“You see the smile that’s on my mouth
It’s hiding the words that don’t come out
And all of our friends who think that I’m blessed
They don’t know that my head is a mess“

“The Story” by Brandi Carlile

Everything that follows is 100% true.There will be some quite frank details in the following post. These HAVE to be disclosed. You have been warned.

JANUARY
Round about the 17th of said month i started to feel unwell, just common cold symptoms, then came the boil.
Now i hadn’t suffered from a boil since i ws diagnosed with diabetes around twelve years ago. but this one was a bit different. In he past, they would appear, cause an immense amount of pain, burst and go away. This one burst, but didn’t go. I rang the GP and got antibiotics. didn’t work.

Thursday 23rd . Spent most of the day in bed feeling shocking. Vic came home and saw i wasn’t looking good, checked on the boil and said “it doesn’t look right, you need to go to A&E. I replied that i was tired and we could go in the morning, to which Vic insisted we went there and then, telling me it looked “bruised” and “there are hard bits around it”

So we went to hospital.
Vic dropped me off outside A&E as i was feeling that weak i couldn’t walk far, and i went in and spoke to the reception, giving my details and was told to take a seat. Vic came in after parking the car. After approximately 45 minutes my was shouted and I went into a triage room. They started to look at the “boil” and spoke to Vic who told them that she thought it may be Sepsis. They seemed to agree and i was put in a wheelchair and transfered to a resuss room. This is where things started to get a bit foggy for me.

Now, I remember getting on the trolley. I remember asking Vic to take my watch, wedding ring and bracelet (whatever was going to happen next, I didn’t want to lose my ring or have to have it cut off. The next thing I remember was them asking if it was ok for them to cut my shirt off. I now know I had already got a few lines/tubes/pipes going into me, I have no recollection of them being put in. My next memory is Vic saying “Happy Valentines Day”

I was in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) and had been in an induced coma for over three weeks.
If Vic hadn’t have insisted in taking me to A&E I wouldn’t have lasted the night. I will say that again… If Vic had not insisted that we went to hospital, i would not be sat typing this.
It wasn’t Sepsis, it was Necrotizing Fasciitis.
Here’s what the NHS website has to say…

“Necrotising fasciitis, also known as the “flesh-eating disease”, is a rare and life-threatening infection that can happen if a wound gets infected. It needs to be treated in hospital straight away.“

Whilst in the Induced coma, I was taken to theatre NINE times, to try and remove the infection and stop it from spreading , and on three occasions to combat severe blood loss (I was losing it as quick as they were putting it in)
I was later informed that my life was “on a knife edge” on a few occasions, the doctors, nurses and consultants telling Vic it was touch and go.
“Life threatening” indeed.

During the time I was sedated, they noticed something on a scan, and I had a bleed in my catheter bag. It was unclear at that time whether this was something kidney related or the actual catheter itself. It was the catheter, but more about my kidney later.

When Vic woke me, I couldn’t speak as I had a tracheotomy pipe in my throat, this is a common thing they do in ICU but apparently I was a bugger at messing with my breathing pipe moving it from one side of my mouth to the other with my tongue when they occasionally reduced my sedation level and causing me to gag. Perhaps a week, maybe two later they started to try me with a speech cuff, basically something that would go where the trachy pipe normally went, with a diaphragm which would simulate speech. Sort of. It felt extremely odd and was tricky to use, but eventually I got there. Up to that point, the process of communication was difficult and very frustrating. I spent a good length of time trying to let Vic know that Rick Buckler had passed. They DID provide me with a board to write on, but i couldn’t hold the board, let alone the pen. Even today, I struggle.

It was while in ICU that they first decided to try and get me out of bed, using a Hannbal Lecter type of device that helped you stand and be moved. I was familiar with these as mum had used one. At first I needed help sitting up, help getting my legs off the side of the bed, help standing on the device and then sitting in the chair. But I did it, first of many steps (sic) to recovery. After being returned to bed ten minutes later (back hurting) I asked “if I can use that thing, would I be able to use a walking frame?”. The physios said “we’ll bring one tomorrow”, which they did, and after an initial struggle I started to use it under supervision. Again, not easy, my legs and feet weren’t wanting to work. My left foot still doesn’t, again, more about that later.

When I came out of sedation, I was given a leaflet about delusions. Not something I think I have suffered from while awake, but while asleep? well…

I remember a couple of dreams.
1. I was driving dune buggies in a desert type setting, firing guns and generlly running about like a loon.
2. I was part of a re-enactment of something Air force/WWII related, and drinking lots of tea* from small blue cups and saucers.
3. Being in a really bright white room with a black pyramid in the corner, Vic coming in and putting a red top on it.

*I was obsessed with being able to have a cup of tea when i woke up.

The other two memories are odder…
1. I had a pipe in my bowels (inserted through the none fun entrance) and at one point I swore that they were selling the full bags to someone to power their car.
2. Pestering the ICU night nurse to get me a meal deal, specifically with a bottle of Pepsi Max so I could swill my mouth out. I remember pleading and promising I wouldn’t actually drink it. Now THIS was impossible, couldn’t have ever happened as i had my tracheotomy in and could not speak. But it sure felt real and I only figured it wasn’t way after being woken up.

While I had the trachy pipe in I was being fed through a pipe, could’t drink either, and as I say above, I was longing for a brew more then anything.
I was still hooked up to all manner of machines and sensors, measuring blood pressure, oxygen and what not.
Whilst sedated, I was hooked up to a filteration machine called “Puddles” to remove excess fluid and, so Vic tells me, had around eight different things going in and out of me, the pipes having to. be moved from one side of my neck to the other every ten days.

After my last visit to theatre, one of the Tissue Viability Nurses (TVN) apparently said, “why don’t we use that machine that has been on the shelf for two years?”. Turns out this was a Vacuum Assisted Care (VAC) machine. Basically you have a dressing packed into your wound which is then vcuum sealed. Every two hours or so it then fills with saline, soaks for about twenty minutes, then any liquid is sucked out.
AMAZING!
What is REALLY amazing though, they had never used it. It was the only one in Barnsley and had yet to be used. It was proposed to the superiors, who said yes without thinking too long and off we went.
Remember, i am still asleep at this point. A hell of a lot tht went off those first few weeks i am so unaware of. Vic saw it all, alongside my lad, her mum, my sister and a few very close friends.
When i was awake, the change of the dressing took almost 90 minutes at the beginning, by the end that time was more than halved.
eventually, I did come off the big VAC and was put onto the smaller, more portable one.

I was eventually deemed the fittest person in ICU and was moved upstairs to a recovery ward. i\t was quite an emotional moment toleave all the staff that had looked after me in there, and tears were shed.
I went up to ward 35, in a room with folks who had basically come in for day surgery, so i saw a lot of folks coming and going.
After one change of my VAC dressing, i suddenly started shivering and sweating, my temprature soaring. I had a fever. During this i was taken for a CT scan, and started panicking, thinking it was the infection coming back. It wasn’t, but it WAS in relation to the blood in my catheter some weeks back.
After the scxan i was brought back to ward 35, but later that day i started with diarrhea and was moved into a room of my own on ward 36. The S&D only lasted about 24 hours, but i managed to stay in my own room.

By this time it was early March, i had come off of being pipe fed as my trachy pipe had been removed. That was bizarre. with it in i couldn’t speak a word. once they took it out, and covered the hole with a plaster (kid you not) i could speak perfectly straight away.
That was the good news, the bad news is i was on a stirct “soft and minced” diet, and it was repulsive. I was allowed limitless cups f tea though. Well, in ICU at least.
Eventually i was assessed and was allowed to go back to normal food. That was one of the nicest things to happen.
I also had a boot for my foot. We’re still unsure what caused it, and it is still affected, but my left foot had dropped. This means it points downwards, and i have no control over it, could not move my ankle or toes. At first, i had absolutely no feeling in my foot at all. slowly i have been getting sensations back in parts, still no movement though.
I was managing to walk with my frame, around the bed at least, still supervised.

It was whilst on ward 36 that my surgeon told me the results of my CT scan. I have kidney cancer. This came as a shock to me, not so much to Vic who had been told it may be a possibility, but there was no certainty at that point whilst i was in my coma in ICU. She took the decision not to tell me when i woke up, and stay quiet about it until we knew for certain. This must have been so hard for her, and i totally understand that thought process. A request was made to see a consultant in urology, which was arranged quickly, and I attended with Vic and my lad. Questions were asked, questions were answered and a biopsy ws to be arranged.

I was eventually deemed “medically fit” and moved from ward 36 to the Acorn Ward, which a ward specifically for rehabilitation, with dedicated nurses, physios etc.
at first i was put in bed 23, on a ward with five other beds. The only way i can discribe it is it had a very “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” vibe. I was the youngest by a good twenty years, and without dementia. Only thing missing was the seven foot Native American.

As I was being wheeled down to the Acorn, i was caught up by a member of the orthotics team who had brought my “splint” which is effectively a pair of my own trainers, adapted with a big metal strip that goes from the back of the heel up my calf to a strap that goes around my leg. Only it didn’t. The Strap wasn’t long enough. Away it went again to be redone. Three weeks later it came back, and fitted. Whilst in bed 23 i noticed the guy in bed 21 had a four wheeled stroller, which i knew we had in storage since mum passed. I asked the physios if i could give one a go instead of the walking frame and they said they would see if they had one. After only two nights in bed 23 i was moved into a room of my own, which was a vast improvement.

I will gloss over the son who was permanently dressed as a pirate when visiting his dad. Nice lad, odd choice of lifestyle.

By now my dressing was getting changed twice a week and i eventually was put onto the smaller, portable VAC. I was also brought a four wheel stroller and after being monitored sufficiently i was allowed to get about independently. This meant i could get to the toilet just outside my room door, rather than having to use the commode. Another step forward.

Daily I was doing various bits of physiotherapy and exercise, standing, walking, and then came the stairs. Up the corridor was a set of practice stairs. only three of them, but instantly terrifying. It’s only when you suddenly cannot do the most common of menial tasks that you realise how vulnerable you are. Luckily i was wheeled to them in a chair, unluckily i couldn’t actually get one foot onto the first step. I tried, I tried again, I tried again and gave up. The therapists were continually telling me how good I was doing, but I felt a complete failure. Went back to my room utterly demoralised.
They came back the next day, wheeled me up again and… HOLY FUCK I GOT ONE FOOT UP!. Only one, my right foot. The one that has been my bad foot for 23 years but is now the good one. Back in the chair, back to my room, totally elated. The little things.

Eventually I managed to get up all three of the practice steps, turn around and come down again. One at a time, both ways. This meant i could progress to actual stairs, outside of the ward. These were a different process. Sideways, good foot followed by bad foot to go up, bad foot followed by good down. Daily. For many days. But smashed it. This at least meant I would be safe to go home when I was well enough.

It was decided that if I had a skin graft my wound would heal quicker. Not a deciding factor on me healing, but worth a punt.
Unfortunately, Barnsley Hospital doesn’t do grafts, so i was transported to Sheffield to speak to a plastic surgery consultant.
Now, at this stage, my wound was… *drumroll* approximately 30cm long, 15cm wide and about 9cm deep, and that’s after it had been healing for over three months and had got considerably smaller.
Yes, you read that right. Get a ruler and imagine. Whilst talking to one of the nurses the first time I met her on the Acorn, she said “been reading your notes. WOW, they went in that deep they could see your bowels”. My reply? “ok, didn’t know that”.
I was told my wound looked very clean, what could be done with regards to a graft, including internal stitches, tidying the whole thing up, and the graft itself. Things were seeming positive, however.
The department that was to perform the graft was a trauma centre. This caused issues in that it got cancelled four times due to “emergencies”. Understandable, but frustrating. After the fourth, I asked about going home.

To be honest, I had been ready to go home for a while by now. At no point since i woke up had i really been in pain or felt ill (apart from the short period of S&D) and the professionals deemed me fit/well enough to go home.
Vic and the boy had fitted handrails to the stairs so I knew I would be capable of getting up and down them, the therapists had already organised and delivered various things to aid me at home.

APRIL 25th
HOME!

Four months plus change.
93 days in a hospital bed (or the chair beside it)
Out of those 93 days, Vic visited me 92 days. She will tell you she missed two days, but she didn’t, on the day I was told about my kidney, she came to see me before going to work as I had rung her, then that evening went to tell my dad the news. How she kept it all up I truly don’t know.
One of my biggest worries about coming home was whether the dogs would remember me or not. When I came home, a couple of the therapists came with me to check how I went on with getting into the house, getting on and of the sofa, up the stairs, on and off the bed, toilet, and getting back down the stairs. I struggled with getting off the sofa as it was lower than anything else i had been used to sitting on the last three months. This upset me quite a bit, but Vic went and got couple of big cushions which really helped (and I don’t need now), everything else I was fine with. A bit nervous with the stairs at first, but managed them.
As for the Tufty Wumps, once the therapists had left, Vic let them in the room where they proceeded to bark their little heads off until they had a sniff at my hand, then went completely barmy for about thirty seconds, and that was it.

6th May – Biopsy pre-op
7th May – Skin graft
8th May – Biopsy

Sadly, the graft failed, mainly due to the position of my wound. If i had stayed on my back, in bed, not moved unless it was absolutely essential, it may have had a different outcome. They did succeed in stitching quite a bit together, so made the wound a lot smaller, and in the following weeks it healed enough that i no longer needed the VAC. This was a huge relief. No more lugging the damn thing about.

This is when the pain began. For two weeks the dressing on the donor site couldn’t be changed. I have never known pain like it, and the moment the dressing was removed the pain stopped. Bizarre.
Occasional tenderness now, discoloured skin where the graft came from, but that’s about it.

KIDNEY
The biopsy confirmed i had a 5.9″ tumor on my right kidney. It hadn’t grown or spread in the three months since it was first discovered, which is a relief in itself, but we’d already been told that the area it was in wasn’t going to cause a problem and wasn’t near anything important, which is why I hadn’t experienced any symptoms. We went to speak to the urologist in Sheffield a week or so back. He explained a lot more about my tumor. He did say that this type of tumor tends to grow 0.5cm a year, so I could have had it some time.
He also explained that the only thing that could be done was removal of my kidney, and due to what I had already gone through, he would gladly postpone the operation for around six months. which I thanked him for considering, but asked to have it done as soon as possible. He said he wants to leave it a few weeks longer to give my wound a bit more time to heal, so we’re looking at the end of August, beginning of September.

Sadly, on 1st June we lost my dad. I won’t go into too many details right now, that’s for another time, but we said farewell to him last week, and I got to see him a couple of times before he passed. All way through my hospital stay he resolutely refused to visit as he was petrified he would bring something in and make me poorly. Bless him.

NOW AND THE FUTURE
Currently waiting for a date for my kidney op, as i type this i have had a pre op assessment appointment come through.
Once a fortnight on a Tuesday I have to go to Sheffield for a check on my wound (they did the graft, so still under them), on the other Tuesdays and every Friday the district nurse comes to change the dressing, and if anything needs looking at, of course I have Vic.
My foot is still dropping, but I DO have sensations coming in it, massive pins and needles and feelings like I have it hooked up to a car battery, sending shocks through it. This in particularly makes Vic smile. My hands are also still not working properly. They are better than they were, but numb fingertips, achy, a right pain in the arse.
Last week i attended the ICU follow up clinic, where I sat and spoke to three people about how I was feeling, my thoughts on what i have been through, etc etc. This was very cathartic.
I am still off work, and will be until I have recovered from my kidney op. Work have been fantastic with me, cannot thank my gaffer enough.
I have had photos taken of my wound through every stage of the recovery process, and signed a waiver giving my permission for anything to be used in an educational capacity. Vic and myself will be going up to the hospital soon to do a video interview with TVN and the VAC company want to use my case to show what is achievable with the kit. Anything that can potentially help others is fine with me.

VIC
What can I say about my wife? I honestly don’t know where to start. I don’t know where I can finish either.
For the first three, maybe four weeks, she was alone. Not in the sense that there was nobody else there, she had the support of our son, her mum, my sister, her sister and her family, friends… What i mean is, in almost 28 years of marriage we have always discussed everything. Good or bad, big or small, we have talked about it together, and that was taken way from her.
To sit there, not knowing if she will ever be able to talk to me again, whether i was going to pull through it, I don’t know where she gets her strength from. She’s my strength.
92 days out of 93 she came to see me.
The number of times i said that she didn’t have to, but she still did.
YES, I would undoubtedly do the same, of course I would, I love her unconditionally, but you never now how you truly would behave until you are thrust into that situation.
The lyrics at the start of this, and the one’s below come from a Brandi Carlile song called “The Story” that I first heard/saw her perform on Jools Holland after I had my scooter smash all the way back in 2002, and i found the lyrics so poignant and perfectly fitted how I felt about her then, and infinitely more now.
Brandi played Glastonbury this year, she sang it, and I was in more bits than I usually am when I hear it.

Vic, I love you, I always have, I always will. And I honestly wish I hadn’t said I wish I hadn’t pulled through it, I regretted it as soon as it left my mouth. You know this, but here it is in writing.
I couldn’t have wished to have anyone else at my side, pulling me through, urging me on, and not letting me give up.

“Oh, because even when I was flat broke
You made me feel like a million bucks, you do
I was made for you“
Cheers Brandi.

NHS
I HAVE spoken to some of you, and thanked you, but to everyone else, surgeons, consultants, nurses, doctors, therapists, the people that delivered my food/brews, the ladies that cleaned my room and always chatted, picked stuff up I had dropped, ALL OF YOU, I will never be able to thank you nearly as much as I want to, but Thank You. It’s not overstating that I wouldn’t be here if not for you.

Jacquie, Fyn, Jud, Sarah, Fliss, Stuart, Jess, Bammy (all the way from Wisbech even though I was asleep) Mick, Jim, Big Vern, Jane, Eileen, Caren, Rob and Danielle, the Live Loungers, my Twitter/Facebook/instagram friends, the rest of you on social media who barley know me but took time to ask after me when you noticed i was absent, I thank you all and am truly humbled with the love and support I have received from you all.

Sime. 24/07/25