MY STORY: You’re the one for me, Fatty

“Once upon a time (I have always wanted to write that) there was me and Fatty, the boy, the big girl and the little girl. There was also the dog, the old cat, the fluffy cat and the slinky cat – and lets not be forgetting Lily, the spiny leaf insect. We all lived in a little house within walking distance to the shops and school.

If everything sounds lovely, it’s because it was. Things were looking up for us after a period of financial worries when Fatty was retrenched in 2008.

In January 2009, he took a job as duty manager at the local RSL. It was 30 seconds from home and he loved being a part of the community. Yeah, it was a lot less money than his previous job, but he gained three hours a day of prime ‘being with the kids time’ and there is a lot to be said for loving your job.

On May 12 last year, Fatty got up and went off to work as he normally would. At lunchtime, when he popped home for a sandwich, he complained of a sore elbow. Being the loving and caring spouse that I am, I told him to rub some Nurofen gel on it and quit whingeing. When I got home from collecting the kids from school, I found him in bed with a high temperature and complaining of pain everywhere. I gave him some Panadol but thought I should probably ring the doctor as this was during the first of the swine flu alarms.

After much to-ing and fro-ing with the clinic’s receptionist I finally got him to see someone at 7pm. I called my sister to come and sit with the kids and to get her husband to drive (and, nope, before you ask I can’t drive, visually disabled…a story for another time.) The doctor was concerned that, whilst outwardly there appeared nothing wrong with Fatty, his vitals were not right. Her advice was to take him straight to the hospital – little did we know he was already dying. By the time we reached hospital his blood pressure was 90/60.

A succession of doctors filed into our cubicle, each one looking confused and worried. Around midnight a plastic surgeon arrived (let’s call him House, shall we,) and he immediately started IV antibiotics and booked a lot of tests. He clearly thought something was amiss, but told me to go home and get some rest and he would call me in the morning. I gave Fatty a kiss and went home, sending my very tired sister back to her house.

I got up as usual, got the kids off to school. They had drawn ‘get well pictures’ for their Daddy the night before. At 9.30 am the phone rang and I assumed it would be Fatty telling me he was ready to come home and all was well.

“Mrs Wellington, it’s Dr House. I am so sorry but you must come in immediately. We had to perform emergency surgery on William last night and it is very serious. I am afraid we don’t expect him to make it.”

That moment…that point right there…I started moving out of time. The rest of the world was going at one speed and I seemed to be slightly out of step. I rang my sister; I made no sense, but she got the idea and drove me straight there. A friend who nurses at the hospital met us. She dragged me out the car and ran me though the hospital, and the look on her face told me more than the surgeon did. He wasn’t going to make it.

Four nurses ushered me into ICU, all there to catch me if I fainted I suspect. I clutched at the kids’ pictures and saw the staff drop their eyes. There was Fatty on full life support. I had never seen so many tubes and machines. He was cold and clammy and white. The only movement was the rock of the ventilator forcing air into his lungs. I sat down and all I could say was, “No.”

After I had gone home the night before, House kept doing tests convinced that something sinister was afoot. It was during the CT scan that Fatty heard the radiologist say “Oh, God no!” and hit the medical emergency button. People came from everywhere; they dragged him out by his legs and plunged a central line into his throat then and there. They raced him through the corridors, and the last thing Fatty remembers was House cradling his face and saying “I am so sorry – we are trying to save you and not your arm.”

Necrotiizing Fasciitis and Group A Streptococcal Toxic Shock Syndrome were the official words from on high. The bacteria had eaten his left arm and the only way to combat it was to cut the flesh away. Unfortunately, the bacteria had also hitched a ride through his body and had shut down all his organs. The figures they gave me were a 75% death rate, but the survivors usually had the flesh eaten from the legs; in that case, it had further to go to reach vital organs. They had already opened Fatty to the shoulder. Still all I could say was “No.”

This was not my life, this was all just some terrible dream, and any moment I would wake up. He survived through that day against all odds; they asked me to call his parents and wanted to know if I wanted the children to come in. Once again all I had was a “No.” I went back to my sister’s house where my kids were that night and lied. All I could say was Daddy was sick and having lots of medicine. I excused myself, locked myself in her bathroom and crumpled to the floor. How could I possibly go on?

The next few days all blurred into one big antiseptic-smelling mess, and still Fatty hung on against all odds. One bouncy young doctor was very excited. He joyfully exclaimed that he thought he would never see one like Fatty. “We only get them in the morgue.” Every day they cut more and more from him and still he clung to life.

After almost a week in a coma he opened his eyes. When they removed his breathing tube he asked if they cut off his arm. His brain couldn’t cope with seeing his arm exposed so he thought it must be an hallucination. In the end he thought they could have cut it off and he could have had a pirate hook. I suspect that might have been the pain relief talking.

That was eight and a half months ago. I wish I could end this story on “…and they all lived happily ever after,” but I think we all know that life isn’t really like that.

Fatty has had nine operations and best case scenario is only two more to go. All his organs have been severely comprised; not only by the toxic nature of the bacteria, but the operations, the life support and the massive doses of antibiotics.

His liver, lungs and bowel are still far from functioning well. He has cognitive and memory problems as well as suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and depression. I have become adept at dressing wounds, dispensing medications and cleaning up poo. I always knew I would be good at something.

It would be nice if, after you survive one awful thing, you get a get out of jail free card for the rest of your life but that doesn’t seem to be the case. The doctors have given us a long list of nasties that Fatty is now susceptible to. Ironically, they don’t have a lot of data to go on, as most victims don’t make it. The delightful Head of Infectious Diseases was very to the point, “Well we saved you, William, but I am afraid you will be poorly for the rest of your life.”

So this has been the ballad of Danya and Fatty, and the three wee beasties. As I read back over this I realise I have given you all a lot of FACTS. Not so much with the touchy feely. Well, see the thing is I am still a bit (hmmm…a lot) fragile and I worry that if I start down the touchy feely road I may just shatter into a thousand pieces. I am grieving for the life I had and, more importantly, the life I imagined for the future. It has all changed now, and it is so desperately hard to wade through the treacherous waters keeping us all afloat.

Funny thing…it has been the best of times and the worst of times. We get a second chance; a great big fat reminder that all the smiles could end tomorrow, so best not waste time on harsh words and worrying over piffles. The brave wee beasties have been amazing. Resilient, loving, a constant reminder that life is still going on even if I can barely bring myself to get out of bed in the morning.

Wonderful friends, family and community have large and loving arms and I have learned that it is alright to snuggle in their embrace. Actually, now I think about it we DO get a happily ever after…”