Starting My Life At 30
Hello, I’m Hannah Marie Brankley and I’m starting my life at 30.
When I was young and asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. My loved ones around me will always remember that first ever answer. I wanted to be a singer. I remember that. Also wanting to be a dancer, a figure skater, a mum, and a teacher. As I got older and started to align studies towards having a career. I decided I wanted to work in forensics and criminal justice. Unfortunately, that career path didn’t work out that way for me, despite how hard I tried.
My diagnosis of Ulcerative Colitis, turned my world upside down and shook everything I knew I was. Since symptoms started at 19, I had gradually developed into having the label of “the sick one”. Friends started inviting me out less and less. Milestones that I wanted to have reached by a certain age were passing quickly. By 25 I had succumbed to a state of depression and pain. I didn’t not think I would make my 30th Birthday. Another big milestone in my mind.
In the constant cycle, being pushed from department to department. I honestly didn’t expect to be writing this post today. I needed something more.
It took a few more years but I changed consultants. Signed up for medical journals, and read up on all new treatments. Spoke to the most amazing people in the IBD community and eventually saw a surgeon.
In February 2020, I had my first surgery to form a loop-ileostomy. The goal and hope was that it would give me back a better quality of life. I could go ahead and try new medications to see if they could keep my Ulcerative Colitis under control.
Only 10 days after I was released from hospital, people who were classed as clinically vulnerable were told to shield. Not long after, the first lockdown in the UK came in.
Over the first two years of covid at its height, I couldn’t keep the flare-ups under control and although I’d initially gone in with the idea of having a subtotal colectomy on my first ever meeting with the surgeon, it was still upsetting and disappointing that another plan hadn’t worked. And so, we fast forward to last Thursday and well, it was a doozy.
Pre-Surgery
After having a good cry, I got into the car and made my way to the hospital. This operation was going to be a lot bigger than the last and that, of course, gave me anxiety. How could it not? But with covid restrictions still very much needed in place for hospitals, my biggest fear was being alone. My parents couldn’t come in and wait like last time.
After another Covid and MRSA test I had some really uplifting and lovely talks with 3 other women who were also waiting for surgery. I watched them leave one by one as I had the surgical and anesthesiologist team round to discuss the surgery with me and it very much dawned on me then what was happening.
I had made this choice and although I could have said no there and then, by saying no meant I was then consenting to living the way I was and I knew my mental and physical health couldn’t take anymore. It also became apparent that my fear was not just having major surgery, it was that this had to be the thing to fix me to the extent that I can live, so who am I going to be when it’s all over?
An Unexpected Turn
I donned my lovely hospital gown, compression stockings and slippers my brother gifted me for Christmas. Nerves at the max, I was wheeled down to surgery. I was chatting with the anesthesiologist team, they were trying to put me at ease. I had numbing cream on my hand about an hour before. I’m such a wuss when it comes to needles and cannulas, so we were joking about that.
I don’t remember much after waking up in recovery other than everything went well. They gave me a spinal block so I wouldn’t be in a lot of pain. Relieved the surgery was done laparoscopically. It meant I didn’t have a huge scar or pain from that. I do remember asking to swap from the oxygen mask to the little nose breathing tube as my mouth was so dry.
Fastword to the early hours of the morning, things took an unexpected turn.
When given anaesthesia, I basically conk out and sleep deeply. Whilst sleeping, I continued to have rising lactate and acidosis levels with no obvious cause. I was woken up and told I was going back into theatre with suspected internal bleeding. Feeling so scared and upset. I remember speaking to my mum on the phone. Upsetting one of the nurses as I made her promise I’d wake up again. And I remember lying under those huge surgery lights. Like something you see on TV.
Coming Out A Second Time
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Waking up a second time, I vaguely remember speaking to my surgeon, who said two things, “you ruined my evening” and “you scared me”. If you can’t get a surgeon with a sense of humour, then keep looking. Thank god there was no internal bleeding, but I still have no real reason as to why my levels rose so high so quickly after the first surgery. I had another cannula in, a catheter, and a central line in my neck. The central line was not the nicest. It wasn’t painful, it was just uncomfortable and felt very heavy.
Sleeping some more, I woke up again to see my parents. I had the most lovely nurses in ITU. My legs were in one of those Intermittent Pneumatic Compression machines. It would help the circulation and, as it would inflate and deflate, one nurse would rub my legs in between and make sure I was comfortable. Another nurse braided my hair into a bun away from my face for me.
Later on that day, I moved into my own room. Stayed there for a few days, then moved to a shared ward on Sunday night. By Monday night, I was up, showered, dressed, and discharged back home to recover. I can honestly say, for me, recovery at home is the best thing. I sleep a lot better in my own bed.
When in my own room at the hospital, I could sleep and rest a little, but I was also on clear fluids only, despite a doctor saying I could eat a light diet. Mum had to come in and speak to someone as between Wednesday and Sunday I’d had maybe 5 mouthfuls of soup, a jelly and some ice cream. I was starving, I was pressing the morphine pump to sleep. Just so I didn’t have to think about the hunger. Come Monday morning, when I could eat breakfast, I was a lot happier. It’s the only downside to being in your own room. On a shared ward, you hear everyone’s story and the nurses hear what’s happening too. Whereas one nurse told me I couldn’t have a cup of tea because I couldn’t have dairy (no idea why) and yet the other nurse gave me ice cream? Very confusing.
7 Days Post Surgery
It’s now been a week and I’m on some great painkillers. Still quite tired and sore and unfortunately came home from hospital full of cold. I feel like this is it now. I’m relearning which bag is going to be the best for Stitch 2.0, waiting on the wounds to heal up as nice as they can and for my yellowy bruised skin to go back to normal.
I’m going to be able to start living and it’s scary. Who am I going to be? What am I going to be? It’s like being 15 again and I’m told to pick my GCSE options. I hope you stay around to see my journey and I really hope I become someone worth the chance I’ve been given.
As always, thanks for reading…
