For those not familiar, that term comes from the sport of Baseball. The pitcher throws the ball at the batter, and if he misses, Strike One is proclaimed. When they miss 3, they are out and have to retire. So, why is this applicable to me? Bit of a story to this one!
In August 2017, I had to go into hospital to have part of my stomach removed. It was to be done under keyhole surgery and I had expected to be off work for 2 weeks. No problems with the operation, but I seriously underestimated the recovery and it took me 7 weeks before I had the strength to start work again. This was early October. The day after I started back, I felt ill. I went to bed and the pain was so intense I sat up the whole night. I still had access to the Bariatric nurses so rang in at 8 am to be told to report to the local hospital. They performed some tests and I was admitted. The dual diagnosis was Pancreatitis and Gall Stones meaning I had to have my Gall Bladder removed. I was assured this was straight forward and would be 'on the table' for 40 minutes maximum.
That night, at around 10pm a medic came and said he needed to put a canular into my arm. He tried for what seemed an age and eventually succeeded. When I looked down, all I can say was that something resembling a 1974 Lada Niva windscreen wiper motor was sticking out of my arm!
The last thing I noted when they came to take me down to theatre was the time, 11.05. The surgeon took one look at my wiper motor, and said, 'I am not using that!'
Next thing I remember, was being back on ward and the time was 16.30. I thought that was a little peculiar but I was still under the effects of the anaesthetic so when a doctor came to see me he told me nothing. I complained of a sore arm where the wiper motor had been and it turned out I had Fleabitis.
The next day I got to the bottom of things. The surgeon was not aware that I had had a hernia meshed to my stomach wall and so when the camera was inserted it bounced off the hernia perforating my bowel. Shit happens I though, and I have never believed in biting the hand that feeds you.
Seven weeks on, same scenario and I returned to work on the Monday before Xmas. All was well till the Wednesday when as they day went on, I felt worse and worse. At 7pm I went to the local hospital who ran an out of hours service. I waited for 2 hours to see a doctor. I explained that I felt like last time and had Pancreatitis again. She said there was nothing they could do and to go home, take Paracetemol (obviously she had never had Pancreatitis!) and speak to my GP the next day. I rang my Bariatric nurses instead the next morning and they told me to go back to Cramlington Emergency hospital. I did, one blood test later and the doctor said, right, we need to admit you. I said what ward please so I can ring my son to organise some effects. At the time Norovirus was prevalent and there were no visitors allowed on ward. The Doctor said Intensive Care!
Now, one of the things about being ill is you do not know you are ill. I went up to the ward, rang my wife to tell her so she could organise my sons to take over her caring needs. I kept saying to myself, do not say Intensive Care but say Ward whatever it was. Of course when she asked what ward I said Intensive Care!
All I can remember id having loads of injections, tests and at one point having them stick a line into my neck with no idea what it was for. I was quite happy under the effects of medication! I had an in-bed Xray that the to a CT scan with an MRI booked for that evening. That was cancelled. Next morning at breakfast, my bariatric surgeon who I happen to get on with very well, popped in to see what was what. I explained they had cancelled the MRI and he went white! A few minutes later he came back and said within 5 minutes I would be having an MRI.
He was still on ward when I came back and he said protocols were that he should wait for the radiographers report, but, he had looked at the results and could see the issue. I was taken straight down for a camera down the throat. I felt I already had enough stuff in my system so did not take the kind offer of a sedative!. After a couple of minutes, the chap doing the procedure told me to look at the screen as he proclaimed, 'there it is!' He then used the camera to nudge what I can only describe as a cocktail sausage type thing into full view. He then said,'Wow, there are two! They were somehow sucked out of me and I swear from that moment on I started to feel better.
Later that afternoon, a nurse came and said that I was on the mend and when the last medications had dripped through, they would disconnect me. I asked disconnect me from what. The life support machine was the answer! I had no idea as I had not looked behind me! When they did that, they also removed the catheter and then proceeded to pull this long length of tube from my neck. Then it was explained what a Central Line is!
That evening I was sent down to a normal ward and the next day, a Saturday transferred to a normal hospital (with Norovirus). On the transport on the way down they had the local sports station and when I heard the weakened team Newcastle were fielding away against West Ham, I thought bugger that for a game of soldiers. They will get beaten so I will listen to the rugby instead. Needless to say, Newcastle won 4 - 3!
There was only 3 of us on ward and on Xmas Eve morning a consultant came round and had to force the chap in the bed next to me to go home. I confidently asked her what time I was being released to be told I had no chance as my temperature was still at 103! I was told that when rounds were done on Xmas Day, if my temperature was within the normal range, I could go. When it came to bed time, there was only me on the ward. I opened the window a few inches and decided to lie outside of the bed with no sheets etc. I have absolutely no idea if this action helped but when they took my temp it had come down to an ants knacker away from being normal! I was allowed out! At Xmas Day, the remains of my family all come round at Noon to exchange presents. My son picked me up without telling my wife where he was going and I made it back with seconds to spare.
So, the point of this story, is simple.........sometimes it takes more than 3 strikes to get me out!
