"I'm not sure what's worse"

17th April: 

After leaving Oliver on the 16th I felt somewhat satisfied but obviously still worried. Frances and I went home that night rather content. Although it was hard for us to leave him; it always was, we knew he was in the best hands. 

Dosed up on morphine, I felt slightly better knowing he couldn’t feel anything. I still couldn’t shake the feeling of just wanting him to be free though. But what did free mean exactly? Free from living in pain or free from this long road ahead? I wasn’t sure, but knowing he wasn’t feeling pain put me slightly at ease. That night I slept alright, not knowing if it was due to the knowledge that he wasn’t feeling anything and was probably high as a kite, or the fact my body had caught up with my brain and I needed the rest.

Anyway, fast forward to the morning, it had been planned that Frances and I would visit at our regular time, although this swiftly changed. At 8am we received a phone call from Brighton hospital. The number embedded into our brains; as soon as we saw the first 3 digits, we knew who it was. Shooting upright and out of bed, I sat there trying to listen in on the phone call. 

"Please can you get to the hospital as quickly as possible; Oliver has gone downhill in the night."

I was totally petrified at the sound of these words again. I didn’t know if it was because I didn’t want Oliver to go through this again, or if it was myself who didn’t want to be experiencing this again. 

Through a brief explanation over the phone we were told he was showing the tell-tale signs of a perforated bowel. Other tests found his platelets were low and his blood pressure had dropped dramatically.

I began rushing up and getting ready, because by this point, I had moved in with Frances and her parents. One, because we needed to be together for support, and two, because we loved each other and were moving forwards with our relationship. Anyway, rushing about, and trying to explain to her parents what was going on, we hit the road to Brighton. Discouraged and flattened about Oliver going downhill, the drive seemed to take days.

Arriving at the hospital and taking the long set of steps up the nicu, I was feeling panicked like all the other times I had been there. And for the 3rd time in the space of two weeks I'd been told to "prepare for the worst". I don't know how I didn't just break there and then.

Greeted by the doctors, the surgeons, etc., we were told that he had a collapsed lung and suspected sepsis and that they had needed to put him on more medication. They had deduced from the scan that his bowel had perforated again, and this was causing air to leak into his stomach.

"Prepare for the worst".  By now these words were becoming a regular phrase to be on the receiving end of. Imagine that though; just take a second to think and reflect upon those words. “Prepare for the worst.”

Was the worst thing him dying or was the worst thing he was living through it? Up and down in and out of surgery. Possibly both scenarios are worthy of that status; ‘the worst thing to happen’.

After being at the hospital for a while, there was a sense of confusion. Tests were being conducted and the results were inconclusive.

A few hours later, we started to feel the strain of being at the hospital. I could also see the strain and worry in the Doctor’s eyes. The last two times we knew the diagnosis and the problem, but this time they were only speculating it was a perforated bowel. This led to more questions because if it wasn't this, what could it be? Surely he couldn’t have something else wrong?

Deflated and exhausted with worry Frances and I just sat waiting in the hospital; we couldn't go anywhere, and we couldn't do anything because lockdown prevented this. Additionally, only one of us could sit with him while he laid there looking fragile and so ill. It was just incomprehensible to put into words how we felt.

After a few short hours of waiting, miraculously Oliver had started to turn things around. Somehow, he was starting to improve, and this led them to think it wasn't a perforated bowel after all. 

Confused and worried beyond belief, there was a small sense of relief that he had started to improve, but I had been here before; I got myself into a good place, only to be knocked back down again. I didn't want to feel positive again; it was easier to remain negative because then when we got the bad news it wouldn't hurt as much.

They gave him till 2pm that day to see if he would improve any more, and after 2pm he would have another scan.

 2pm had come and gone, alone with hours of waiting, and they came to the conclusion that he hadn't got a perforated bowel. They decided it was caused by the removal of the line out of his belly button. This line had been left in from Medway and removed the previous night, but due to his previous perforated bowel, this was overlooked as being the possible cause. However, it came to light that the line removal was actually the route of the problems; when it had been removed it cause irritation and some swelling. This also caused some fluid to leak and distorted the scan results; hence the previous assumption and pre-diagnosis of perforated bowel.

By 4pm they couldn't believe how he had turned around so much. He started to get better so fast and all the medications were doing their work. They were calling him a miracle and asking if he really was a 23-weeker because of how he had responded to the medication. We still weren’t sure if sepsis was out of the question at that point, but the medication he was on was working wonders.

With numerous platelets given alongside a blood transfusion, and the poor sod being prodded and poked to no end, he again seemed to be recovering well.

Later that night after we had left, we got a phone call again. This time it was a good call; he was doing well, and it was just a nice courtesy call to let us know he was settled. The slight downfall was that he did in fact have sepsis, but the antibiotics they had put him on were working as they should be. And he had to have a catheter fitted as he wasn't going for a wee. But all this was good news compared to being told he might die… well, being told that again. 

Somehow, he’d done it again, and how he was still here was beyond me.

Next, let's have a good day, please.