Ceilings

I've always been a very reactionary person. If you'd have told me I had a Subarachnoid Haemorrhage (SAH - way too much typing otherwise), i should have screamed and cried, because I knew through my job as Radiographer that it's a life threatening illness. Instead I asked to read the report of my CT scans. I detached myself from me as the patient to me as the medical professional. I was calm, a little bit tearful, but otherwise not Jane. I read the reports, photographed them on my phone and sent them to Audrey ( a Consultant Radiologist) so she could get a Neuroradiology opinion. I'd gone into work mode. Whilst my mum called my sister with the news, I updated close friends on the situation, who were all shocked at my diagnosis. 

My nurse gave me Nimodipine, a drug for my bleed and some Morphine for my pain as he prepared me for my transfer to Queen's. Shortly after, my sister Sally arrived - She looked brave and was trying not to show how upset she was. She had been talking to the Paramedics who were waiting to take me to Nottingham. I was transferred on to the ambulance trolley, wrapped up in blankets to protect me from the cold and strapped in to stop me from sliding off. Out of the ward doors and straight into the cold December night air, I was put on the ambulance. I said goodbye to Mum and Sally who would meet me at Queen's.

Surprisingly I was cold inside the ambulance despite heating. Rosie, the paramedic inside the ambulance with me was explaining everything to me. I was nicely sleepy I remember from the morphine, but she kept talking to me to keep me awake. The ride was bumpy, and the sirens blared every time we got stuck in traffic. I don't really remember much else, except how cold it was when we arrived at Queen's. I do remember how yellowy bright the corridor ceilings were. It reminded me of those films where you see it from the protagonists perspective - Serpico when he's being wheeled into the ER after being shot....

I was being taken to Ward D10 - female Neurology, and as I arrived on the ward, the paramedics handed me over to the medical and nursing team. Another ceiling to look at and more faces connecting me up to IV fluids, a blood pressure cuff and a pulse oxymeter. The neurosurgeons examined me,  I was Kernig's positive that's all I remember. I briefly spoke to my mum and sister, and then I was left in the hands of D10.

If you have a SAH you don't get to sleep. Neurological observations have to be performed frequently and Nimodipine is to be taken every 4 hours (for 21 days no less!). I was awoken in the morning, given a bed bath, not given breakfast and informed of my treatment plan. Another CT scan and then depending on the result, I would have surgery in the next 24-48 hours. 

After another CT angiogram and I was visited by an Interventional Neuroradiologist,  Dr Crossley. 

'You have a SAH and an aneurysm of your Anterior Communicating artery.'

'There is a 1 in 3 chance that your aneurysm will rupture in the next 48 hours, so I'd like to operate on you this afternoon.' 

There isn't really a lot you can say to that kind of news apart from 'OK'. I signed the consent form, and reeling from the list of complications, I lay there wondering why this had happened. I didn't have high blood pressure, I didn't smoke, I was the fittest I'd ever been. This was seriously not in my life plan.

Mum and Sally arrived, this time with my Dad who had come down that morning from Yorkshire. Dad looked solemn as if i'd already died. Sally was calm and was updating me with news from my friends. Mum looked worried and sad. I told them the plan and that I would be having my operation sometime in the afternoon, when the theatre porters arrived to take me for surgery. Mum followed me down to the theatre entrance and then I was whisked into the Interventional Radiology theatre.

A different ceiling.

I was surrounded by new faces all wearing scrubs in a nice shade of green. They all introduced themselves to me. It all felt too surreal. The anaesthetists were lovely, especially the consultant who had a really lovely manner, she could tell how frightened I was. Her registrar was carefully putting an arterial line into my left wrist so my blood pressure could be measure during the embolisation - hell it was so painful!  Dr Crossley came and chatted to me and then it was time to start. The remifentanil went in, the oxygen mask placed over my face and the last thing I remember was saying 'please don't let me die' as they were putting me to sleep.

I woke up in recovery. It's all a blur. Oxygen mask, neuro obs, memories of conversations about me and my condition. There had been complications, but overall a success, and I was alive and could talk.