All that is now left for me to share of mine and Ga’s story are the last three weeks of it. In the months that followed these events I wrote 75 journal pages about them – far too much to share here. In editing what makes in into this blog, I’ve chosen to share mainly ‘our’ moments. Some were beautifully tender, some were horrific. But they all remain valuable memories for they were to be ‘our’ last ones together. Even from March 1st, ‘our’ journey started to separate somewhat, for I do not know all the details surrounding Ga’s time in Liberia, traveling home and then fighting for his life in Cardiff. Simultaneously there is much I experienced in those three weeks that I never got to tell Ga about, not wanting to add to his worries, and distract him from the effort of breathing.
So here goes… the final chapter of ‘us.’
March 1st:
Friday, March first. 8pmish. The beginning of the end of my marriage. Talking to Ga on the phone in a shop doorway on my way home from work. He tells me he’s not well, he’s been really unlucky, caught sunstroke, got dehydrated and a chest infection has set in. My heart skips a beat. Not much I can do thousands of miles away. He sounds okay – normal Ga with a chest infection.
March 2nd:
I cancel all my plans for the weekend. I’ll need to rest and reserve all physical and emotional strength to support Ga once he’s home. I chat to him when he’s set up in the hotel room near the airport, and am thankful for Tei (Mothers of Africa Team leader and consultant anesthetist) and the emergency supplies of IV fluid and antibiotics they are giving Ga. I’ve liased with the CF Unit; they’re all ready for him arriving home tomorrow. Again, the though crosses my mind – he must be really sick to be asking to go straight to hospital and not even stop off at home first. But all I can do is stay calm and rest here, ready for whatever is coming.
March 3rd:
We pray in church for Ga’s safe arrival home today. But I get home to find out the insurance company won’t let Ga get on the commercial plane and are arranging a small plane to fly him 2 hours to Ghana first, to assess if he’s fit to fly! Tei is liaising with the CF team, trying to get access to the recommended IV antibiotics. My fear level goes up a notch. He is breathless talking to me. I can’t remember that ever happening on a trip abroad before. We have to cut our conversation short so he can breathe.
March 4th:
I am anxious and jittery, don’t know what to do with myself. i stay in contact with Tei, the CF Unit, and Ga via Skype throughout the day. Ga is beginning to sound slightly confused. Fear grips my heart that little bit more, not that my voice towards him would show it. He needs me calm, collected and refreshed, ready to be by his side when he gets home. Eventually he gets the thumbs up to fly. Now its with an air ambulance. We are told it’s leaving at 9am tomorrow. Huge relief! Only one more night to get through. Ga is bringing up lots of gunky stuff and getting exhausted (he’s had very little sleep). Tei is being a competent physio, nurse and advocate for Ga, who tells me the nurses need chasing up to give him his antibiotics.
March 5th:
Crushing disappointment. It turns out the air ambulance is only leaving the U.K. at 9am today, and plans to leave Ghana at 9am tomorrow! We are all so frustrated! I don’t know what to do with myself. At this point Ga and I decide to go public on facebook, asking for prayers for Ga’s safe return. It is the first time we have opened up on such a scale about his health battles. I try and arrange a shorter shift for me in work the next day but we’re short staffed so I’m down to work 8 – 6. I’m exhausted and know I’ll have a late night tomorrow but agree to work; I feel bad creating more work for the rest of the team considering I’ve already taken today off.
March 6th
I slept well, feeling fresh, energised and worked flat out until 6pm before driving quickly to Llandough Hospital, wanting to make sure I was there when he arrived. I was updating family and friends regularly on Facebook. At 7.30pm a St Johns’ ambulance pulled up outside Medical Admissions Unit and four large men dressed in bright orange paramedic uniforms got out, all wearing protective masks. And when they opened the ambulance doors there he was, sitting up, strapped to a stretcher with an oxygen mask on and IV lines attached and he said ‘How I’m glad to hear your voice.’ I helped him into one of the crash rooms, thankful for my nursing background that meant I could efficiently help out. There was no emotional reunion once Ga was settled there, just his urgent instruction for me to give him chest physio (the small tin can plane had been too small for him to have any during the day’s flight). I tried not to take it personally, Ga’s irritated commands to ‘hit harder, hit higher, hit lower!’ I tried to remain calm but inwardly I was reeling; Heart rate 130bpm, Respiratory rate 30 -40 breathes a minute at rest. By 9.30pm Ga had been seen by doctors and physios and a close friend was coming in with food supplies and moral support for me. It was dawning on me we were in for a very rough time, as in our 7 years together I’d never seen him this unwell. By 11.30pm Ga was looking visably more relaxed; sheer adrenaline having kept him going up to this point and despite his breathlessness he was quite spirited in telling us, the nurses and physios about his experiences at the ‘Zippy and Bungle’ Ghanain hospital he’d been sent to. The painkillers I’d advised the doctors prescribe him were beginning to kick in. He told me ‘I would have died had it not been for Tei.’
Me, our friend Ruth and Ga sat and chatted, munching on fruit selection boxes – the only thing we could stomach. It was incredibly difficult for Ga to eat anything with the thick gunk on his chest. Thank goodness for his PEG tube! At midnight I sent Ruth home, pulled up my chair close to Ga’s trolley and we had some happy, intimate, relaxed moments, chatting absent mindedly inbetween dozing, holding hands and me stroking his lower leg. I’d brought in my now completed ‘manly scarf’ I’d knitted him and he held it lightly for 10 minutes before asking me to take it home – it’s precious and he doesn’t want it getting stolen. It’s about 4.30am when I leave, after helping Ga get to the toilet via a wheelchair with oxygen attached. It’s quiet in MAU tonight. A TV blaring. 2-3 people sitting in the waiting room. There is a beautiful intimacy in being here with my husband, caring for him and loving him in this way. We are very much a unit again. Together in this, as we have been for so long. It is a precious, quality time. I leave him sleeping, heart rate still above 120 and resp rate over 30. Oxygen levels are 95% on 3litres of oxygen. Still worrying observations, but an improvement on what they were when he first arrived. I drive to Ruth’s house nearby and get into the sofa-bed made up for me in the living room. Part of my mind is calm, preparing for the storm that is about to follow, part of it is anxious and fretful. I need to sleep to have energy for tomorrow. I’ve never seen him so sick before. But he’s in the right place now. Things will start to improve now he’s getting the right treatment and antibiotics into him. In fact earlier that evening I’d reassured him, saying ‘The worst bit is over now. This is the lowest point. From now on things will improve.’ They always had before.
Under the influence of six... 