Sitting around doing nothing in hospital may well be the most exhausting activity ever devised. After a week of it, I was left fat, unfit and more tired than I'd ever been in my life. Mrs Minimus rates childbirth as slightly more tiring, but only slightly. However, Minimus Minor, the reason we were sitting around in hospital for a week, is now roaring around, virtually back to normal, while his parents are struggling slowly back to their usual state of hollow-eyed weariness.
Anyway, here we are, back again, and thank God it's all over.
It's hard to believe that only a week ago I was sitting in paediatric intensive care, looking at my son, who a few hours before had been a healthy active boy, lying immobile and unconscious in a cot with five tubes sticking out of his body: two chest drains, a catheter, an epidural and an IV drip. It's strange, but I can recall everything else about that ward, the faces of the nurses, the children and babies lying in the other beds, the parents – anxious or all-too-experienced – but at its centre there is a blank space in my memory. Try as I might, no image comes to mind of Minimus minor. Mrs Minimus reports that the same is true for her. Which all reminds me of a film called 'Strange Days' set in the near future, when people's experiences can be recorded and replayed and relived, unfading and unforgotten, and one character's remark to another: 'Memories fade; they're designed that way.'
God made us humans to remember, but just enough. Too much more and we would go mad, much less and we would barely exist.
A week last Tuesday Minimus minor was admitted into King's College Hospital. He arrived, suitcase in hand, looking like a smaller version of Paddington Bear. But after a night there he had decided that he'd had enough of this particular adventure and he announced to us, in no uncertain terms, that it was time to go home. Unfortunately, we were there to ensure that while Matthew came home, a large part of his left lung, that infected with congenital cystic adenomatoid malformation (CCAM to its acquaintances – it has no friends), would not. So Wednesday morning saw Minimus minor in my arms outside the operating theatre calling for Mummy, Granny, Nanny, in fact, working his way through anyone he could think of who would make what was fast becoming a very unpleasant day stop. But then the anaesthetic worked, he went, suddenly, floppy, and I had to work hard to prevent parental tears.
That was nine o'clock. We knew it was going to be quite a long operation, so ten, eleven, twelve o'clock went past without any concern. But by one o'clock I was starting to wonder just how long it was going to take, and two o'clock saw us both getting distinctly twitchy. Thankfully, it was shortly after two that we were told we could go up to paediatric intensive care. And there he was. Only, as I said, I can't picture him at all. The space where he should be is blank. I can remember the blood on the sheet beneath him (as he woke from the anaesthetic he had turned onto his front and pulled various tubes out; I am not sorry I missed that). I can remember Janine, the intensive care nurse from Pasadena, California. But I can't remember Matthew.
The little lad spent the rest of that day in intensive care, but the doctors were so pleased with his progress that he was moved back to the ordinary children's ward that night. And next day all seemed to be proceeding smoothly, to the extent that I was congratulating myself on producing a son with such extraordinary powers of recovery. However, the next couple of days were to prove more worrying. Firstly, Matthew took something of a downturn, developing a fever and ceasing to respond to us, but rather staring blankly into the middle distance. He began to refuse food and water, which meant that he had to be put back on a fluid drip. And he would not, absolutely not, fall asleep. Hours after his normal bed time, he would seem to have drifted off, then a convulsive shudder would rip through him, and he would be awake again. It's only later that it occurred to me that there was good reason for him to fight sleep. From Minimus minor's point of view, he had gone into hospital fit and healthy, fallen asleep, and woken up with tubes sticking out of him, a large (the size of a fist) piece of lung missing, and a great big scar around his side and back. On top of that, he'd go to sleep, only to be woken by a nurse sticking a suppository up his bottom. Is it any wonder he didn't want to sleep?
Those days were hard, but the burden fell mostly on Mrs Minimus as she stayed with Matthew through the night. Our other son, Minimus minor major, was staying with Mrs Minimus's sister three miles away in Forest Hill, so I would return there for the night, before leaving at six in the morning for another day at the hospital. Thus at least I was able to sleep well.
Having complained about the NHS in previous posts, I must say that, as is so often the case with the health service, when we finally got into hospital the care was excellent, both from the medical and nursing staffs. In particular, we would like to thank Mary, who was on duty at night while Matthew was there, who my wife credits with getting her and our boy through the whole experience.
But after those difficult days, Minimus minor turned the corner and his recovery since has been swift. It's good to be home. It's good to think that this vague but lurking danger has finally left us. It's now been nearly three years that it has hovered over us, sometimes a more present threat, sometimes a distant portent, but never before absent. I'll tell you what that's like once we've recovered. To be honest, I thought I would feel more immediately relieved when we got home, but exhaustion and irritableness have been the most notable emotions. Mrs Minimus and I have been bickering like a pair of beauty queens. Hopefully a good night's sleep will put matters aright.
But before I sleep I must take a quick look around St Blogs. And thank you all, once again, for your prayers. However, I must ask for your prayers again, but I will put this in a separate post.
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