“Look at this.”
My dad handed me an information leaflet open on a page titled Sex after major heart surgery.
“It says I can’t put weight on my arms!”
“Right.” I said, not even sure what the joke was, and refusing to engage in any discussion.
Dad was due for major heart surgery. He’d recently been rushed to hospital with breathlessness, and a couple of hours later I was at his bedside adjusting to the new perspective of family member. His heart was struggling and it was serious; he needed a complicated, life-threatening operation. The operation was just before Christmas; I would be in hospital every day over the festive period, alternating between working as a junior doctor and visiting my father. As a comedian, I also had a few gigs in London lined up one evening.
Beforehand, humour kept things light. He joshed avidly with my brother that he wouldn’t be “following the light”. But below the surface we were suffering. Christmas was cancelled, no big celebration, retail and decorations stripped down to minimum. As the date grew closer we all noticed subtle changes; every hug goodbye a bit tighter, every moment as a family more appreciated.
On the morning of the operation I drove in at 6am and sat with dad until he was called to theatre. I’d never been to the hospital he was in, and although as a doctor I knew what the signs meant and where things were, I felt a stranger in the place. I walked down the corridors and passed the discharge lounge and superstitiously thought that might be a good sign. I then turned a corner and passed the bereavement lounge and, amazed at how close they were, decided not to be superstitious. I sat and chatted until he was called to theatre, then we hugged goodbye and I walked down the corridor.
I left. I got into my car and cried. I was so tired, and the weeks of holding it together had built up. As I sat with his phone and glasses in my hands, my feet crunching against empty sandwich packets from last-minute meals before hospital shifts and comedy gigs, I saw all the unread well-wishing messages flash up, including mine.
When you work in a hospital you are so consumed by the job, so busy working out what the patient needs, that it’s almost impossible to take time to consider what the family has already been through. For families it all starts much earlier: the initial concern, the anxiety, the waiting, the unknown outcome.
In the days that followed, while working I was acutely aware of this when seeing families of patients. As family, you are a team for that one patient, every waking moment is about them, everything is time critical. When working as a doctor you have to care for many people, so you do the best you can for every patient you see and prioritise. Communication is paramount. I suddenly saw myself in the families’ shoes and empathised more than I’d been able to previously.
After dad’s operation, the surgeon and nurses were cautious – there were complications, but it had gone as well as expected and he wouldn’t be waking up today. My brother and I went to see dad in intensive care, we were asked to come back in 30 minutes. We returned and were told the same, returned a third time and told again at which point we panicked and asked what was happening. Was he in trouble? It turned out they meant “at least” 30 minutes and they were just getting routine things ready. A stark reminder of how communication is so important, how timely and accurate information is essential.
Working in hospital was a strange relief; a juxtaposition of doing a job but being constantly reminded of what was happening by familiar tests, results, and medications. I was reassured by all the brilliant staff I work with – doctors, nurses, healthcare assistants and more – all of them professional and caring, consoling me that dad was surrounded by similar people.
The evening after the operation complications arose that the intensive care team were struggling to sort out. I discussed with them some of the tests and instantly realised how serious the situation was; they didn’t know how it would go. We called almost every hour for updates – no change. The only reassurance was in talking to nurses and doctors who were calm and in control. They’d contact us if he deteriorated further – so we barely slept. By morning everything had changed and dramatically improved, with the previous 12 hours seeming like a nightmare.
That morning I walked in and saw him awake, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. “Bloody hell dad, you scared the crap out of us.”
“But I told you I wouldn’t go towards the light,” he said wearily.
By Christmas day he had been moved to a ward, almost out of the woods. Yesterday he was discharged into my mum’s exhausted but delighted arms.
After dad heard how serious the situation was, he called and told me he’d asked a nurse overnight: “Did you know how serious it was for me?” The nurse smiled, put her arm round him and said: “Yes we all did. You, sir, were our Christmas miracle”.
Comedian and doctor Ed Patrick is performing his debut show Junior Optimist across the UK. For tickets and locations visit www.edpatrickcomedy.com
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My dad"s heart operation taught me a few things about being a doctor
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