Long Day's Journey - Part six

A mere ten days after the craniotomy ‘Mr Sensitive’ - the junior registrar from neurosurgery - arrived with more bad news.  Since the scare of the cardiac arrest, the head neurosurgeon had been scouring pictures from the angiogram series.  He noticed something that suggested the bleed had not stopped, which would explain the sudden spike in ICP five days ago.   

The clip had not done the job.  A larger clip in a slightly different position would staunch the bleed completely. The relative risks of action and inaction were clear and on we must go. Feeling desolate, I gave my permission yet again for the procedure. Carolie had to go under the knife again, two weeks after ‘successful’ surgery.  

The surgeons had ceased ‘Thio’ many days back but Carolie remained in deep coma.  As I predicted, the drug was slow to leave her system.  My hope was that she had pulled the shutters down for a deep healing sleep.  The gloom threatened to settle around us.  I could not bring myself to inform anyone, except an occasional phone call.  

 I tried to take a day off from the ICU but felt so guilty I returned during the night.  The normal diversions such as exercise, a bit of retail therapy, time spent chatting with friends had lost their allure. Days merged with nights.  I stayed longer by Carolie’s side, terrified she might slip away if I was not with her.  I imagined the worst when I was absent.  Time spent out of the hospital was harrowing so I tried to limit it to hours needed to eat and sleep. 

These were the dog days of the recovery vigil.  Worry gnawed away while I clung to hope like a life raft in dangerous waters.  The passing cavalcade of doctors, nurses and attendants became a blur.  I talked to Carolie constantly, holding her hand, massaging areas not wired up to manage her treatment, pleading with her to come back to us.   

The support monitors beeped like pinball machines and the wavy lines were outward proof of life.  Apart from regular turning to avoid pressure sores and adjustments to lower limb devices and positioning to avoid thrombosis, all else was still.   

Nurses’ routines of checking eyes with a torch, clearing the breathing tube, swabbing the face and issuing verbal commands to squeeze hands and move toes were all that broke the monotony of waiting.  

I had a strong sense of us searching for each other in a dimly lit corner of the labyrinth.