Thank you everyone

I'd like to express a big thank you to all those who have written messages of encouragement, sent cards, delivered beautiful flowers, given gifts, cooked hot dinners and provided childcare over the past few days.

You've really helped me and are very much appreciated - thank you everyone, not least my wonderfully kind family, the Coopers and Kilkellys (Dan's sister's family).

Surgery day arrives: Thursday 26 July

Thursday morning followed a slow and restless night spent worrying, apart from the obvious, about not waking in time for an early breakfast before my fasting deadline. It was to be unfounded. I found myself soft-boiling an egg and toasting some soldiers at 5.30am. I needed to be “nil by mouth” from 6.30am, and didn't want to miss getting a good start to the day.

After dropping the boys off with their play buddies for the day, Dan and I made our way to Cambridge, with me in the driving seat. I needed the distraction.

It was a lovely morning for a drive, the sky filled with bright blue and hot sun. We opened the windows and listened to Kiss FM on the radio. Funnily enough, they played several songs I could remember from when my hearing was better. I felt happy, but wondered if these familiar sounds would be the same in the future.

The Spire Cambridge Lea welcomed us more like visitors to a hotel than a hospital. We were shown quickly to my room. A nurse introduced herself, asked some questions and then took my blood pressure and temperature. She suggested I change into the regulation gown and antithrombotic tights straight away, just in case I was first up. I let Dan take a photo, but only if didn’t end up on Facebook. A minute later, “looking good…” was trending under the photo on my profile.

A few minutes later, the anaesthetist entered the room and introduced himself. The surgeon arrived not long after. We were keen to find out what time I was going in. Unfortunately, there was a delay, with my slot now looking to be around late afternoon or early evening. My heart sank.

Dan started to look hungry. To be fair, it must have been a couple of hours for him... I encouraged him to have his lunch. He looked relieved, and said “I guess there’s no point in both of us being hungry?”. I smiled; my tummy groaned.

It was a long afternoon. I had a stash of magazines to read and the TV to watch, but they didn’t really help. There was a garden with a sitting area near my room, so I started to wonder if it was worth getting changed back into my clothes and going out there. No-way was I going out there in my gown. At just that instant, rather ironically some might say, the fire alarm sounded. Seriously?

I rather begrudgingly ended up in the garden. My gown wasn’t tied up properly at the back, and I felt quite exposed from the back. Literally, Dan indicated later. Just call me Bridget Jones. Fortunately, the alarm stopped after 5 minutes, and we went back to my room.

At around 6pm, my turn finally arrived. After one last toilet stop (yes, 8 hours after my last sip of water), I jumped back onto my bed, and was couriered down the corridor to the anaesthetic room. After all these weeks, the operation was here.

My hands grew clammy as the team checked my details, and one of them carefully inserted a cannula into my hand. The kindly anaesthetist said I looked terrified. How very observant. I suddenly felt a cold stream trickle its way up my arm. A nurse stroked my hand and said it was okay. I begged to differ, and decided to tell her it wasn’t working. But before I had the chance, I opened my eyes and found myself in a different room.

The throbbing behind my right ear told me it was over. As I came to, I could see a nurse’s lips moving, but not clearly enough to read them. My head felt heavy. I just wanted to see Dan.

Fifteen minutes later, they wheeled me back to my room, two hours since I’d left it. Dan was relieved to see me. He looked tired though. The nurse said I hadn’t needed stiches, or a bandage – just glue. Amazing, just glue.

I was ready for a cup of tea, or four. I got through two small tea pots, and then worked steadily through some brie and grape sandwiches, and other snacks. Having been warned about permanent changes in taste after the procedure, I wondered if they’d taste different. A bit metallic perhaps, but not too much. Disappointingly, chocolate still tasted moreish.

It was starting to get dark, and was time to settle down for the night. Dan stayed with me, having crafted a bed from two armchairs in the room. It was fine, he assured me. My pain was too much to disagree with him. I drifted in and out of sleep during the night, watching TV and reading in between. Nurses appeared at regular intervals to take my vitals, and supply me with codeine and paracetamol, which helped.

In the morning, I had breakfast and was allowed to leave at 10:30am. I felt tired and sore, slightly dizzy, but managed the walk to the car, and survived the surprisingly bumpy ride up the A11 back home. Every bounce jarred my head.

Our boys were waiting for us outside our house, holding welcome home pictures and balloons. My mother-in-law was cheerily waving with them, having looked after them overnight. They all looked so happy but were wary that I was in pain. The boys were keen to see my scar as soon as I stepped foot in the house. “Yuck” apparently, but not quite enough to stop them requesting repeat viewings several more times during the day.

It was wonderful to arrive home again, with the surgery behind me. Four weeks and counting to the implant “switch on” back at the Emmeline centre at Addenbrooke’s in Cambridge.

Not long now...

Only a few days to go now, with my surgery planned for the afternoon of Thursday 26 July.  It will be performed at the Spire Cambridge Lea Hospital, and involve an overnight stay.  If everything goes to plan, I should be home on the Friday afternoon.  Here's hoping...

My last pre-surgery appointment

I turned the key in the car ignition at 7:15am precisely, aiming to reach Addenbrooke’s in time for cup of tea before my 9.30am appointment. It was an early start, and made alone this time, but the morning sunshine spurred me on.

I’d barely sat down in the waiting room when my name was called, coinciding with the arrival of my BSL interpreter. The welcome was friendly and made me feel that the long drive was worth it.

My last visit to the Emmeline centre, confirming my suitability, was only a week ago. Today, I was here for two sessions, entitled "Device Information" and "Expectations and Outcomes".

As the name suggests, the first session was to explain how to use and operate the implant processor – the outside bit that I’ll eventually have magnetically stuck to the side of my head.

Unlike standard hearing aids (or at least all the ones I’ve had), the implant processor can use a rechargeable battery pack as well as conventional batteries. The rechargeable unit lasts for up to 12 hours. The conventional batteries last for between 3-4 days, which is similar to what you get with a standard hearing aid.

Fortunately, the centre supplies both (including a year’s supply of batteries) so I won’t have to choose between them, although the thought of finding space for yet another charger alongside the mobile phones, tooth brushes, ipods and laptops fills me with dread.

I hadn’t prepared for the next question. Perhaps the most important one of all. What colour processor would I like? Remembering my well-used colour chart from an earlier birthday present, my heart said Sparkly Glitter but my head said Purple.  I opted for Bordeaux Red.

As we continued the session, I expressed some concern about losing the processor or damaging it. Will I need additional insurance to cover it? Apparently not. I was told that the NHS will deal with this for me. Reassuring, and yet another reminder of the fantastic service they provide.

We moved on next to recommended safety guidelines, and read through a leaflet which outlined a disturbingly long list of dos and don’ts. Most of them are common sense, some not quite so. For instance, I shall no longer be able to go on “extreme” rides, rub a balloon on my hair, walk through an airport metal detector, touch an electric fence, use a Van-der-Graaf generator, or touch the screen on an old CRT TV.

As I’d already found out, MRI and Nuclear Magnetic Resonance (NMR) scanners pose a huge risk. If I ever do need a scan, a clinician from the centre will need to supervise it. In some cases, I might need surgery in advance to remove the implant altogether. All rather daunting, I’ll move on quickly.

After the operation, I’ll be provided with an ID card confirming my membership to the Cochlear Implant group – or rather to provide guidance for airport security, and those that may need to treat me in an emergency. They also strongly recommend I wear a Medic Alert bracelet with the message “Cochlear Implant User – Do Not Use MRI Scan”. Moving on again.

The second session was an opportunity to discuss my expectations of having a Cochlear Implant fitted. Being profoundly deaf from birth, the level of hearing improvement for me is likely to be far lower than someone who was recently deafened. This is carefully and gently conveyed to me again, as it has been throughout all my visits here.

I appreciate this, but I’m willing to go through the process, even if it improves my hearing by the slightest amount.  It’s not going to make me hearing, but it might make me hear more. And any improvement won’t occur immediately, but rather over a year or more. So I think I’m prepared for the worst, but desperately hoping for the best.

This last session eventually ended, and so I made my way home again, keen to relay all the information to my family. And perhaps, to check that Bordeaux Red will match my summer wardrobe.

My hearing test audiogram

Here are the results of my latest pre-implant hearing test, taken a few weeks ago.  Normal hearing senses sounds between 0-20 decibels (dB) at the top of chart.  Profound hearing loss is towards the bottom. Every increase of 10dB sounds twice as loud. A pneumatic drill is normally around 120dB, and usually causes pain.

To be, or not to be?

My first assessment at Addenbrooke’s was almost three weeks ago, but it seemed less than that, as we sat in the visitor room waiting for my results. After five minutes, one of the team came up to where Dan and I were sitting. This is it, I thought. “We’ve got a bit of a delay, the consultant has been called away to an emergency” she said.

After another half an hour, a familiar-looking nurse strode up and enquired “Catherine Cooper? Come this way, please”. At last, this really was it. She led us to her room, and then went back out again to get my notes.

We sat alone in the room, and Dan scrambled about to get his camera to take a shot, supposedly for posterity, but more likely for this blog, before she returned. As I sat there, I said to him, “I don’t think I’m getting it”. Surely if they were going to offer one to me, they’d have made me wait for the consultant? My heart sank.

The nurse came back, sat down, opened her file, and abruptly said “Yes, the team met this morning and would like to offer you an implant”. Silence. “Pardon?” I said, questioning what my eyes had just read from her lips. “They would like to offer you an implant” she repeated, giving a thumbs up this time.

Dan laughed, and jumped up to give me a hug. I was stunned. I didn’t quite know how to react. I was expecting the worst, and hadn’t prepared for this. Part of me thought “Wow, this is unbelievable.” But at the same time, I felt a bit disappointed. Why hadn’t I researched this years ago? Had I struggled for nothing? Why wasn’t I offered this before?

The nurse and Dan sat staring at me, waiting for a reaction. “Great” I garbled, still in shock. The nurse said I could go away and think about it, or decide now and fill in some forms. I nodded gently, understating a decision that might turn out to be the most significant one in my life.

We filled out the forms together, and I signed a disclaimer. I was then handed a letter for my doctor, requesting a pneumococcal vaccination, to reduce the risk of meningitis after the operation. Just the usual sort of thing. And then a further appointment was arranged for next week, to talk more about the operation and my expectations. “Keep them low”, I keep telling myself.

As Dan drove us home from Cambridge, my head cleared and excitement set in. I started to text my family and friends with the news, and received a steady trickle of congratulations and encouragement. I looked out of the window and gazed at the passing scenery, knowing this journey would become very familiar in the years ahead.