Shane’s Story

Waking Up After Surgery

I woke up the next morning after spending eight hours in surgery, feeling completely drained, as though the very life had been sucked out of me. In reality, it nearly had been—if I had gone untreated for just a few more hours, I might not have survived. I found myself in a strange room, the high dependency unit (HDU), surrounded by pipes and tubes attached to my body, all working to stabilise me. I was so weak I could hardly lift my head from the bed, but I tried regardless. Drifting in and out of sleep, I struggled to comprehend what had happened to me. Occasionally, someone would come in to carry out their checks and attempt to make conversation, but I simply didn’t have the energy to respond. After a few days in that room, the physiotherapists visited and discussed the prospect of getting me out of bed. I thought to myself, “OK, this should be easy!”.

Facing Physical and Emotional Challenges

It turned out to be the hardest emotional challenge I had ever faced in my life. Firstly, my body simply did not work. Secondly, I was frustrated with myself for being unable to do something I had always taken for granted—getting out of bed. I had to relearn this basic act, and once I managed that, I had to attempt standing up, which was no small feat. The incision through my abdomen meant I had no core strength. Eventually, I became stable enough to be moved back onto the ward. To be honest, it wasn’t too bad—the men in the ward were chatty and supportive, always encouraging each other as we achieved small goals each day. At that time, I was the youngest patient there, though that didn’t bother me. I set goals for my recovery, and the first was to quickly understand and adapt to living with my new stoma.

Adapting to Life with a Stoma

I now had two new devices attached to me, and I had no idea what they were for. For the first several days, even up to a week, I had nothing to do with them. My first night back on the ward was uneventful except for the frequent interruptions—the nurses had to come in every three or four hours to administer medication or change something. Sleep was difficult to come by, and my mental state was gradually deteriorating. I knew I had to be strong and not let this defeat me, but being unable to eat or drink, apart from sips of water, made things even harder. The smell of toast at breakfast was almost torturous.

Days on the Ward

The first days on the ward passed in a daze, with me drifting in and out of sleep and avoiding any engagement with the new changes to my body or with other people. On the second night back, still not having accepted my ileostomy and mucous fistula, I felt grumpy and engulfed in self-pity. I was afraid to move, with drains coming out of my left side, a tube through my nose, and those two dreaded attachments. Around two in the morning, I felt something wet running down my side. Instinctively, I reached down to check and discovered, to my horror, that there was faeces everywhere.

Moments of Helplessness

I felt utterly helpless—dirty, hot, sweaty, and smelling awful. Pressing the nurse’s call button, I cannot express how grateful I was for their calm efficiency. They changed my sheets and gown, reapplied a new stoma pouch, and carried on as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. Despite all the emotional turmoil I was experiencing, I now became anxious about a repeat of this event. As a result, my anxiety levels soared. This pattern continued for the next two weeks. All I wanted was a shave and a proper wash, but that wasn’t possible.

Struggles and Small Triumphs

After a fortnight in hospital, I was teetering on the edge of giving up. I desperately wanted to go home, but I knew it was still a long way off. I remained tethered to tubes infusing antibiotics every six hours and draining fluids from various parts of my body. I had almost forgotten the use of my legs, except for wearing the tightest compression socks known to mankind—supposedly beneficial, though I was sceptical. Lying in a bed equipped with every conceivable button for adjusting comfort, I yearned for a proper shower and shave. Sweating on and off, I tried to manage with a bed wash since I lacked the strength to get out of bed. I stank, yet was too stubborn to ask for help, but eventually relented for a wipe down, which paled in comparison to a hot shower. All the while, I was wrestling with my emotions as never before. My diet was restricted to jelly and the occasional ice cream. Each mealtime, I would ask, “Can I eat?” and the reply was always, “Not yet.” My family visited every day, though I began to suspect they were growing weary of the daily routine. I even suggested they visit every other day, but they continued to come, which, in hindsight, was a blessing.

The Turning Point

Then, one morning, I asked hopefully whether I could have breakfast—a piece of toast. The nurse went to ask and, to my surprise, returned with permission. That piece of toast was honestly the best I have ever eaten. At that moment, I saw my chance to focus and begin fighting back against the negativity in my head. This was the first step towards achieving my goal of getting out of the “sleeping chariot” and into the chair.

First Steps Towards Recovery

With support from a nurse, the physiotherapists, and the adjustable bed, I managed to manoeuvre myself into a position where I could stand and take two steps to the chair. It was incredibly difficult and required every ounce of strength I had, but I managed it. Thirty minutes in the chair was all that was expected, but it marked the beginning for me. I felt genuinely proud of myself and wanted to do more, but I knew small steps would eventually lead to big strides.

Learning and Looking Ahead

I began to learn a great deal about myself, both emotionally and physically, gaining perspective on what truly mattered. My challenge over the coming weeks was clear: to set goals, continue my recovery, and ultimately be well enough to return home.