Part II: HDU and the Subarach
5 March 2009, 15:16
This is a long post. I’ve divided it into sections to help you along, but you must forgive the stream of consciousness. I have had brain surgery, you know…
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Portrait with Mum and Hospital Bed
by the Artist Scout
The patients
But it was confusing as well. You can be assured that not all the patients who trudge through the neuro HDU were saints or even particularly nice people, so although you could excuse a lot of it, you had to wonder?
For example, on my first night a patient, let’s call him “Sean”, had a major flipout when he wanted to go to the toilet but wasn’t allowed, possibly because he’d had an angio and had to stay lying down. He kicked, flailed and yelled and had to be restrained for his own good. He called one of the nurses over and requested a bedpan. When she went to his side, he’d amended his request to an “erection”. Oh indeedy. Sean was OK in the end – a bit whacky but not too disruptive.
In HDU there was a long central nurse’s station with 4 beds on either side with a private room at the end of each row. The private rooms were where they put the more “challenging” patients. The only tirade that really bugged me was on my last night in HDU before being transferred to the regular ward – an old lady, let’s call her “Marge”, had seemed perfectly sane all day with her hubby/partner by her side, then when he left she went quite psychotic.
Her diatribe of paranoid abuse lasted 6 hours.
From Marge’s vitriol it appeared that in another ward she’d been tied down and she was screaming at my nurses that she would NOT be tied down again (fair enough, I guess) and would have her brother sick the police on them. Even though the nurses assured her they wouldn’t tie her down, she kept at them, starting in on one of the non-anglo nurses in a racist rant that had me close to tying her down myself.
After about an hour, I think the nurses realised that Marge was sounding off at anyone present and pretty much ignored her in the hope she’d calm down. HELL NO, she then started in on the patients, mimicking the bloke next to me who had an unfortunate grunty/snuffly throat-clearing thing going on that was so not his fault. In the end they moved the guy in the private room out so they could stuff Marge in there to give the rest of us a chance at some sleep. [Unfortunately, guy from private room had been put in there originally as he was, without question, the loudest snorer in the universe].
Even the next morning when the nurses had changed over, Marge’s day nurse was apparently “a bitch just like the night nurse”. Charming.
This is where it was confusing – at what point do you excuse nasty behaviour as a side effect of brain surgery or a brain-related affliction and decide she’s just a racist old biddy?
The Nurses…
The nurses I could not fault. I haven’t stayed in hospital since I was about 10, and certainly not in a neuro ward so I was half-expecting a bunch of Nurse Ratcheds wielding ECT electrodes but my god, those nurses were awesome. A hospital is a terribly lonely place and even though I had a steady but not overwhelming stream of visitors, I could have felt very lonely, but the nurses were wonderful company – kind, caring, with wonderful senses of humour and they didn’t seem to be annoyed by my neverending whinges for more painkillers (although closed doors are a great thing). And anyone who can smile covered in airborn urine gets my vote.
Oh, the pain, the Pain!
In the first week, my pain relief “options” were a total joke – 1 mg of morphine + panadol. I understood that they had to make sure nothing masked any of the neurological signs of stroke, but it didn’t make the pain any easier to deal with. When I didn’t have visitors I either sat in the bed or in the chair doing deep breathing exercises with my white satin eye mask on (photophobia, natch) to manage the pain.
The doctors came to see me every day to ultrasound my wound (and tease (read: torture) me with suggestions of further angiograms) and explained where the pain was coming from, given that the brain is an anueral organ. I had the diabolic trinity of pain, pain much like being kicked in the head by a horse. Not that I’ve ever been kicked in the head by a horse, but if I had, it would have felt like this. After an aneurysm/subarachnoid haemorrhage, blood that has already leaked into the outer membrane of the brain irritates the tissue layers surrounding it. It also takes a while to recover from general anaesthetic and I had done something to my neck and back during my dramatic fall in Bunnings. In short, I had one muthafucker of a headache.
Day 5: Me with bandaged head
and beautiful pint-sized visitor
Those who came to see me in the first couple of days were met with quite a sight – my right eye was swollen shut, my face bruised with a bandage covering one side of my head and a drip sticking out from my neck to pump in drugs and fluid. I was pretty lucky that the surgeons didn’t shave my whole head, only the front, but I really was a train wreck. Vanity prevents me from posting a picture here. One does exist.
I would imagine that Scout would have found that first visit very confronting. She came every second day – any more frequently McG and I decided would have been too upsetting. She seemed to deal with it quite well (although was acting up at home a bit – more of that another day).
By Day 3 or 4 I was reasonably coherent and in quite good spirits. Whilst my recovery was by no means over, I was thankful that I’d come out of surgery with no memory loss or cognitive problems and my ridiculous sense of humour was still in tact (some may have hoped the surgeons might have accidentally clipped that part of the brain).
I was also up and about on Day 3 which was quite early but I was jack of having to call for a bedpan every time I needed to pee (although it was better than a catheter – seriously weird, I don’t recommend it). I was prisoner to my drip and had to drag it around to go to the bathroom and shower but hell, it was good to be mobile.
[I must divert to thank those who visited Regan-farm to cheer me up – Mum and Dad (on first flight from Hervey Bay once they heard the news), Narelle, Jodie, Loz and Hayles, Sam, Hils and Tony, G and Glen, Jacqui, Simon, Natasha and baby Declan, Roz, Dana and of course McG and Scout. And also all those who sent messages of support, flowers, cards and meals – unfortunately I wasn’t allowed to have flowers in the HDU, but they cheered up McG and Scout immeasurably!]
By the 7th day, the doctors relented on my incessant requests for Panadeine Forte with “just give her what she wants” so I was jammed up with aforementioned PF and Endone (morphine). I did get a lecture from the docs about giving me the stronger painkillers but I really didn’t care – it was either give me the painkillers or priests would start dropping like flies.
Permanent Link | - Kinki, I’ve never met you, but my friend Kat (numine) knows you as blog buddies. I was sorry to hear about your brain health trouble, but I’m so glad that you were able to have surgery and still be your funny self in your blog postings! Best of luck to you and your family in your recovery. I hope writing about is is therapeutic and entertaining for you. -Rachel
— Rachel Mar 16, 10:54 AM #
