How a comedian and a doctor destroyed my life
In 2019, I had a hysterectomy at Bronglais general hospital. Unfortunately, things didn’t go to plan. The knife slipped, as they say. In reality, there was some tiny clips or something that had cut into my ureter. I woke up in the worst pain imaginable, and I could not move. This was partially to be expected after a hysterectomy, but not on this scale. The problem was, no one understood what was ailing me. I was so ill, I was wailing and upsetting other women on the ward. The gynaecologist who had operated on me only showed up once and observed that my skin colour looked fine. That’s hard to believe since I was not far from dead! A Romanian female gynaecologist was in charge, and she came to see me sometimes, but she was a terrible faffer who would not even let me ask her questions before she was already on her way. Sometimes they starved me, sometimes they denied me anything to drink. I was so thirsty I felt like someone who was crawling through a desert, and I almost hallucinated about the yummy cloudy apple juice my neighbour was drinking. They did a few tests but weren’t able to figure anything out. I had chills and I retched like mad. I couldn’t keep anything down when they did allow me to eat. A dietician came round and suggested yoghurt. It did not go well. I remained there for ten days, hardly eating anything in that time. They tried to get me to move around, and when I was able to get up for a bit, I stood watching the city in the far distance and felt so incredibly cut off from the real world.
My body had been producing a lot of fluid while it also could not produce any bowel movement. I strained and screamed so hard when they gave me laxatives, I could easily have damaged my insides. It had been thought that I was suffering from an ileus and that the fluid was the result of an infection. They did a CT scan, and I almost laughed when I was wheeled through the corridors to the sound of Dancing Queen, but then I started to feel colder than I had ever felt in my life.
Then finally the penny dropped. After ten days like that, they finally tested the fluid that was dripping into the bags by my side and realised it was urine. Every little corner of me was filling up with urine because my ureter was severed! I was now hurried with flashing blue lights to Glangwili where they attempted to reinsert the ureter, but failed. In the meantime, I was swelling up like a Michelin man. It was a Saturday, and I had to wait another couple of days until they could supply me with a nephrostomy bag. Again, it was pure torture.
I spent three months with a nephrostomy bag and had several instances of sepsis. They gave me tons of strong antibiotics, in fact I counted two months worth of IV antibiotics. I was finally home, but there was nobody at home who could help me. District nurses came in sometimes to change the dressing, but they didn’t have the right kind of dressing. At one point, it also became extremely uncomfortable to lie on. Like all nightmares, it was a nightmare that never seemed to end. Sometimes the only thing that kept me going was the idea that I might be able to sue the NHS and renew my Apple family! I kept a diligent diary for this purpose.
I spent my birthday at the hospital after my fourth incidence of urosepsis. There was a new lady on the ward who had broken her leg during her holiday in Wales. I was thrilled to find out that she was Swedish, and on my birthday, we sang the Swedish birthday song together so the entire department could hear it. The hyperacusis had not played up at that point, so I was able to tolerate the noise while I had ear plugs stuck in my ears. The situation changed later on as the sound sensitivity dramatically increased. A few days later, my ureter was reinserted, and I finally started to heal, albeit with a dreadful horizontal scar right across my belly. Unfortunately, the last sepsis had caused me severe nausea, and the surgery was clearly the last drop for my poor ears. Afterwards, the hyperacusis began to deteriorate.
Yes, I did sue the NHS for medical negligence, and I found a nice older lawyer to help me. Because I couldn’t travel, he agreed to deal with everything via email. The Covid came along, and my case was postponed. After four years, I reached a settlement. But this was not without its problems.
Two years into the lawsuit, I realised that I could sue for the deterioration of my hearing disorder. I argued that the huge amounts of antibiotics they had poured into me intravenously had caused ototoxicity. I paid a witness expert out of pocket, but he turned out to be a right idiot who attempted to prove that the hyperacusis and tinnitus were psychological. Considering the prevalence of tinnitus amongst the ageing population, I do find this extremely far fetched. He went on and on about my perceived psychiatric past… but as I had anticipated, he was unable to refute the possibility that the ordeal had indeed caused a deterioration. He added that dehydration could do it, too. In the end I did get money, but less than we asked for. The most humiliating psychiatric nonsense they could find in my medical notes were thrown at me for good measure. I would rather have the milder hyperacusis than the money, but at least the money provides a little bit of security in my old age. Well - at least one can always hope. The DWP seems to try and force me to use it for living expenses. But that’s another story.
The hyperacusis and tinnitus are brutal. I’m sensitive to all sounds and I have to wear ear protection at all times. In addition, the tinnitus is screaming in my ears at 120 dB. It feels like nails scratching against blackboard, sirens, radio static, a waterfall, and shattering glass - often all of the above, all at once. It gets worse towards the evening and seems to disappear when I fall asleep. Every time I have to venture outside, the condition gets worse. It’s a nightmare like no other.
