This is the 3rd part of 4 on my experiences of donating a kidney, posted here hoping that it will be of interest to anyone put in a similar position. The 4th part will deal with what happened after I left hospital and I’ll try to do an additional post on questions I’ve been asked.
I was admitted to Queen Elizabeth hospital (Birmingham) on a Wednesday evening and left the following Sunday evening. Before checking that the ward had a bed for me I did several tests as part of someone’s PhD thesis. He told me that he wanted to test the heart condition of donors before and after the operation as he said that although donors tended to live longer than average, because the tests they went through before being allowed to donate showed them to be healthier than average, nevertheless, some donors experienced a higher rate of heart problems. I thought it was a good idea to have a thorough series of heart tests before and after the operation, so I agreed to the research. After a couple of hours the doctor decided my heart was good and I was very fit for my age. The week before, a doctor had said that I would be fine as I was “among the fittest 5% of the population”. No, not fit like that. I’m no Olympic athlete either: I think she meant “healthiest” and I’ve certainly always been very lucky with my health.
We were told that our beds would be ready by about 9pm so we went to the pub for a drink and meal. It was a boisterous student pub, “The Gun Barrels” - friendly and with cheap food and drinks. Back at the hospital we were both given single rooms, ensuite no less. I felt no particular worry about what was going to happen, other than that the transplant had better be successful! I went through various tests - , temperature, blood, urine, blood pressure, swabs - before settling down for a good sleep.
I was woken to have more tests. The anaesthetist came to tell me what he was going to do. He seemed very nice and reassuring. The surgeon came to tell me what he was going to do. He was just as impressive, although it made me laugh that he used a marker pen to draw an arrow on me, pointing to the kidney which was to be removed. I didn’t see my son before the operation. He says he saw me as I was coming round, when he was being taken in. I was taken to the theatre, some nice conversation with the anaesthetist again, a mask and then nothing. Absolutely nothing. I think when you’re asleep, there is always some glimmer of consciousness or dreaming but this was nothingness - is that what death is like?
I was woken up and felt normal. No pain but obviously incapacitated. Attached to me were various things for holding electrodes (I forgot about some of these and found them at home, once I could move properly), a catheter, a line into the wound area for painkilling. The coil for this was sewn to my stomach. I also had a saline drip, morphine drip and oxygen tube thing that inserts into your nose. And I had been shaved from my belly button downwards. Oh the fun they must have had! I was shown how to press the button to get morphine. I used it once, later in the day, and fell asleep. Other than that, apart from once, I felt no need for extra painkillers. I was told, and had read online, that I should breathe deeply as soon as I came round, as this would prevent any chest infection/pneumonia. I did this, it didn’t cause much pain at all and I avoided any infection.
Once I’d come round properly I was taken up to another ward, for 4 people. I realised only then that I had left my laptop, phone, tablet, wallet, clothes all unlocked in the other room. But it was fine, everything had been moved to my new ward, it was all there. I just couldn’t reach them. I managed to stretch and get my phone and send a couple of texts, it took a ridiculous amount of effort. I kept falling asleep. I couldn’t stretch or hold the phone for long, or see what I was texting.
I eventually came round again, a young man, visiting his father opposite me had donated his kidney a couple of days before. He told me what to expect, gave me lots of encouragement, saying such things as “you’ve done a great thing”. Strange considering he had just done exactly the same thing for his father. My time in hospital was made much better by the people on the ward. Opposite was Afraz. He kept us awake at night by hiccuping constantly, but that was hardly his fault. He had great dignity. And when my son eventually joined our ward he walked to the Costa at the front of the hospital (2 floors down and maybe a quarter of a mile away), in spite of having just had a transplant, to buy my son a croissant. Next to him was Glenroy, a bouncer/boxer/security guard, with the most wonderful combination of West Indian and Birmingham accents. His positive attitude, laughter and “Good morning Mr Windsor” every time I woke was joyful, life-affirming. Next to me was Phil, who by some coincidence came from where I do (Sneyd Green, Stoke-on-Trent) and supported the team I used to (Port Vale). Phil had been given the opportunity of a transplant when someone else refused one. His kidney function had been 11%, 10% is the threshold for dialysis, so the transplant had worked miracles on him. He was full of positive “no painkillers for me thank you, I feel wonderful. I don’t want that stupid wheelchair” comments, showing me that if the transplant worked, my son would be much better.
At this point my son was having his operation. We were to be kept separate at first, in case the poor condition of either of us affected the other. Besides, he would need more intensive care than me at first. Visiting time was from 2.30 till 7.30 and my wife soon came to see me. Up till this point I think the main part of dealing with this, the mental preparation, was something I just needed to do for myself. But after the operation it was the care of my wife and family that kept me going. Having someone to visit me, something to get ready for, people to talk to. She said I looked green on the first day. I’ve no idea what I looked like. It must have been torture for her to see both her husband and son go into surgery with all the risks involved, in a strange way I had it easier.
The hospital day starts at 6.30 - imagine being woken up by a lugubrious chap saying “can I do your bloods please?”. Tests, breakfast, more tests, a visit from the doctor, lunch, visiting time from 2.30 till 7.30, evening meal, more tests. Any urine I passed was at first measured via my catheter bag and then by me having to do all my wee in cardboard tubes and storing them under my bed. I had books with me but had no energy to read, I tried my best to keep up with people online but it took a lot of effort.
I was told I had to get up and get moving as soon as possible. The day after the operation I still had on the hospital dress I had for the operation. It wasn’t exactly fresh and had blood on it. I decided to have a shower. This resulted in a ridiculously long and painful session. Trying to get out of bed took what seemed like at least half an hour. My stomach muscles just couldn’t take lifting myself up. I eventually rolled onto my side as much as I could without falling off the edge of the bed and then pushed myself up. Very painful but the more I did it the easier it got. Once up I then had to walk to the shower. Trying to arrange the various tubes attached to me so that I could walk and taking the stupid pole they were all attached to wherever I went felt awful. But I had that shower and felt cleaner. I put a new dress on.
I had a plan and the determination to carry it out: to see if my son was ok (I was told that he was but that wasn’t enough) and to get out of hospital as soon as possible. I would do it in this order: get as many tubes as possible detached, wear my own clothes, walk as much as possible, including to my son’s ward. I asked a student nurse to remove my catheter, she checked with someone and then did. I asked the PhD student if I could have the painkiller feeds and the drip removed. It all seemed to go to plan and I’m not sure it would have happened so quickly if I hadn’t asked. Within a few hours I was free of that stupid pole and walking about my own ward. I couldn’t stretch enough to stand up straight and was walking around like a drunk Frankenstein, but I was walking. I asked where my son was and set off for his ward. I found him, having his back washed (no such luxury for us donors!). He seemed ill but stable. He hadn’t tried to get up. Perhaps being younger he hadn’t felt that he should ask to be detached from various tubes. He was surprised to see me up and I think that encouraged him to try for himself, which he did later in the day. Which led to us both trawling the corridors in some sort of zombie ballet. Seeing him cheered me up a lot, knowing that it had been successful and a worthwhile thing to do.
At no point did I feel any pain from my lack of kidney. The pain I felt was from the main wound (the kind of pain you would expect from a cut - stinging soreness), very weak stomach muscles and constipation. From Friday afternoon onwards I was not on any painkiller other than paracetemol. From the day before the op (Wednesday) until I got home (Sunday) I had not paid a lengthy visit to the loo. It was this that was preventing me from going home - doctors would not release me until I had “been”. Although one doctor did say “you’ll be fine once you’re at home, sitting in your own room, reading the Guardian”. On the Sunday morning I put clothes on that suggested discharge was imminent, packed my bags and lied to the doctors that I had been to the loo. They said I was free to go and, once visiting time for my son was over (who had been moved to our ward, so I knew he was with good people), I got in the car for the most uncomfortable ride of my life! Every pothole seemed to make my innards jump up and down. Only on leaving hospital was any kind of dressing put on my wounds - more of that next time!
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