the shoulder pain that plagued me so heavily has since faded into a passing ache, that's reason enough to celebrate at the moment. So Milo, fetch me that stick and let us march into the days of glory with our heads held high, and the hopes and dreams that perhaps, maybe even soon, everything shall be right again... No Milo, thats a sock.

Putting Humpty Dumpty Back Together

Arghh the pain, the agony! I need the drugs! GIVE ME THE DRUGS! No, it’s not my heart, where they’ve just spent hours burning away tissue to stop my palpitations, or my chest where they’ve fed wires through my arteries or even my groin which harboured two massive tubes... Oh no, it’s my shoulder.

Yes, MY SHOULDER! And I don’t mean the kind of dull ache in which maybe I lay awkwardly during the procedure, no, it’s the kind of pain where I want to rip my arm out of its socket and throw it out the window, and where a dose of paracetamol, tramadol and two shots of morphine can barely take the edge off it!

Apparently due to the aggressiveness in which the surgical team attacked my dodgy tickers tissue, it caused some ill effects on the nerves that lead up to my shoulder. Now I’ve done the entire YMCA dance and no matter what I do with my arm I cannot alleviate the pain at all... AAAAARGH!

I did a quick google (you’re right, I shouldn’t have) and in some cases it can lead to long term chronic shoulder dysfunction... Awesome, well that be me all over wouldn’t it? Go in for heart surgery and come out with a life long dodgy shoulder. But hey, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve left surgery with long term life affecting nerve damage, an operation many years ago rendered me deaf in my left, but you know, shit happens.

Anyway, enough dwelling on this horrendous pain that makes me want to render myself unconscious just to escape its horrid grasp... The procedure according to the surgeon, went really well! Woohoo, bust out the caviar and get the Doritos ready! Thankfully at this time they did not need to do the AV Node Ablation, which would have rendered the junction box to my hearts own pace maker null and void, thus having to rely solely on my fitted one.

Instead they believe that they were able to Ablate the tissue and electric circuit (yes, we’re still talking about my heart) that were causing the palpations. Now I won’t know how much of success exactly this was for a few weeks as my heart recovers. The objective of the procedure was to stop the ‘SVT’s’ or at least reduce their frequency of them. It may turn out that in the long run it will have proven unsuccessful and my weekly A&E trips shall continue and I’ll have to return again to have the AV Node wiped out... but let’s hope it’s doesn’t come to that aye (awkwardly hopeful smile).

As usual I must commend the BRI hospital staff for both their professionalism and their hospitality. With a room all to myself, electric bed, TV, ensuite bathroom and a skyline view of Bristol, I simply cannot complain about the 5 star accommodation. Though my only complaint of the room was that the clock didn’t work, and I was greatly disoriented waking up in the room still half doped up from the morphine and anaesthetic to find it was quarter to four... on Thursday. So not only had they fixed my heart, but invented time travel as well, marvellous!

After we got there we sat in the waiting room before myself and five others were ushered into cubicles like sheep, though nobody laughed at the little baaa I let out, shame, it was a top joke. We then proceeded to change into those Uber sexy hospital gowns, complete with rear slit to show a bit of rear skin, which I didn’t mind as my wife says I got a nice ass. Hey, if you got if, flaunt it!

‘Erm mr smith’ the nurse said to my as I sat crossed legged on the bed attempting to conceal my manhood in the thin layer of cloth. ‘That’s not a hair net’

‘No?’

‘No, they’re your paper pants’

Oh, I thought to myself pulling the pants off my head. I assumed the extra holes were in case you had pigtails, a ponytail or perhaps a man bun. They’re breezy though, I’ll give them that.

One of the nurses was quite impressed by my laid back attitude as we waited to go down to surgery, she said that normally she had to reassure her patients as they sat nervously on edge, but I was akin to a man sat at home in his favourite armchair with a whisky and cigar waiting for an episode of Emmerdale to start.

I explained that having been in A&E around twenty times, been knocked out sixteen times and undergone heavy surgery earlier this year, you kind of get accustomed to it.

I was then taken to the Cath lab, now I’ve never met her but I’ve heard she’s a lovely person, I did ask if cath had given permission for us to use her lab, which got a chuckle and oh look, Pat left her board here.

Now the lab seems less an operating theatre and more a resemblance of the medical bay from the Starship Enterprise. A Huge TV screen, the kind you’d find in a New Yorkers bachelor pad hung adjacent to the slab of metal they lie you on. Machines of all shapes and sizes surround the room and overlooking the entire operation through giant windows are a multitude of staff monitoring various screens. The doctors and nurses attire are not that of a standard surgical team, instead adorning colourful leaded vests, had they been black I may have mistaken them for a SWAT team.

Then they inject with a sedative which is the absolute bomb. Like downing and entire bottle of whisky but without the hangover or fear of alcohol poisoning. You sit there suddenly in your happy place, telling everyone how much you love them and what a splendid job they’re doing. You get more and more woozy as people are talking to you, trying to explain what they’re doing, but you just don’t care. You’re in your own little world of happiness.

‘We’re just going to put some stickies on your chest’

‘Carry on’

Just attaching you to a drip Andrew’

‘Yeah okay’

‘We’re probably gonna have to cut off your arm as it’s getting in the way’

‘Just do whatever you need to do’

Then you slip off into a dreamless sleep as the doctors and nurses do their stuff, slowly, painstakingly putting Humpty Dumpty here back together...

They Can Rebuild Me...

'Unfortunately Dr Stuart has been off with back problems...' The nurse said and judging by the pile of notes in which she had struggled to lumber into the room I wondered if I had been the sole cause of it. With my Doctor having conversed with various other consultants from my local hospital on  a weekly basis, lugging out Volume 2 of my notes to every phone call may very well have 'done him over.'

The drive up was glorious, the sun was shining and the traffic flowing like a quiet stream on a summers day. While the Wife allowed me to take the wheel on the way up, I was not permitted to also make the drive home. This didn't matter as by then I would have medicated myself to the point of unconsciousness and the journey would seem like a quiet dream.

Parking was a breeze also. Ever the victory is finding somewhere to park near the Hospital full stop, let alone within the first few minutes of arriving. That accomplishment is definitely going on my Top Ten Hospital Arrivals, right next to the Presidential Style Escort I received many years ago.

The wait within the clinic was short too, only a few minutes there and I'd been called in to get my ECG done. I made the usual passing comment 'I'm Dextrocardia' and braced myself to elaborate my condition further. There was no need, I was dealing with a pro here. Unlike the last time in which a Nurse, Sister, Doctor and finally a Cardiologist arrived on the scene to absolutely confirm that yes, the chest leads go on the opposite way with the limb leads staying the same. Had I known then that I was in for such a waxing with all the uber-sticky-stickers being stuck on and ripped off I would have taken the effort to shave it off myself beforehand. There was no such questions or confusion this time though... Bam! on they went and Bam! off they came, next patient please! 'Mooooooooo!' Like a cow being passed through to the next field.

The pre-op nurse was lovely and flicking her way through the pile of my notes so large that it would have brought a tear to even George R R Martins eye, the discussion began.  She asked if I'd been hospital in the last six months... We all had a good chuckle at that one, but believe me the tears were real. She hadn't seen me at the hospital before so was trying to get up to speed with my history, discussions were had whether she should have a quick peek at Volume 1 of my notes, but then dismissed that idea as it would be to time consuming to get the JCB out to bring the round.
She then went on to explain what exactly the surgery would entail...

The catheter AV Node ablation is a procedure in which cryogenic freezing is used to ablate the atrioventricular node in an effort to stop the Super-ventricular Tachycardia... Sound simple, yeah? I've no fucking clue either.

Basically they shove a load of wires up into my heart, give it a little zap from the inside to initiate the fast rhythm then freeze away the bits of tissue that are acting all silly. IF that doesn't work then they'll go straight for the AV Node and get rid of that, effectively wiping out my own hearts pace maker, thus making me 100% reliant on my newly fitted electronic pacemaker, so I implore you, please do not come near me with a magnet or any electrical device that could possibly hinder or stop it as yes, I may fucking die and it will be all your fault.

But the hope is that once this had been done I should encounter no more trips to A&E on a weekly basis, which is a shame really as I'm gonna miss my 4am chats with the Ambulance crew and Resus staff. But I'll be back fighting fit... Bigger... Stronger... Faster... They can rebuild me... They have the technology...

Cancel All Plans People...

Clear your diaries and cancel all plans people... THE CALL has come through! Finally after months of waiting a date has been set for my much anticipated op, the one that should finally put Humpty Dumpty here back together. So crack open the champagne and call Liz to say she'll need to vacate the palace this weekend cause we got some celebrating to do (pause for cheers and whoops of joy).

And while this is great news and a relief the worst part of it all is telling the children, or at least 'child' as my 12 year old son took the news like any other teenager would, he shrugged his shoulders, stuck his headphones back on and told me to get the fuck out of his room. My daughter on the other hand was a heap of tears. I tried to explain to her that it's so they can 'fix Daddy' to which she blubbered 'But they said they were going to fix you before, but they didn't!'... Fair point and I can only reply with 'But they definitely will fix me this time... (I hope)'

So tomorrow I make the trip across the border for my pre-op, a four hour round trip for a hospital discussion that will probably last less than 20 minutes...  Perhaps I'll stop for a spot of lunch? Maybe enjoy a cup of Earl Grey whilst gazing dreamily out of the Hospitals Costa Cofee window, admiring the colourful sculptures of the Children's Hospital which I once came to regard as my home away from home.

Surgery is then scheduled for Friday, as you can guess from my last post I know that date isn't set in stone, but more a little piece of Play-Doh of a young mans dreams which could be squashed at any time. I just hope that if they do decide to cancel it, I get the call the night before and not as I'm packing all my crap into the car, having worked myself up in anticipation of being sliced open again, and spent all night staring into the black void of night with enough thoughts battling through my mind to march on Kings Landing.

I sort of know what they wish to do when they have me lying on that cold, hard slab and I sort of don't. Its an ablation, which I've had before, so I know they're gonna shove wires into my heart and start burning shit away, but a different ablation so I don't really know how much shit they're gonna burn and if it entails anything. Questionable also is what the expected outcome is and what, if any, limitations I'll have following it. But these are all things I should learn tomorrow. ...

And now I shall talk of a tale from last night, where to celebrate 'The Date' me and the missus went on, erm, a date. In which I ended up giving true meaning to my blogs namesake....

We ended up in little pub, a tiny little establishment which seemed to be breaking all kinds of health and safety regulations. The lighting was almost non existent, the sound volume made me thankful to be deaf in one ear and the amount of people packed into the joint would have been a Fire Marshall's nightmare. So having slammed a few cocktails back and completely filled my bladder I needed to visit the little boys room. Being in unfamiliar territory obviously I had to ask for directions so I found the most trustworthy man you can find at bar, an Aussie and he sent me on my way.

So off I went, leaving Caroline  dancing on the table like some Vegas stripper and headed for lavatories. I sorry'd and excused my way through the shoulder to shoulder crowd of young, hip kids busting their moves and throwing shapes and made it across the room. I'd come to a rather long corridor and realised that there was in fact an entire other room!
I headed down the corridor and saw someone heading in my direction, the height of the man put a smile on my face as I realised I wasn't the only vertically challenged guy in the building. As I got closer I sidestepped left to let him past, but he had the same thing in mind, so I quickly went right, as did he. I switched back left, where he followed and it ended up in that awkward left, right, left, right, hey up we're gonna end up in some kind of awkward embrace. In an effort to avoid such an embarrassing situation I  put my arm out to take his shoulder so I could slide past him and avoid this unwanted collision, only my hand never reached his shoulder and hit some kind of wall or something. It was dark, I was drunkingly disoriented so I couldn't tell. I shimmied around and started to stick my right arm out to brace his shoulder and avoid the collision, but my head slammed into something instead...

Then it clicked. There was no wall, no long corridor, no other room and, there was no man either... It was a fucking mirror! A big, giant, massive fucking mirror that stretched right across the room! I'd be dancing back and forth attempting to avoid my own reflection. As two girls sat just a few feet away had seen the whole affair and were probably wondering what the hell this drunken idiot is doing dancing with himself in the mirror, I decided that I didn't really need to pee and headed back, disappearing into the sea of people hoping that the quickening of my heart from sheer embarrassment didn't cause for a night in A&E...

'So Andrew, did anything bring it on this time?'

'Erm, not really Doc...'

Cancellations, the Domino effect...

BBC News: How operating theatres are wasting two hours a day

In the last three years this has been an all too familiar occurrence for me, especially in anticipation of my last op, where the last time someone cancelled on me that many times was back in the early noughties when I had just got on the dating scene... We're happily married now but that's another story.

I've been called three days prior to my op with many apologies. I've been sat in Frankie and Bennies stuffing my face with what I thought was my final meal for a good while when I've received the call. And I've been gowned up, sat in a hospital bed, three hours past my scheduled time only to be told that the procedure would be unable to go ahead that day.

It's never the surgeons fault, they're overly apologetic, almost to the point of begging for forgiveness. I suppose they anticpiate that some people will take it a little harder than others, perhaps picking up the hospital bed and launching it through the window or even worse, putting in a written complaint to the hospital board.

But whilst I've been sat on one side of the scale, I've also weighed down the other. My last op I was stuck in Intensive Care two days longer than I should have been. They wanted to shift me to the High Dependancy Unit but couldn't because they were waiting to shift someone from there to the ward and the patient on the ward couldn't be moved because they were waiting for a bed to become available at another hospital, where they were waiting for another patient to depart... Still following? Me neither.

Finally though I got moved to HDU where again I spent two days longer there than I should have. My collapsed lung was causing all kinds of nonsense and the only way to get it back to working capacity was to take a little trek every now and then, which was no easy feat with a drip, oxygen cylinder and six lead mobile frequency transmitter in tow. Just taking just a short walk was a challenge in itself, since being in HDU every time I got out of bed on my own accord half the ward would gasp in disbelief, with the other half wondering what the fuck I was doing and shoo me urgently back under the covers. If by some miracle I made it past security... I mean the nurses station, the hospital would go on full lock down, with every available nurse, doctor, anaesthetist, phlebotomist, dental hygienist and Jim from bed seven in hot pursuit.

Needless to say having space and freedom was a necessity in a quick recovery. You can imagine my sheer adulation as a nurse shook me awake at 3.30 in the morning, telling me they needed the bed and I had to pack up my shit and vacate the ward immediately. They'd had an emergency and was having someone come up from A&E to ICU, so had to move someone from ICU to my bed in HDU, then move me to the ward, where the person in the ward was probably kicked out into the dark, cold streets or booked in to the nearest Premier Inn with full continental breakfast and extra chocolates on the pillows under the hospitals personal cheque book. (This is not an exaggeration as I have indeed spent many a night in a Premier Inn courtesy of the Bristol Royal Infirmity)

Its just one big game of dominoes, you just hope all the pieces fall down...

Thank You For Your Call, But I May Be Dying

I'm wondering if all this time at home has made me a vindictive, horrible, mean little man...

Earlier today I was having a typical moment with my heart, it was going around 180 bpm and I was sat there doing my shit, debating how long I should leave it before I make the call to the girls and boys in green when the phone rang.

Now when the house phone rings I've got to answer it for two reasons... Firstly, it might be Bristol, calling to say they've finally got me a slot for my eagerly awaited surgery and could I pack up my shit and get on the first train there.

Secondly, it might be my Wife and if I don't immediately answer the phone she may make the assumption that I am dead... or dying and send the riot van round complete with Sally the door-smasher-in'er with the rest of Carmarthens emergency services, including the coastguard for fear I've flooded the kitchen with the washing machine again and am stuck floating in the middle on a pizza tray with nothing but a pot noodle and she knows how much I hate pot noodles.

Anyway, I gasp a hello into the phone and realise its neither of them as a cheery voice echoes down receiver following a short click... 'Hello there, how are you today sir?' Now I could have just hung up or said I wasn't interested but nah, I felt she really cared about my well being and thought I should be nothing but open and honest with her.  

'I'm not feeling to good' I replied. Not waiting for a response I continued 'I've got this really bad chest pain and my hearts beating around 200 beats a minute, I think I might need to call an ambulance and I'm probably going to need to be defibrillated, shock my heart back into rhythm....'

By this time I had returned to the sofa and was hanging upside down in an attempt to bring my bpm back down to normal. 

'Oh, so is now not a good time to discuss your broadband options?'  came her stuttered reply.

'No... actually I fucking tell you what Susan, yes lets discuss my broadband options. I'll just go outside and hail a fucking taxi to get me to A&E. When I'm there I may go a little quiet for a few minutes, but don't worry that's just them knocking me out with anaesthetic so they can power 120 joules of electricity through my body in the hope to shock my heart back into a normal persons rhythm. But I'll be straight back on the blower when I've regained consciousness though. Tell you what, while I doze off into dreamland I'll pass you onto the team of Doctors, nurses, anaesthetists and porters so you can discuss their broadband options too, yeah? Well it looks like you've hit fucking gold today Susan, we might break a deal before I even get to hospital now where theres a chance I may die and I'll already be locked into a 2 year rolling contract which being dead, I'll be unable to cancel! Oh you could be in the money here my love, you'll be able to retire on the commission alone!'

Bloody cold callers, I tell you...