Ice cubes and Morphine

Four years ago today, I faced the most frightening day of my life.

A few weeks earlier I had been diagnosed with a rare life-threatening kidney cancer that had spread along my renal vein, up the IVC and into the right atrium of my heart.

The diagnosis was terrifying and full of words I had never heard of. I just knew that it was very serious and surgery was the only answer. Without it, I certainly wouldn’t be around to enjoy any Easter Eggs.

The day of the surgery was full of uncertainty and the overwhelming fear of the unknown. I arrived at London’s Guy’s and St Thomas’ Hospital and checked into a ward with the most amazing view of the Houses of Parliament. I can clearly remember lying in my bed looking out at the view of the incredible sunset, not knowing how many more I would get to see.

My consultant along with the anaesthetist came to see me to sign the consent form and talk through the surgery. It was open-heart surgery – a term I hadn’t fully understood until that moment. I think I must have zoned-out as the reality of what was actually happening was far too much to process.

The following morning they came really early to wheel me down for the surgery. I was trying not to think too much about what the day would involve. My heart surgeon introduced himself and I weirdly remember thinking how tanned he looked (he had just returned from a skiing holiday). That was my last memory before waking up in ICU some 10 hours later, feeling as if I’d been hit by a truck. I had pipes, drains and tubes sticking out of me and people staring down at me, including my daughter with the most beautiful smile on her face.  

The ICU nurse offered me an ice cube for my throat, which felt heavenly. They then informed me they needed to help me up to sit in a chair for a few minutes. I thought they were mad! How on earth did they think I could possibly do that? I was too frightened to move an inch but they insisted and helped me move into the bedside chair. But the whole time, all I could focus on was getting back into that bed which I thankfully did after a few minutes, albeit with a lot of assistance. The rest of the day passed with me pressing the morphine button and asking for more ice cubes.

I was told the next two years would be critical and I would need a CT scan every three months. The day of the results of the first scan came six weeks after the surgery. I’d never experienced a feeling like that waiting. When I was told the scans were all clear, there were tears of relief before I asked if I could give my consultant a hug. A huge, emotionally really important hug.

Four years on, countless scans, blood tests and hospital appointments later, my scans have all remained clear. I consider it nothing short of miraculous. Suffice to say, I see the world through a very different set of eyes these days. But there isn’t a day that passes when I am not so grateful to the NHS and the amazing surgical team at Guy’s and St Thomas’.

I now work for AIMed - a clinician-led company that’s dedicated to driving forward the deployment of artificial intelligence in healthcare and medicine. My role is to assist clinicians and health executives in their very busy lives and to help them achieve the best value outcome from our educational events. I aim to make it as seamless a process as possible for them, helping them to navigate agendas, book tickets, make introductions to speakers and offer any help and advice I can. I liken it to a concierge service. After all they’ve done for me, and continue to do for us all, I feel it’s the very least I can do for them.

I can clearly remember how important that time with my consultant was - giving me reassurance, hope and so much comfort. So I’m all too aware that one of the huge benefits of AI is that it has the ability to free up their time, allowing them to spend more precious and valuable time with their patients.

Whilst there are many things that motivate us all in our work, mine is driven by an overwhelming desire to help the amazing clinicians I speak to every single day.