When casualty handling you must always be aware that hearing is the last of the senses to fade. It's also the first to return. The comforting voice of the surgeon declared that I was breathing on my own. It would seem that although I have no recollection of it I asked him to phone my wife with news. Next day she told me that he had done as requested at about 2100, one of the other surgeons had phoned a bit earlier.
The ICU is in a twilight zone and you are constantly monitored. My first memory is of machines and a maze of wires which would do a Spanish property developer proud. They were coming from everywhere and I was lying between a canyon of digital and graphical displays. There were also tubes. Loads of tubes. And an oxygen mask. I couldn't move which was just as well.
A young lady asked if I was OK and how would I score my pain on a scale of 1-10? Not much, hardly any, in fact. I was told to let her know if that changed. She was busy doing something but it was dimpsy and I slept.
The next recollection is of wires being disconnected and a machine being wheeled away. She was joined by a young Scotsman, an RAF sergeant studying physics so this was the day shift changeover. I wasn't in pain of any serious note but the discomfort level was in the ascendant.
Gently, wires were moved from under me although it was over a week before their pad connectors were removed, the now unused pads on my chest were peeled off to leave a set of stamp sized smoothly shaved patches randomly adorning the upper belly and chest. The ones around the heart remained for a few more hours.
Trying to speak when your tongue is stuck fast to the roof of your mouth, your throat feels like it's concrete, you have a tube up your nose and your face is the resting place to store an oxygen mask is difficult. My wrists were recipients of drips and drivers. To my right was a local anaesthetic driver with tubes to my back and a too familiar morphine driver to my wrist. Last time I saw one of those it was covered by a cloth and placed beside mum in the hospice.
Further memories were ignited once my industrious attendee lifted the oxygen mask and offered me a moistened pink sponge on a stick. It may be nine years ago but it doesn't take much to reignite precious memories. I got to relish those pink sponges.
A settled moment was delightfully interrupted when he pulled a chair up beside me and my wife filled it two hours before she should have. It was suggested that a few minutes wouldn't matter but come back at 11.
No sooner had she left than my attentive sergeant was over at the next bay where things were not going smoothly. As more personnel arrived, then more technology, machines and yet more personnel it was difficult to not hear the import of the instructions being given. My ever attentive sergeant returned to monitoring my functions and noting assiduously.
A life hung in the balance. No effort was spared. No grain of expertise that could be brought to bear was withheld. Being only a few feet away was soberly inspiring. Prayer doesn't guarantee the outcome you want but it does guarantee comfort.
After two hours the fight was lost. A lady in her late forties had died. The atmosphere changed and all the technology, machinery and personnel melted away. A middle aged man in shorts was led to a corner and given something to drink.
The doctor in charge was almost the last to leave. As he passed by the end of my bed he paused, turned and came over. Crouching down by my ear he asked if I was aware. I nodded. He asked if I was OK. I nodded. Was I sure, nods, did I want .... No. I'm not unfamiliar with death and I couldn't speak at that time but before I left the unit I was able to thank him for his courtesy and consideration toward me at such a time as that.
As soon as possible the chair was replaced by my side and filled.
The day drifted sombrely along, pink sponges wrung out between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, but never enough, not even remotely enough. Wires continued to be removed, gadgets wheeled away until eventually it was just drips and two drivers. I was assured that progress was as good as it was likely to be and by late afternoon I was ready for the ward.
Eventually a couple of porters arrived wheeling a bed. I had to be transferred to it. My wife was ushered away. I was belatedly given the morphia button to press. Too little, too late. The transfer to a board by rolling me was excruciating and by far the worse pain I experienced throughout.
Once transferred I was wheeled along cold corridors with windows letting in the darkness until eventually I was in a side room, familiar visitor by my side with luxurious dressing gown and cable tied slippers in tow.
On the door was written "Sips".
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