Open Writing

After three days in the Recovery Room and then the same time in the
Intensive Care Unit I was moved to a ward in the Cardiac Care Unit.

There were two old Diggers already ensconced when I arrived. When the nurse settled me the bloke on my right opened one eye and questioned me, ‘Have you just come from Expensive Care? What’s your problem mate? I’ve had a five by-pass.’

Before I could answer, the bloke in the other bed lifted himself on one elbow and said, 'I’ve had a double by-pass and a valve replacement.’

Even in my half anaesthetised condition I realised a pecking order was being established. If I didn’t make my medical procedure fairly dramatic I was going to be one-upped, twice!

I quietly muttered, ‘I had a triple by-pass...with pike!’ A passing nurse gave me a look of admiration.

All my troubles started about a week earlier with severe chest pains. As I had just enjoyed a great curry I diagnosed my problem as indigestion. When the distress continued, on and off, over the next four days, in my heart I realised that my problem was more than indigestion.

On Monday morning my local doctor took only a moment to announce, ‘You’ve had a heart attack, old fella. I want your wife to drive you immediately to the Austin. By the way, ’he queried, ‘why did you wait so long before seeking medical attention?’

He had a wry grin when I told him I wanted to see if it would get better first.

With my GP’s letter to Emergency we raced to the hospital. From the moment of arrival my feet hardly touched the floor. Two doctors and a brace of nurses surrounded me on a trolley. Quickly they eased my pain with an anginine tablet under my tongue. After examination I was told I would be admitted for about five days for further tests.

Within three days I was told a by-pass operation was necessary. A doctor explained in minute detail what was going to happen to me. I was even offered a video of a similar operation to watch. I declined with thanks.

I preferred not to know but realised the need for the doctor to have
informed consent’ for what he was recommending.

The next two days and nights are only vague recollections of whispered
voices, 'I’m Patricia, Mr Carne. I’ll be looking after you tonight. I’m just going to take some blood from your arm.' 'I’m Nicole, Mr Carne. I’m your nurse today. I just want to stick this needle in your belly.' 'How are you tonight, Mr Carne? I’m Louise I’ll be looking after you for a while. Now I’m going to take your blood pressure.’

'Help yourself’ I grumbled to each.

On the third morning when I felt only just alive, a young bloke who looked as though he was in training to join the Chippendales, shook me awake.

Muscles bulged through his red shirt as he told me, ‘I’m Bob from
Physiotherapy. You and I are going to have a short walk.'

I was unimpressed.

I explained to this coiled spring of energy that I didn’t walk until I was six years old because I didn’t like it, and I did not intend to take it up now in a half dead condition. He would not accept any rejection; he enjoyed the challenge.

'Only to the end of the bed today’ he cajoled with a broad grin, the muscles on his eyebrows beginning to twitch. He threw the sheets back and stood me up. It was then I realised for the first time that I was connected to a tall stainless steel pole with a bar at the top and hooks suspended. Hanging from the hook was a plastic tube that disappeared inside my pyjamas then reappeared tied to the top of a plastic bag. I was horrified as it dawned on me where the tube was connected to me.

Bob half carried me the two steps to the end of the bed and back again. At the same time he pushed the steel pole.

'Tomorrow we’ll walk all the way around the bed’ he enthused. ‘You did
marvellously today.’ He made me feel as though I’d run a marathon.
I couldn’t get the pole and tube out of my mind. ‘No wonder I don’t get up at night. I’m on auto pilot’, I mused. I sure hope it is going to come out someday. It would be terribly awkward if I had to push this steel pole for the rest of my time.'

I was imagining trying to get on a tram!

Then thoughts of how they would get it out began to make my eyes water. Bob had mentioned something about a balloon on the end of the tube. I was scared stiff. Bob reassured me that there was nothing to worry about. ‘It only takes a moment and you won’t feel anything. I’ve done a few and I’ll be there if you like’.

‘Well, thanks.’ I was still worried. I wondered if there was a support
group for people about to have a catheter removed. If there wasn’t, I
intended to form one when I was well again. I decided my group would be called Catheter Out With a Rapid Drag (COWARD).

When the dreaded moment came there was no sign of Bob. A couple of young nurses told me what they were about to do. My nerves began to rattle and I wasn’t calmed when I saw the size of a syringe one of them carried. It was big enough to stun an elephant. I was still enduring mental torture when one of them announced, ‘There! the balloon is empty and the tube is out.’

I couldn’t believe it. My relief was profound. If I’d known how to yodel I would have sent a treble banger echoing around the corridors of Austin.

We were walking a little further each day now and made good progress
without the pole. To pass time as we walked I told Bob about my talk with the doctor that morning.

'The doctor told me when I go home I shouldn’t lift any heavy weights for a while. Does that mean I should sit down to pee?’

For a moment Bob looked non-plused then he burst into a filthy laugh. ‘Oh, wait until I tell that to doc. He’ll double up.’

The next day I moved to the ward with the two duelling Diggers. Here I met Bini, the only nurse I had for more than one shift during my stay. Bini was not born in Australia but has been here a long time and was excited about becoming a registered nurse. Still a student, she was looking to the end of the year with apprehension.
'I really do want to be a nurse’ she told me. She should have no worries.

Bini was born to be a nurse. Her caring feelings for each patient around me was a delight to watch.

'Do you want another pillow? Can I help you sit up? Would you like some more cold water? I’m sorry about this needle but it won’t hurt much.’

To me she suggested the pyjama coat I was wearing was too small. She would get me another and in a moment returned with an arm full of multi-coloured tops. Every pastel hue one could imagine. She looked like she was carrying a huge bag of licorice allsorts. ‘We’ll find one that fits you and I’ll see you are colour coordinated when your wife visits,’ she assured me.

Bini was the epitome of the patient concern and devotion shown by the whole medical staff that treated me.

On Sunday night when I expected all good Cardiac Surgeons would be spending some precious time with their families, I had a visit from my eminent Japanese surgeon. He spent a long time talking to me, explaining what my operation had involved and where I could expect to feel pain, and why. The gentle, tender manner of this wonderfully skilled doctor reassured me I’d been in safe hands.

After he left me the irony of life stirred my emotions. My mind went back over fifty years to a night tramping through a tropical
downpour in the jungles of Borneo intent on doing a serious mischief to any Japanese I came across. Now this man, in the middle of a very wet Melbourne night, was finding his way around the jungle of corridors that is Austin Hospital, to save my life!

I’m so glad my efforts failed that night. I might have killed his father.

After ten days of top care I was judged well enough to go home. On the
morning of the day, I was awakened by the group of doctors doing ward
rounds. Led by the resident medico who announced ‘You are well enough to leave today, Mr Carne. Sister will make all the arrangements necessary.’

As he began to move to the next bed he turned back to me and, with a big wink, said ‘Remember, don’t lift any heavy weights for a while.’

All Rights Reserrved. ©
Ern Carne 1997