CHAPTER 11. 04.Jan.2023
Hold My Hand: A Journey Back to Life
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GOING HOME?
Next morning the cold light of day brought me up short. I wasn’t smiling anymore. I started to panic. Really panic. What if they didn’t let me go home? What if they found a reason to keep me here? What if something went wrong? Even another night in that room and that bed felt like too much to take. I had to get out. Whatever it took. I was willing to do anything to escape.
I still didn’t understand how sick I’d been or how badly the infection had damaged my body. I had no concept of how long it was going to take for me to be ‘normal’ again. Or even well enough to just look after myself, make a cup of tea, turn on the TV, or go to the bathroom.
Yet another doctor came to visit. Not one that I remembered meeting before. Older and very obviously convinced of his own self-importance. Arrogant is probably the word I’m trying not to use. He said that I could only leave the hospital if I promised to do nothing for at least five days. I’d have agreed to just about anything at this stage. He looked at me, deadly serious. “Absolutely NOTHING”, he repeated.
He demonstrated how I could and couldn’t move my left leg to reduce the risk of rupturing the multitude of stitches. Small movements front to back. No movement to the side at all. He explained how I needed to get in and out of a car – butt first and then swivel my legs in together.
Yet nobody said anything about my heart. After all the concern. The 24/7 monitoring. Nobody seemed to be worried about it now. As I sat there hoping to go home an appointment dropped into my email inbox – a time to go and see Cardiology a week later for more extensive checks. That was the only mention of the challenges my heart had faced.
But I wasn’t done yet. I had to pass a physical test to be allowed to go home. I pulled on a thick white toweling hospital robe and was escorted by the physio out of my room to attempt a short walk. It was a whole new world to me – being able to see the rooms and hallways that existed outside of my little bubble.
I slowly struggled my way down the corridor with my big walking frame. I felt safe as I shuffled along clinging on to it. But it was hard. So hard. I had no strength. My muscles seemed to have evaporated during my ten days in bed. And my left leg felt like it was made of lead.
I managed to get as far as the elevators before I turned around and started back towards my room. It felt like I’d travelled miles and yet it can’t have been more than 25 meters. Get back to my room, turn around, repeat.
But then the physio dropped her bombshell. To be released from hospital I had to be able to walk without the walking frame. I had to let go of my safety blanket to show her that I could walk the same distance again. On my own with nothing to hold me up. That was a totally different game.
I wobbled and swayed. Slightly dizzy already from the exertion of walking with the frame, let alone without it. I hesitated to put too much weight on my damaged leg. I concentrated as if my life depended on it. My stubbornness kicked in. I can channel a mule when required. I couldn’t… and I damn well wouldn’t… fail. It wasn’t an option. I shuffled forwards. Baby steps. Hobbling along. Off down the corridor.
Kim and Mum arrived – amazed to see me upright. Kim’s eyes were wide as I greeted him at the door to my room.
Things were moving fast. Much too fast.
I knew in my heart that they shouldn’t release me. I was still too weak. The operation the day before too recent. Once again I said nothing. I was determined to get out of there. At any cost. I didn’t care about the consequences.
There was more waiting. A lot more waiting.
Waiting for the results from that morning’s blood tests to make sure that there were no surprises.
Waiting for my paper bag full of medication to take home – pain medication and foul-tasting antibiotics that would keep me going for the foreseeable future to make sure the bacteria really were dead and gone.
Waiting for crutches or a rollator to take home with me as it was against hospital policy to release me without one of those. And yet I’d just had to prove that I could walk without any aid?!
I struggled into the clothes Kim had brought for me. We’d been carrying around that bag of clothes in the hope I could go home since the 25th December.
Getting dressed was almost too much. I perched on the toilet in my little bathroom – trying to keep my bad leg, and its fresh wounds that wrapped around the back of my thigh, off the seat.
All I could manage was to put on one piece of clothing at a time, then rest for a bit. Another, then rest. Knickers. Loose trousers that stretched over the bandages and my tree trunk shape legs – not only was my left leg heavily bandaged, but both legs were puffy and bloated with all the fluids they’d pumped into me in ICU.
Kim had brought a sports bra / crop top that I just couldn’t pull on – the stretchy fabric was too much for my weak arms. I didn’t have the strength to be able to pull it over my head. It wasn’t going to happen. I put on the baggy T-shirt and hoped nobody would notice the floppy boobs as they’d be hidden by my coat.
The soft magenta and purple T-shirt that I’d picked from the selection Kim had brought in wasn’t the best choice – but I only realized once I had it on. It perfectly matched the huge bruises that stretched up the inside of my left arm from my wrist to my elbow. The result of bleeding after they’d removed the internal blood pressure monitor once I left ICU. I didn’t have the energy to find a different T-shirt.
SHOCK & HORROR
As I dressed, I noticed that I could see a little bit of my wound, with its stitches, not covered by the bandages on my leg. I was already incredibly (and probably irrationally) anxious about my wounds getting infected. I rang the buzzer for a nurse. The outcome – the dressings all had to be redone. She bustled off to the find another nurse deemed to be the expert.
She started to unravel the meters and meters of crepe bandage that wrapped my leg and its dressings. At one point a bunch of white paper serviettes (aka napkins) fell out – exactly the kind you’d find in a restaurant. They’d included them as padding where I the biggest ‘dogs ear’ stuck out of my leg like a mini Mount Fuji. Had they been eating lunch in the operating theatre and grabbed whatever came to hand that suited their purpose?
All too soon the bandages were gone and the dressings underneath removed. For the first time, and just minutes before I was due to leave the safe haven of the hospital, I saw my leg in all its horrific, slasher movie glory. It looked like I’d gone ten rounds with Freddy Krueger. I was horrified. Sickened. Utterly shocked.
Yet again – I didn’t say a word to anyone. I wanted out of that place so bad. I faked that seeing my wounds had no effect on me.
I don’t know how to describe how my leg looked. Some of you might prefer I didn’t even try to describe it – if so please feel free to jump on a few paragraphs.
The wound wasn’t a single neat line. It had three or four branches going in different directions. Stretching from the top of my thigh to a few centimeters above my knee. Wrapping around the inside of my thigh and round to the back.
Imagine a shark has taken a juicy bite out of your inner thigh. To repair the damage someone has taken a needle and rough black thread from your granny’s sewing box. Then done a very wonky job of sewing it all back together with big black stitches (she must have been missing her glasses) as best they could. It was huge. It had big lumps of skin. In all there was probably over 50cm (24 inches or so) of wounds held together by 75+ stitches.
I grabbed my phone and took a picture of it. I have no idea why. For posterity? Perhaps to make it real? Or maybe just to make sure I wouldn’t or couldn’t forget?
From the time I woke up in ICU, I hadn’t seen what had been done to my leg. I’d seen the 15cm (six inches) wound on my abdomen – held together by those vicious looking metal staples - numerous times when it had been redressed. But my leg had been a mystery. An enigma.
Nobody had described what they’d done or what was under the big black vacuum sponge. Whenever they’d changed the sponge, it had been done as part of the various operations, and I was out for the count. I’d never seen the wound.
Maybe I should have guessed how large and complex it was going to be considering they needed help from Plastics to close it. Nobody seemed to consider that I might be shocked by it. Nobody thought about my reaction. Nobody asked if I was OK. And I would have lied if they had.
I did my absolute best not to freak out. I didn’t cry. And I tried not to panic about how long it would take to heal. I didn’t show my shock and anxiety to anyone – not the nurses nor Kim and Mum. If I had been an actress I should have been awarded an Oscar for my performance. I was so desperate to go home.
They put on new plasters. New bandages. The horrific wounds were out of sight again. For now. And nobody said a word.
Finally, the discharge nurse appeared – it was happening. More paperwork. More ticking of boxes. More chasing of doctors who had failed to click the right box in the hospital IT system to let me out of that place.
I remember when I left hospital after my back operation a few months earlier. The process was so detailed and efficient. I had a half-hour session with the physio, a rehabilitation plan, a referral already in the system for community physio starting in three months once my bones had healed sufficiently. I had a visit from an occupational therapist – making sure my home environment was going to be OK to support my recovery. My surgeon came to show me the latest images of my spine and to give me print outs. And we were given a number to call if we had any concerns over the next few days.
This time it was nothing short of chaos. There was no rehabilitation plan. No ongoing support. No number to call. There was just a fond farewell. Wishing me better.
I was set adrift. Cast out into the big wide world. Left to fend for myself.
As we were about to leave, a follow-up appointment popped up in my email for three weeks later to come back to an outpatient clinic: plus advice to see my own doctor to get my stitches removed in a couple of weeks.
That was it.
I was going cold turkey. By no choice of my own. From one extreme to another. Ripped from a nurturing cocoon of nurses and doctors to floating loose in space.
THE ESCAPE
I’d walked the length of the ward, but getting out of the hospital was another matter.
It’s a large trauma hospital attached to the university – a huge complex of buildings right in the center of Copenhagen. Just walking from my room to the right elevator was a longer walk than I’d done with the physio.
I leaned on the rollator that the physio had forced on me. I hadn’t wanted to take it home, but now it was the only thing keeping me upright. I tried to convince everyone that I didn’t need any help. I was OK to leave.
By the time we got to the ground floor I was shaking. Totally exhausted. Every bit of energy used up. My left leg felt heavy and alien.
I was so close to just crumpling into a heap right there in reception of the hospital. Suddenly that cold hard floor looked incredibly inviting to lie down on. But I can be stubborn. REALLY stubborn. That and sheer determination kept me upright.
My terror of staying in hospital, even for one more day, overwhelmed my weak body and drove me on. One shuffling step at a time.
Kim had managed to get the car as close to the revolving exit door as possible, but it wasn’t somewhere he was allowed to park. He was stressed. He was anxious. He wanted us in the car as fast as possible.
There was no ‘fast’ in my world. I tried to slide myself into the car, keeping my legs together as I’d been instructed, as he ran around the back and threw the rollator into the boot. It was time to go home.
My journey back to life had just begun.
04 JAN 2023 @ 14:48
So she’s home again.
Kim
If this post made you feel something then I’d love it if you would click on the heart and add a comment about what resonated for you – it means a lot to me to hear from each of you.
If you would also be kind enough to share it that will help more people find Hold My Hand and learn more about these awful infections. Maybe one day that knowledge will save a life.
Thank you!
If you missed any previous chapters from the book then you can find them easily on my website – click HERE and it will take you directly to the webpage dedicated to the book where you can read any previous chapters that you might have missed.
Every THURSDAY I’ll continue to share my ‘book in parts’ - Hold My Hand: A Journey Back to Life - chapter by chapter.
This was the final chapter in Part I: My Story. Next week I’ll be sharing some BIG NEWS and telling you more about what’s coming up in Part II: A Journey Back to Life.
That seems so cruel to make you walk without a frame as a test before you could go home !! Madness! We send people home all the time in my profession as a social worker with a frame , no such test !! I don’t blame you though wanting to get out of hospital! What a total nightmare !
I admire your stubbornness, Jacqui, but am astonished you were allowed home in that state. Crikey.