When we left Jane on monday night she was decathetered, had had a poo (with some fear and wailing and several chemical interventions)) and was on target for coming home the next day. We arranged that I’d have a lie in and breakfast as amble down to the hospital mid morning and help her pack.
But Tuesday morning three things happened simultaneously, I got up at seven to have a wee, the boy sprang to life and wanted the tv on and I got my first text of the day off Jane saying could I go in as she was in pain.
By the time we got there she was in so much pain and had been for a while that it reall y wasn’t somewhere i wanted to take the boy… so I plonked him in an empty room with a tv and went to find a nurse.
Jane was in a huge amount of pain and no-one knew what it was. She’d been scanned and her bladder was nearly empty… my personal diagnosis was trapped wind.
The long and short of it was that Jane would have to go back into theatre to see if they could work out what was causing such distress.
At this point I was in a blind funk… I had the boy to look after but wanted to be near Jane.
But small boys get priority at times like this and so we said a brief goodbye to Jane (who wasn’t screaming at the time as she was on her bed pretending to be a table… a comfortable position and an explanation that once again, i suspect, expanded the world view the boy has of grown ups being totally bonkers.
The boy and I returned to the hotel to have breakfast, at which point I cried all over my sausages and the very sensible small boy took charge and suggested as he was homesick he’s like to go home but I could come back and look after Jane.
By the time we returned to the hospital with our new plan Jane had organised with a friend to meet me part way to drive the boy the rest of the way home. My daughter Meg (a much unmentioned star in my life, who at eighteen is capable of taking on most things was on stand by at home to receive the boy), and Janes sister was on recall to return to Lincolnshire again.
The day was further complicated by the aforementioned friend taking the top off her toe on a computer case (luckily she drives an automatic) and me turning left onto the M1 not right and having to drive up to Toddington as opposed to nipping to scratchwood to liase with said friend sporting a fairly bloody toe bandage.
Quick turn around and drive back towards brighton through torrential rain that had the traffic down to 20 miles an hour at one point.
I got to the point where I knew I wouldnt get back to jane in time for her to go to theatre but hoped i might get back for her waking up post surgery.
Jane had been recathetered, her haematoma (which had been the size of a grapefruit was a lot smaller) had been blocking her urethra and it transpires that the machine that said her bladder was empty was broken… and she had been in extreme urine retention. (something the anaesthetist described from personal experience as worse than a broken leg).
She woke in another morphine haze… which wasn’t quite as entertaining as the last as she was talking total sense but later had absolutely no memory of the half dozen totally cohesive conversations she had had.