The light was skirting around the edges of the thin curtains as it started to break through into the ward. The night-time noises had subsided, and the birds were whistling away outside indicating the dawn of a new day. I knew I had to check. I had to find out if there was any chance I was getting out today. But I knew just one look at the hospital gown would reveal whether I could head home or if I was to remain within the ward.
Holding my breath, I initially reached down to my stomach and then I felt the dampness. I knew this wasn’t good. I slowly sat up to get a better look and my fears were realised – it looked as if a passing werewolf had popped into the ward last night and had been clawing at my torso. The wound still hadn’t healed, the blood was fresh – there would be no chance the surgeon would let me leave today.
I couldn’t complain too much. Four weeks ago, a standard check-up revealed my ulcerative colitis was out of control and too much damage was done for any drugs to offset. The decision was made fairly swiftly – I had to have an emergency operation to remove part of my large bowel and insert a stoma. In my case, it was an ileostomy but that meant nothing to me at the time. I was obviously worried about the outcome of the operation never mind the whole process. My fears were allayed to some extent by the hyper positive specialist Stoma Nurse who made it seem that this operation was akin to winning the lottery. I think I’d rather have had the lottery win!
I won’t go into the gory details of the operation and the initial recovery – mostly because I was either unconscious or totally out of it while reliant on morphine to suppress the pain. After a week or so I was now in a hospital ward gradually adjusting to stoma life and slowly regaining my strength. But it was now nearly four weeks later and the wound still refused to heal.
I was desperate to escape but there was no way I would be let out with such a wound. I was stuck in Stalag Stoma until a solution could be found. Once the wound was cleaned up and dressed it was fine, very little leakage but overnight as I lay there listening to the ramblings of fellow patients – some enjoying the morphine better than others – I dreaded each morning, waking up to find the wound had leaked again overnight. I knew I couldn’t go until it was under control and if that didn’t happen soon maybe another operation was needed. I was only starting to recover from the first one, I didn’t fancy a rerun.
I was still getting some morphine for the pain and I blame that for my escape attempt. Not only did I successfully remove a drip from my arm and neatly bundle the tube on the stand but I also managed to switch off the alarm which would have alerted everyone else in the ward to what I was doing. I even went past the doors at the bottom of the ward, knowing that they were alarmed – but maybe not as much as the night staff who saw me wandering about the ward looking for an exit, wearing a hospital gown and carrying a catheter bag at 3am!
Things were getting desperate. The late night escape attempt failed and the idea of tying the bed sheets together didn’t really take off – not when I realised the ward was practically at the top of the hospital.
But then the Stoma Nurse had an idea. If she was a specialist on stomas and had done so much to make me accept mine (although there wasn’t really any other option) why not call in the specialist nurse on wound care. And sure enough, this nurse floated into the ward, examined my wound and decided there was a solution. I’m no medic but her plan seemed reasonable to me – although anything that would get me home quicker was readily jumped on. To encourage the wound to heal she inserted silver coated dressings into the wound. Apparently, the silver would help heal the wound quicker – maybe my fear of the night time visits by werewolves was being addressed, not so much a silver bullet but at some silver coated dressings to ward off evil!
After a few days of this treatment the wound started to heal, the werewolf visits started to cease and the dressing was unmarked in the morning. And then, the surgeon came to do his rounds and decided it was time for me to go home… my escape was complete, it was then I realised the date – 4th July! I know Americans hold this date dear to their hearts but suddenly the 4th of July became my Independence Day and I’ve never been so happy to get home and start living again. Let the celebrations begin! Whisked out of the ward and back home – plans for a good meal and some booze obviously tempered by the medication and regaining my strength but the relief to wake up in your own bed was brilliant. And of course having my wife – Mags – run after me (at least initially) was superb. I felt everyday after then was a celebration of life.
Every year on the run up to the 4th July I remember my time at Stalag Stoma and my desperation to get home. The care at the RAH was exceptional, the staff – all of them – were amazing but by the end I felt a fraud just lying in bed waiting for a wound to heal. But thanks to two amazing nurses I got home that day and the celebrations began.