The NHS heroes who saved my life 'while I was sleeping'

IT still sends shivers up my spine to write these words, but two months ago I very nearly died.

Foolishly, like the beaming winners carelessly spraying perfectly good champagne over an out-sized cheque after fortune smiled on them in the weekend draw, I always assumed that this was the sort of thing that happened to other people.

But I now know that in life’s Lottery it really can be you.

Nevertheless, I still consider myself a very lucky man.

Let me explain.

It all started innocuously enough back in September, with a dose of the flu - not ‘man flu’ mind, but fully fledged Influenza A, a muscular beast that guaranteed an uncomfortable fortnight of unpleasant symptoms.

Heroically, I persevered and ploughed on and by day 10 the end appeared to be in sight.

And then came the shortness of breath. Largely imperceptible at first, by early evening it was making its presence felt - forcing greedy gasps of air that soon prompted concerns for my wife Shirley and son Jack.

They advocated a visit to the hospital, but I was having none of it. It was a Saturday, for goodness sake, and the Emergency Department would be bunged. Calm down everyone, it will pass.

But it didn’t, of course. As I continued to wheeze in protest, an ambulance was called and after detailing the symptoms paramedics pulled up outside minutes later.

That was quick, I thought. Ominously quick. Worse still, after racing to hospital through the thickening gloom, I was ushered straight through.

I was acutely hypoxic, perilously close to respiratory failure. I was put on AIRVO to improve oxygen saturations, while the ever-patient medics attempted to calm the rising panic that only served to make a bad situation even worse.

All the while, investigations continued to determine what was going so catastrophically wrong.

And it soon emerged that the smoking gun was the flu, which had blind-sided my immune system leaving the back door open for something much more dangerous.

They soon established that I had severe community acquired pneumonia, with pnenmonitis, a nasty inflammation of the lungs. And I had it in both.

Industrial strength antibiotics were produced to even the odds, but the medical team admitted that they were ‘very concerned’. My shell-shocked family were finally sent home at around 3am, tearfully unaware of what the next day would bring.

At 7.30am the home phone rang. I had not slept and with my condition deteriorating fast, I had been admitted to Intensive Care.

By the time they arrived at ICU I had already been put to sleep. There was no time for goodbyes or best wishes. No final kisses before I went under. They had a job to do - and it was deadly serious.

As I wheeled back from theatre, eyes taped closed with a central line in my neck and an intubation tube keeping my airway open, Shirley and Jack were gently warned to brace themselves for the worst.

There were some very ill people in the Unit that day, they said, but at that moment in time I was the sickest.

And then the heart-breaking question: was there a Minister of a Priest they could contact?

Their first call was to our daughter Megan, who was on a work trip in Italy, oblivious to the grim events unfolding back home - sparking a frantic race against time to join them at the bedside. Mercifully and perhaps miraculously, we were reunited later that evening.

Meanwhile, the fight went on. My blood pressure remained stubbornly high, sparking a sub arachnoid haemorrhage. I’d had a stroke - a small one, but still a stroke.

Thankfully a CT scan days later confirmed that the bleed had stopped and there was no need for a neurosurgical intervention. A bullet had been dodged.

As for me, I lay there in the darkness, blissfully unaware of the fact that my life was literally in the hands of that devoted team of consultants, doctors and nurses who lavished incredible care on a stranger around the clock.

But while the lights were out life continued - after a fashion - as I languished in an induced coma.

Denied the stimulus of everyday life, my imagination ran riot, only these twilight flights of fancy seemed real. Why had my wife sold the house (she hadn’t), and how would I deal with my new found fame as one of the stars of a largely improvised TV drama (quite easily, it transpired)?

Others were darker, more nightmarish affairs. All nonsense in the cold light of day, of course, but deeply perplexing when that was in such short supply.

Curiously, there was one unifying theme - I could not move.

But on day 11 that all changed when I finally woke up.

A member of the ICU team spotted my family arriving that day and asked my wife ‘are you Shirley?’ and she nervously confirmed she was.

“Oh, that makes sense. He’s been asking for you,” she said, much to their relief.

Then I began to try an make sense of all those missing days.

And that time had certainly taken its toll on my body. I could barely move my arms or legs, the muscles wasted through inactivity and I had lost more than three stone in weight.

It was going to be a long journey ahead, though the process was undoubtedly eased by my family and the amazing, attentive medical team - each one, from consultant and nurse to pharmacist and porter, a star.

I soon lost count of the amount of times I was greeted by another smiling face telling me they were so pleased to see me sitting up and ‘looking so well’.

“I looked after you while you were sleeping,” they would say - and I didn’t doubt that for a second.

I stayed in Intensive Care for another four days, growing stronger all the while, benefiting enormously from the unstinting around the clock care.

These are truly remarkable people, working in the most challenging of environments - somehow balancing love and loss, hope and humour, dispensing medicine from the bleeding edge of healthcare, with a gentle kindness from the heart.

It’s all too easy to be sceptical of our NHS, but when you see a team of driven professionals working as one I defy anyone not to be humbled by their devotion, and moved by the tangible difference they make to patients in their darkest hour. A truly inspirational group of people.

Unbelievably, it was with a degree of sadness that I bade them all a fond farewell as I was wheeled down to A1, the acute respiratory ward where I was welcomed by some of the staff who had been there when I had arrived more than a fortnight earlier.

Many of the visitors greeted my family too, their friendship galvanised by shared experience. They were genuinely delighted with my outcome - even as many of them still faced terrible uncertainty.

By then my condition had stabilised and the emphasis switched to rehabilitation - and getting my feet back under me.

The first challenge was simply standing up but in time the dreaded Zimmer frame hoved into view.

The first faltering steps were agonising, but within a few short days I was shuffling a few more - until day three when I reached my destination - the toilets, and my first unaccompanied visit for weeks!

My confidence growing I was soon on the move again, this time to the rehab unit at the Mid Ulster Hospital in Magherafelt.

Very reminiscent of the old Massereene in Antrim, things moved at a slower pace at the Mid - which was just as well, given the steady clank of Zimmers along the corridors.

The physios were a talented bunch too, pushing the patients to impressive improvements that would have been considered impossible just a few days previously. Standing from a chair with your arms folded? Check. Climbing up and down stairs? Not a problem.

Ten days later - and quite a few pounds heavier - and I was ready for home.

And the support did not end there. Physio Oonagh and members of the Stroke Team visited me at home, offering encouragement and advice and within a few days, the frame was left to gather dust as I began to walk unaided.

As I said from the outset, I was a very lucky man - fortunate to get the very best care by being in the right place at the right time, and blessed to have the love of my wonderful family who have been at my side very step of the day.

As I now look ahead to making an excellent recovery, I thank each and every one of them from the bottom of my heart. I owe them all a huge debt I will never be able to repay.

As a footnote, I was recently contacted by a doctor from the Intensive Care Unit who is taking part in a UK-wide genetic research study involving people with critical illness and healthy volunteers.

Some of our genes affect how vulnerable we are to serious illness, and they hope that the project will help the development of better treatments for patients in the future. All they needed from me was a small blood sample. Would I mind?

After all they had done for me, how could I possibly say no?