Thursday evening in Room 17 of H4 ward at Joondalup Private Hospital. Quite an eventful day so far. The fun started last night, knowing I would be fasting from midnight in preparation for the Transoesophogeal Echocardiogram scheduled for this morning. Nothing to eat from midnight and no water after six o'clock, Not sleeping well anyway, I woke up in the wee small hours and tossed fitfully until one of the night nurses arrived with a pink chlorhexidine spray wash, the sexiest of hospital gowns and an extra name band for my ankle in case my left arm mysteriously disappeared along with its band. Finally, another of the hospital's phlebotomists stabbed me in the back of my already bruised right hand to insert another cannula. Showered, stinky and skewered, I then waited anxiously to go downstairs for the echo to be performed by Professor Jenny Deague.
My general panic about undergoing this procedure rose steadily as I lay on the trolley in Pre-Op. Michael wasn't with me; he'd had to go and feed the highway robbery parking meter. I hated being on my own and tried to calm myself, with little success.
Finally into the echo-cardiology room. The caring and exceedingly good looking anaesthetist looked just like Richart E Grand with a smooth bedside manner should have soothed my increasing fear. I am sorry to say that I have forgotten his name, but I will never forget his kindness and compassion.
After being assured that I was just going to enjoy a short nap, I couldn't understand why I felt so terrible upon awakening in Recovery. The echo had been completed, but I was sore, more breathless than ever, cold and terrified. Why hadn't I seen that bloody hypothetical truck that has reversed over me?! I couldn't stop crying and I had no idea what had happened. Returning to room 17, Michael was waiting for me.
I had never been so relieved to be back in Michael's immediate orbit. He and the nurses helped me back into my own bed. My body was wrung out and exhausted, like a floppy rag doll. Eventually, with some pain relief, the symptoms eased and I hoped that Jenny Deague may have some answers for me.
Arriving mid afternoon, she and the other members of the team regaled the timeline of the procedure. Once asleep, I promptly stopped breathing. Apparently, all hell broke loose as I was resuscitated. There was really nothing else spectacular to report. My ASD was smaller than originally envisaged, my right heart was not enlarged and my valves were spectacularly normal. She gave us permission to go home tomorrow.
So, what's the story, Morning Glory? The other symptoms are still a fluttering sensation in my chest, nondescript intermittent chest pain ranging from dull to sharp, breathlessness, extreme fatigue and bradycardia (slow heartbeat). In fact, bloody slow. Last night's monitoring revealed my rate dropped as low as 27 beats per minute...Jenny blamed my sleep apnoea. At last, I thought we had the answers we had been seeking.
In desperation, I called Olivia, one of the sleep therapists from Place of Dreams to check my CPAP machine. Maybe, my device was malfunctioning or had ceased operations. Olivia duly metaphorically parachuted to my rescue, in order to examine Batman, my CPAP machine. After reading the SD card information and a slight adjustment of pressures, she declared Batman was fit and well.
She also threw rather a large spanner into the works. Why, knowing I had Obstructive Sleep Apnoea, had I been given an anaesthetic without any breathing support by a cardiologist and a cardiac anesthetist? In her opinion, I was always going to end up in strife. And another reason for my unresolved symptoms has been tossed out the window.
The good news is that we are not up for the cost of a new CPAP machine, yet. The bad news is that Jenny advised us to purchase a very portable and reliable ECG recorder. I am shopping around for the best price for a purchase tomorrow. Now two hundred dollars does not seem a large expense for some. For us, it is one eighth of our fortnightly pension...it is what it is...
We return for a consultation with Jenny Deague on 27 February. That cost should tip us over the medical safety net, in February. But I am nervous. I have already started more research and so the questions have begun piling up. I still remember being treated with total dismissal when I told the staff at the Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne that I believed Alex had suffered a stroke. In 1992. I am sadly used to being disbelieved.
Hoping for a better outcome...
Is this journey never ending?
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