I TAKE THAT AS A NO!

By Russell Korn

On the 9th December 2010, I attended Pre-Admission clinic in preparation for knee surgery later that month. That day I was told that day my warfarin dose would be replaced with an oral dose of a substitute medication called heparin. At 1pm on the 18th of December, I was admitted to the Royal Brisbane Hospital’s MACU ward. MACU stands for Maternal Acute Care Unit – me, pregnant at 54 – I don’t think so.

It didn’t take long though before things started to go astray. At 4pm a canola and a pump drip, intravenous fluid syringe were attached to the back of my left hand. I named the accompanying pole on trolley wheels... R2D2. It remained with me for the next six days. It had to go where I had to go and when I had to go: to the toilet, to the shower and elsewhere. Wherever I went R2D2 was sure to follow, wagging its drip bag behind it. Of course, R2D2 also stood guard over me as I tried to sleep in the war zone.

At 8pm came the first of my 4 hourly blood tests. Kate, the blood collector, was a gold medalist - she found a vein first time, every time. Unfortunately she returned two hours later to do the vampire thing again as the lab refused to accept the samples due to a mislabeling problem. Get this: my name was in the patient number box and my patient number was in the name box. Obviously this would have seriously compromised my APTT results. This level of bureaucracy came as no surprise having served over 3 decades in the Queensland Public Service.

At 2am the MACU attending nurse was called upon to extract the next blood sample. Upon
examination, she became quite nervous, as my veins are not prominent, but referred to as shy or concealed or simply bad. She prodded around for a while with much umming and ahh-ing until she reluctantly sank the needle. To her dismay she missed the vein. She didn’t try again. Later, I heard her speaking on the phone, “There is only one surgical doctor working tonight. With anxiety in her voice she continued, “This guy’s APTTs are up over 200. We have to get a sample tonight..... his name is Korn K_O_R_N.”

During the ensuing days there would be another nurse who did similar, plus two others who didn't even try to find a vein. Also a number of blood collectors, upon missing the vein at the first stab, would, with the needle tip deeply embedded in my flesh, began to mine - first to the left, then to the right, surely that little sucker is close, after all I can feel it. And then there were those like Kate who found a vein, first time, every time. However, most of the 30 jabs over the next few days failed. I was feeling like a torture victim. As a sufferer from insomnia and consequential depression, being woken up every 2 hours for observations or blood tests soon took its toll. By the morning of my operation and knowing these tests would continue for the next four days, I was well past ‘loosing the will to live’ and well past ‘wanting to die’. I was actually in the zone – I was ‘willing myself to die on the operating table’.

At around midday on 21st December 2010 I awoke in Royal Brisbane Hospital Post-Op with
an attending nurse beside my gurney. Immediately she started asking a proliferation of
questions: Are you a diabetic ? Have you ever had a heart attack before ? Have you had
problems with anaesthetic before? What are you experiencing ? You need to lie down.

I reply : No , No , I feel like I am suffocating. I need to sit up.

The nurse continues : Your blood pressure is low, it won’t come back up until you lie down.

Me : I’m having panic attacks. If I lie down I have a panic attack.

Nurse : You’ve got to lie down. We’re fighting a losing battle here.

Soon after, I am back in my home-ward. I am telling this stranger in the opposite bed that I feel terrible. Over and over again I say, “I feel terrible”. Many panic attacks later I hear in the background a female voice saying “No I can’t say for certain the patient is dying. He’s looking very grey. Then a short silence followed by: “The patient’s name is Russell Korn”.

That voice was summoning the Intensive Care Unit Resuscitation Team. Seemingly seconds later, I had a good looking blonde doctor leaning over me as I was rushed down corridors, into lifts, and off to another ward. “You’ve got to stay awake Russell, keep your eyes open, stay with us Russ... stay with us”. Soon I was surrounded by a medical team of seven doctors and support staff as they started their three hour vigil to keep me from crossing over. The same questions were fired at me : Are you a diabetic ? Have you ever had a heart attack before ? ....... No, No, Correct, Correct were amongst my replies to the barrage of questions. Various intravenous drugs were being pumped through the canola in a vein attempt to keep me on the right side of life. “Why isn’t his blood pressure coming up?” was the Chief Resident’s pleading question. Another doctor pores over my files, but is similarly bewildered. In vain, she throws comments, which are promptly ignored.

What these guys didn’t know and I wasn’t going to tell them was where my headspace was
leading up to the operation. Had I been psychologically assessed prior to surgery, then my surgery would have been cancelled. What I did tell them though was this, “For the last three hours I have told you repeatedly that I needed to pee.” Eventually a nurse by the name of Christine gets a bottle. My audience departs, I pee and my blood pressure starts heading towards the land of the living.

Oh yea, by the way, about three quarters the way through the ordeal and in response to their frustrations, I bobbed my head up and said, “Perhaps I could pop out and do a bit of Christmas shopping while you sort out this problem”. They all looked away in the direction of my feet. After a few seconds of silence I added “I’ll take that as a NO!”