Can I Really Go Home?

Two days ago I went to St Georges for a follow-up appointment with my cardiologist. I was hoping that she would say I could stop taking my drugs. Well, I was mainly hoping that I would be able to stop taking one in particular – Furosemide. Furosemide is a diuretic. A pretty fast acting one too! Basically, it made me need an hourly wee for about six hours after taking it. I was very pleased to hear that I no longer need it.

My other drugs, however, I will have to keep taking for the foreseeable future. In fact, the cardiologist was very honest with me and said that I should prepare myself to be on them for the rest of my life. That way, if a time comes when I can stop taking them, it will be a bonus. If you’ll allow me to be honest, that was pretty tough to hear. We had been told that I would need to take medication for about three months after heart surgery. We hadn’t really thought about the prospect of being on them forever.

On the drive home from the hospital, the gravity of what happened to me last year came flooding back. I think it was finally sinking in that what had happened was devastating. My body suffered a massive trauma and the very fact that I made it through alive was a miracle. So to assume that I would emerge victorious the other side, without any lasting consequences, was probably unrealistic.

Grief is a funny thing. It can hit you like a wave at any moment. Sometimes you can think that you have come to terms with a tragic event and then, BOOM! Grief strikes again. It doesn’t give you a warning. It doesn’t sound an alarm. You can’t put it in your calendar. You can’t prepare for it. It just hits you unawares. I’ve been told (by my Mum) that these waves of grief can continue for years after the event. I would imagine, when an event is life changing, that the storms of grief never fully pass.

I am writing this on Valentines Day 2019, which is exactly one year on from when St Georges discharged me. Well, they didn’t fully discharge me. My status changed from inpatient to outpatient. I remained very much under their care, but it was decided that I was well enough to go home. I had been in hospital for five weeks and really was desperate to get out. The thing was though, when they first mentioned that I may have been well enough to go home, I was confused, anxious and terrified, all at the same time.

In my head, although the antibiotics were winning the fight against the infection, I was still attached to a monitor and my heart was really fragile because of the leaky valve, so I couldn’t understand how I was well enough to be away from the hospital. After a couple of days of discussions, the doctors had managed to ease my worries and fears. They told me that even though my heart wasn’t functioning as it should, it was stable. They also assured me that they weren’t just sending me home because someone else needed my bed. It was settled, I would leave the hospital and continue my antibiotics at home.

My Mum came to pick me up, as I would be going to stay with them while I was still ill. She was so excited to get the call that I was ready to leave, that she forgot to bring my ‘going home’ clothes, including shoes! So I walked out of that hospital, in the middle of winter, in bright red shorts, my ‘Man Flu Survivor’ t-shirt, and slippers. I really didn’t mind though. I was well enough to leave the hospital. It was a good day.

That evening, Mim came over and we shared a chinese takeaway. Who knows where we’ll spend future Valentines Days. Five star restaurants or exotic destinations. But I know this, none of them will be as memorable as that one. I had left hospital just in time to have a meal with my beautiful fiancée, and nothing could have made me happier. A special thanks goes to my parents who went to Mcdonalds for their meal so that Mim and I could be alone.

After Mim had gone home, at around 9pm, I said goodnight to my parents and went up to bed. I sat down on the edge of that bed and all I could do was cry. I was scared. I had spent the last five weeks longing for darkness and silence at bedtime, and all of a sudden, it was there, and I was terrified! Because I had also spend the last five weeks in the 24/7 care of medical professionals, and now, I had never felt so vulnerable. In that moment, when I finally had what I’d longed for, all I wanted was to be back in the safety of that hospital bed.

My Mum came to see if I needed anything and just sat with me. She called my Dad up and they prayed for me. It’s funny, no matter how old you get, your parents never lose their ability to make you feel safe and comforted. I really can’t remember what they prayed, but I know it helped. Right then, God gave me peace to sleep.

In the old hymn, ‘Great is Thy Faithfulness’, Thomas Chisholm penned the line, “Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow”. This is something Mim had written in her journal while I was in hospital. As a Christian, I believe that if we listen, God will to speak to us. It is rarely an audible voice, but is often a quiet whisper to our hearts.

During my time in hospital I felt God say very clearly, “You know that you are no more or less fragile now, than you have been at any other point in your life?” I was reminded of how God has promised to give us everything we need. That He gave me life, and from the day I was born, He’s been sustaining that life.

That first night out of hospital, at my parents house, I was unsure of what the future held. But as I drifted peacefully off to sleep, I was absolutely certain of the truth in that hymn. God had given me strength for every day of my life up to that point, and He promised me bright hope for those yet to come.