Schroedinger's Fibroid

Last Thursday morning I saw that a new record had been set at Big's Backyard Ultra. A chap called Harvey Lewis won after 108 hours, which equates to 450 miles.

I took comfort from this as I was sure that I felt better at that moment than Harvey was feeling, but it also made me wonder why, in the name of fun, one would put one's self through something that's more painful and sleep depriving than having a handful of organs removed.

My 'activity' (not that it involved any movement at all on my part) on Wednesday had been the removal of organs. An abdominal hysterectomy (i.e. sliced across the middle). Working from the top down, they took my ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus and cervix. Most importantly, given than none of those items had any inherent problem that necessitated their removal, they also took the large (and rather inconvenient) mass that was hanging off the back of my uterus. I've not seen any report as to its size on removal, but at the last scan, back in April, it was 10x9x8cm, still growing, and pressing agaisnt my bladder and bowel.

I'm now refering to this mass as Schroedinger's Fibroid. When the cause for my symptoms was being investigated (which involved a lot of scans) all reports said that the mass was benign and that it was just a fibroid (essentially an overproduction of new cells by the uterus causing a growth). So certain were they of their identification that not only was I told categorically that "you do not have cancer" but had the mass not been causing me any issues they would have simply left it. Yet, now that it has been removed (with no other evidence of its status having come to light during the surgery) the risk that the fibroid is hiding a malignant growth is so great that they will not now treat me for my sudden and complete lack of hormones until the histology results have come back. So, whilst in-situ it was definitely benign, but once outside of the body there's a significant risk that it's not benign. Surely the definition of Schroedinger's fibroid.

For the avoidance of doubt, I'm not worried. I've read all the scan reports and talked to the surgeon about what he saw, based on which I would assess the likelihood of this being cancer as tiny.

The hospital experience was mixed. One major low point was 'cathetergate' involving a three hour argument with a healthcare assistant (who, at the time, I didn't know wasn't a nurse) who was entirely unhelpful (and downright wrong and rude) about the fact that my catheter wasn't draining. The debacle started at midnight, 12hours post-op, and went on until 3am, by which time I was in significant discomfort. She only finally went and fetched someone more senior after I'd resorted to the internet and managed to resolve the airlock myself.

The second major low point was asking for pain relief at 1230 on Thursday and finally receiving it (having progressed from discomfort to severe discomfort and into full-on pain) at 8pm on the sixth time of asking. This after being told quite clearly on arrival on the ward about how important it was to stay on top of pain and not wait until it got too bad to take painkillers. In hindsight, I should have sent Mick out to just buy me some liquid ibuprofen (which is all is asked for. I reckon I would have got it quicker if I had been requesting an opioid) - they wouldn't have approved, but I was fully alert and thus at no risk of being overdosed and, most importantly, I wouldn't have spent hours in pain.

The most trivial low point was the brocolli. It's not a vegetable that can withstand overcooking, so why do they choose to serve it with every meal?

At noon on Friday news came that I could be released, provided that that day's blood results came back okay. As no blood had even been taken at that point, I didn't forsee an early release. Sure enough, it was gone 6pm by the time someone came along with paperwork, a box of injections, a couple of dressings and scant instructions. Good timing, as I'd just eaten my evening meal and taken a dose of ibuprofen, so I was in a fit state to walk around three wings of the hospital so as to reach the main entrance. As the crow flies, the car was parked pretty close to my room, but there's no way out of the hospital from that wing.

After the ridiculous lack of sleep whilst in hospital (I swear they had me under surveillance so that the moment I fell asleep someone would come to wake me), I did quite a bit of catching up on Saturday and nowhere near enough moving.

Since then I've been up and about. For 'up' read 'sitting in an armchair' and for 'about' read '4x 60m walks per day'. Contrary to promises made pre-op, no physio came to see me and I didn't receive any advice or information as to what I can and cannot do. Fortunately other NHS trusts are more forward thinking and caring, and have published some excellent guidance online. Thus I know that 60m walks are my current level and that I'm not to even think about running a step until Christmas.

As for the comfort I took last Thursday in the knowledge that the winner of the Back Yard Ultra felt worse than I did, it turns out my 'knowledge' was nothing of the sort. I've since read that he returned to work on Friday, and he ran his commute. Madness!

View from my hospital bed. Not bad! The following morning the weather was so poor that I couldn't see those fields.

That classic combination of lasagne and mashed potato. Also the only main meal that didn't involve grey, soggy brocolli.

Out of bed 21 hours post-op. Had anyone walked through that door behind me whilst I was taking this they would have got an eyeful. I was happy to change out of the gown and into a more modest nightie.