Surgery Week

As hopefully most people know by now, I survived the surgery. Huge apologies for my lack of update; I’ve had a pretty erratic few weeks (see next blog). As it’s so late - over seven weeks post surgery -  this is being written with a bit of a blurred memory. Although to be honest, it would be anyway. I think my drug mix would have tamed Hunter S Thompson.

By all accounts, the surgery actually went really well. All the doctors involved said once they opened me up it was better than expected, which seems to be a running theme with my treatment. I’m beginning to think that the surgeons play up the risks to protect themselves and so they can then congratulate each other afterwards for doing a fantastic job. Honestly though, they really did do a fantastic job, as you’ll see. My adrenal gland, kidney and gallbladder were removed, as expected, but only around 20% of my liver. My hepatic surgeon was particularly smug about that. They also found out that the tumour wasn’t going across any major veins/arteries and they didn’t cross the middle axis of the body; the first being through luck, the second through achievement.

It’s always great waking up to see smiling surgeons. They were also very calming beforehand the surgery. I woke up at 5.30am with very little sleep to head to the hospital and then was forced to waited around in a gown for a couple of hours. There was an anxious atmosphere in the room with general small talk and people making fun of my DVT stockings to try to lighten the mood (I’ve worn them every night since and they are no less funny). It was helpful as I was trying to block any negative thoughts out. Then the renal surgeon came in around 8am holding a coffee, wearing chinos and a Barbour jacket with his commanding posh English accent, and the atmosphere calmed a bit. When he left, I’m pretty sure he spilt a bit on his jacket, but he casually brushed it off and before I knew it, I was whisked away to surgery and knocked out without time for it to make me nervous.

Upon waking, after quickly confirming that everything had gone well, I succumbed to the drugs, sedation and exhaustion and have very little memory of being in ICU over the next 2 or 3 days. It was my first time being in ICU and its altogether a very surreal experience. I felt like an experiment and had wires all over me. Oxygen forced up my nose, an epidural implanted in my spine, cannula's restricting my wrist and neck, blood pressure sensors all over my chest, a huge wound dressing around my torso and a catheter somewhere else. All the while I had a doctor sat next to me, watching me and a screen with all my vital signs on it, every minute of every day. I had to ask permission to go to the toilet and then was helped to do a shit in a cardboard bed pan. Then was congratulated on it.

Pretty sure I was high when I took this deer in headlights selfie

I finally was moved to a more private room to spend the rest of the week to continue on my stately journey of recovery. It was the start of my brief fling with oxycodone; the blurriness continued. The moments that stand out are, of course, the most embarrassing. But equally worth sharing. Having the catheter finally taken out halfway through the week - to my much relief - to then wet the bed as my bladder had yet to notice. Being constantly asked if I had ‘opened my bowels’ yet and after a few days them deciding I wasn’t progressing enough and being told bluntly to get on all fours as I was to be given a suppository. After the third they decided I had enough experience to do it myself. I’m pretty much every single member of staff in the hospital has now seen me naked, having lost a stone in weight and looking like the living dead.

I’ve learnt a lot in the last few months. This blog has been lacking in precocious Stoic sayings so here is one I read months ago; from the main man (not Marilyn Monroe, I promise). “There is a proper dignity and proportion to be observed in the performance of every act of life”. It’s something I’ve always tried to live by since. Sometimes you have to accept being powerless and rely on the help, kindness and competence of others.

As always, I had plenty of friends and family around me to see me, help out and keep me occupied. I had a very stern and slightly scary Eastern European lady onto me about not being full of energy in the next few days, which I found a bit surprising, but it did give me the kickstart I needed so I guess her approach worked. After seeing the physio each day for a few walks around the hospital corridors, and my health improving, I was released on the Monday, nine days following the surgery. Everyone was very happy with the outcome and I was told to do nothing of any use at home until I was given the go ahead by my oncologist. 

Leaving the hospital at London Bridge, I felt like I had been institutionalised and the cold air of January shocked me into the real world before fatigue took over. In what felt like forever, I looked forward to not being woken up by a nurse at 6am sticking a needle in my arm and have the routine of visits by all sorts of doctors, nutritionists, physio and various other experts. Maybe Michael Gove was right.

Once the steroids wore off slightly I got into my own bed and had a perfect sleep. I found out over the next few weeks that the impact of major surgery doesn’t stop when you leave the hospital.

Cue 'Lost' end credits 

A job well done.