Sunday afternoon back in my beloved East End Gallery. A gloriously cool day with plenty of breeze to push any remnants of the latest heatwave out the doors. We won't get many days like this over the summer months, so I am enjoying every second. In my space.
The last two weeks seemed to have passed in a blur of pain and fever and breathlessness and fear. The ferocity of Michael's illness took us completely by surprise. How he went from being upright and full of life on the night of our Celebration to becoming very sick in less than 48 hours.
I knew he was in trouble when I discovered he was drenched in sweat on that Sunday evening. And for the next few days, his condition worsened. Then, there were the deliriums that came like a thief in the night and robbed his very essence. Waking in a very confused state on the most awful morning, he didn't know where he was, who I was and struggling to know who he was.
Ten years ago, in the same place, and the same ward, Michael battled the Bitch, another pneumonia and lung abscess that nearly killed him. This incarnation was another Bitch, and although only spectacularly brutal and destructive for a shorter time, still left her mark on us.
A exceedingly sneaky bug, going by the name of Human Metapneumovirus (hMPV), was able to breach our defenses and into our home. I believe I picked up the virus at Midland Gate shopping centre, developing a secondary chest infection a couple of days later. I had an incredibly painful cough but began to improve after a couple of days on oral antibiotics. Even so, I needed a second course whilst Michael was in hospital and I still have a whisper of a chest that feels slightly off.
Michael, who has a very high pain tolerance, was just felled by the Bitch. The bouts of coughing exhausted him, the endless muck in his chest made him nauseated all the time, his rubs hurt like he'd been hit by a battering ram and the continuing breathlessness scared the shit out of him.
Initially, we thought he would only be in hospital for about five days, but when the first choice of IV antibiotics failed to deliver any relief, he was placed on an eight hourly regime of much stronger drugs.Saline nebulisers were added to loosen the sticky phlegm in his chest, regular paracetamol for pain and melatonin to help him sleep. Haloperidol, given orally (rather than by IV as I requested) did not stop the deliriums. I dreaded each night.
Being in hospital for more than a few days is an exceedingly weird experience. Initially, we were happy to be interrupted by staff checking on Michael, but the novelty did wear off. Particularly when the nursing staff did not respond to his bell in a timely manner or let his IV alarm go on for up to ten minutes. So every eight hours, we were disturbed by the alarm of the antibiotic finishing, followed by the alarm ringing again after the saline flush was administered.
I discovered he was being paracetamol every six hours, instead of every four hours. This delay in controlling his temperature spikes allowed the Bitch to soar to new heights, leading him to vivid hallucinations that terrified us both.
We were given a huge boost last Monday. His IV antibiotics were ceased and he was no longer needing supplemental oxygen. His oxygen saturation levels stabilised, his temperature normalised and the horrible coughing had begun to ease. Suddenly, home was a viable option.
On Tuesday afternoon, we were checked by the OT to make sure we were compos mentis enough to head for the hills. She was happy to release us, Scott was happy to send us away with a pile of antibiotics and we were ecstatic. We made our escape on Wednesday, stopping for a few errands on the way home, before arriving back at Station House on a baking afternoon.
Michael, as ever, tried to minimise the reality he had just been released from hospital. He insisted on helping me in with some of our gear, promptly felt terrible and retired to bed. Over the last few days, I have been using my usual tactics of being as subtle as a sledgehammer to continue his recovery. He is now sleeping more - not all the time- on raised pillows, is not objecting when I order him to use his Ventolin, take his antibiotics or go for a rest.
The Bitch is retreating slowly. Michael's return to full health may take the rest of December, perhaps longer. In the meantime, he is willingly back using nicotine patches to control his cravings. His appetite has gone from zero to acceptable and I am trying to serve him his favourite foods. He is not yet capable of any task apart from playing on his phone, reading the paper or watching TV.
This morning, I was delighted when Michael sat on our front garden bench whilst I watered our jungle of pots. He even ventured up to Jodie's emporium for a chat, and then with James who wandered past with his Huntaway, Rosie. That was enough for him.
This encounter with hMPV and the secondary bacterial pneumonia has taught us a valuable lesson. Michael has often regaled that he has no fear of death. This hospital stay has shown him in very graphic detail that the path to death may be confronting and horrible and painful.
For the very first time, I am seeing him taking more control of his health. I am so bloody relieved. I guess I do have to thank the Bitch for that...
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