Two becomes three …
Although I can write about it now, I have been ‘internally speechless’ for days (if that makes sense).
On Tuesday I underwent an angioplasty, a wonderful little ‘routine procedure’ (all ghastly medical things are called ‘routine procedures’ by the smiling doctors executing them) for unblocking my arteries. For those of you who have managed to avoid the exciting history revealed in this blog, I had a heart attack in early April (see The English Patient 1 and The English Patient 2), but for me the far worse thing was the fact that I have a crippling phobia about medical procedures which neither therapy or hypnotherapy have been able to shift (see The Blood Donor). The cure has been far, far worse than the cause. Quite frankly, if I had known at the time what the cure entailed I would never have bothered having the heart attack in the first place.
Stage one of the recovery procedure was to endure an angiogram - another little routine procedure where they enter your arteries via your groin and have a little look around. The routine procedure went wrong (see Room 101) and only reinforced my phobia. However, despite the problems, the diagnosis was two blocked arteries. The action to be taken: angioplasty.
One becomes two. “Come back to us towards the end of May and we will fix it for you. We will enter your arteries again via your groin, put some little wires up to test the pressure in the vessels, put some balloons up to open up the vessels, then put some little pipes in to keep the vessels open - all under local anaesthetic, of course.” (If you are in the building trade, think Dyno-Rod on a small scale.)
The unpleasant experience of the angiogram left me sleepless and full of dread for the angioplasty. With the help of some good friends I was able to communicate (after frustrating attempts) my concerns - especially about the need to get enough local anaesthetic (it didn’t happen for the angiogram), and I managed to get to the hospital last Tuesday.
In some ways the Tuesday experience was far more pleasant than my previous visit (if entering your arteries with devices via your groin can ever be pleasant). I felt that the hospital had heard that they didn’t give me enough local anaesthetic first time round and were determined to rectify the problem this time. The doctor was different, and knowing my fears, spent some time with me before the procedure listening to me and reassuring me. I didn’t have to wait for hours (I arrived at 08:00 and was in the theatre by 08:35). It took place in a proper operating theatre rather than a darkened portakabin. For me, the extra space crucially meant that I couldn’t see the screens displaying the pictures of the inside of my body, which was far less stressful for me. The nursing care I received, both in the theatre and on the ward, was excellent.
On the down side, one of the wires took a wrong turning at the first major roundabout and headed south towards my toes rather than north towards my heart. This ‘delayed things a bit’ and meant that another insertion had to be made and this lead to further bleeding. After about 100 minutes into the routine 50 minute procedure they decided to call it a day. I had lost a fair bit of blood, my blood pressure was sinking, and I was experiencing mild shock. After another 15 minutes trying to stop the bleeding (apparently I am a generous bleeder) I was sent back to the ward where they spent the rest of the day mopping up my oozing.
“I’m afraid we have only done one artery today. You were experiencing some distress and we decided that it was too risky to keep you there. You can come back in about six weeks and we can do the other one for you.”
Two has become three!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Initially I was very disappointed. I had been telling myself that the nightmare might soon be over. However, intellectually I can accept that it was the right decision and that the procedures they are doing will significantly improve the quality of life that I can enjoy. Despite my irrational rantings, I do know that they have my best interests at heart, probably. However, I can’t yet say that I am looking forward to yet another nurse swabbing my nether regions with cold alcohol and yet another doctor smiling as she or he approaches me with sharp metal objects and and assures me that I won’t feel a thing.
You Say:
“The cure has been far, far worse than the cause. Quite frankly, if I had known at the time what the cure entailed I would never have bothered having the heart attack in the first place.”
Which is why we are not going to let you have another one, if we can help to prevent it. Perhaps, you may now understand the importance of info and my/our efforts in the detailed way we have persued this with you. You know already my own thoughts on this. Glad the help given was effective in some ways, though I have learnt and appreciate, much better now, the subject of phobias by your experience which you articulate well because of its pain for you.
Glad to see you back with us.