Fergus Finlay: I survived a health scare and learned something profound

After a few weeks in hospital, I've learned about love and support and working through, and how remarkable my family is

A long day of preparation on the day I was admitted was followed by a long bit of surgery, and then arrival back at my bed (in a very groggy state) to the welcoming smiles of my lady wife and my daughter Mandy. File picture

I’ve been on an adventure of discovery. There’s been fear and pain. But every dark moment has been accompanied by light. 

I don’t suppose the adventure is over yet; but my goodness what I’ve learned! Most of all, if I’m being honest, that I’m surrounded by women of enormous quality.

It began the day I went to my GP because I was feeling far from well. To my surprise, later my horror, she told me my symptoms suggested the possibility of cauda equina syndrome. There’s a phrase you don’t hear too often. And believe me you really don’t want to.

It’s a very rare condition, caused by discs in your back compressing or collapsing onto the set of nerve endings at the base of your spine (those nerve endings are shaped like a horse’s tail, hence the name of the syndrome). 

Without immediate surgical intervention, the condition can result in lifelong incontinence and permanent paralysis below the waist. My GP said she was making an emergency referral to the only hospital in Ireland that could respond immediately. 

I didn’t want to go — it’s a large for profit hospital owned by a French equity company. There wasn’t a choice, and the emergency nature of the business was confirmed by the fact that while Frieda and I were driving there, the hospital rang my mobile to ensure I was on the way.

When we arrived a member of staff was waiting at the door. First to ensure I got to “imaging” as quickly as possible. And second, to relieve me of €1,500 before admission — that was on top of my (admittedly modest) health insurance. 

That’s top-end corporate medicine for you.

A total revelation

But guess what? The “imaging” and a several days stay confirmed that I didn’t have cauda equina syndrome after all. I had a collection of other bits and pieces that had knocked me flat, and one pretty bad thing that needed to be removed pretty sharpish.

So another urgent referral, this time to a much less corporate hospital and a brilliant surgeon. (Actually, not just a brilliant surgeon, as I was to discover, but a guy with a brilliant team around him. I’m probably not supposed to be mentioning names, but Lynda and Emma became heroes to me.) 

The second hospital was St Vincents. I’m only saying that because I wrote a highly critical piece about it and its management structure some years ago. The culture of the entire place has undergone a massive transformation, and I have to say its ethos shone through every minute I was there.

Which isn’t to say I enjoyed it all. A long day of preparation on the day I was admitted (a Friday) was followed by a long bit of surgery, and then arrival back at my bed (in a very groggy state) to the welcoming smiles of my lady wife and my daughter Mandy. 

We had both been worried about Mandy — you know her, and you know she has Down Syndrome. I half expected weepiness and high-level anxiety. But she was cheerful, jolly and ready to do whatever was necessary to get me better. 

She was a total revelation — and the entire staff of the hospital believe she has the making of a great nurse.

Concern over my Irish Examiner column

I awoke the following morning in high anxiety myself. The first thing on my mind was that I had a column to deliver to the Irish Examiner, and there was no way I was missing that. But there was also no way I could do it. 

I knew what I wanted to say and I’d made a bit of a start the day before going into hospital, but the combination of drugs and post-operative pain meant that every time I touched the keyboard nothing but gibberish appeared on the screen.

That’s when daughter Emma arrived. And for the first time in my life, relaxed by her calmness and open willingness to do whatever it took, I gave dictation. I handed her over my tablet and actually dictated a whole column. 

Emma suppressed every urge to correct me when I rambled and just typed furiously. And perfectly. When she turned the screen for me to see, there wasn’t a typo anywhere.

“How many words?,” said I (Emma knows I have a bee in my bonnet that every column must have exactly 1200 words when it leaves my computer). She checked and told me there were 1212. 

So we spent a half-hour together finding the extra 12 words. It was my column, but I couldn’t have gotten it to the paper on time without her help.

And I can’t get over the sneaky feeling that she made it tighter and better, without claiming a penny of ownership. I was staggered by her ease and professionalism, digging her delirious father out of a hole like it was a thing of nothing. 

And she had the grace to compliment my dictation skills!

Support after surgery

The biggest problem I had to deal with after the surgery — and it will be with me for a couple of months or two — was what I’m going to call self-care. It is, I’m afraid to say, a rather less than romantic business, not for the faint-hearted. 

Although the two nurses I mentioned earlier gave me the confidence to do a lot of it myself, when you’re still in the post-operative phase you need some support.

Of course I knew I could rely 100% on Frieda, but Sarah (our youngest daughter) was having none of it. “I’ll be here whenever you need it,” was all she said. And I know I can count absolutely on her. 

She can be squeamish about stuff — and the stuff I’m talking about would make anyone squeamish — but anything I’ve asked of her has been done with a smile and a laugh. It’s been brilliant to know she’s got my back. (And by the way she’s no mean editor either!) 

With all the help and support — and yes, even a grumpy old man has to admit the love — a week in pain in a hospital bed can still give rise to the odd dark night of the soul. And I was heading for one of them in the middle of the week, feeling pretty down, when the door opened and the Shillelagh gang arrived. 

Vicky (second daughter) and Mikey and Katie, among the greatest grandchildren ever invented. They’d made the two hour trip knowing there was a two-hour trip home and school in the morning.

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It’s tough on young’uns, this kind of thing. They’re not sure what the future holds and it’s no fun looking at their grandad in a bed. But if that’s what they felt they didn’t show it. 

Instead we chatted like old cronies in the snug, and after they left I slept like a baby, thanks to the Shillelagh gang.

Listen, I’m not playing the hero here. The last few weeks have been weeks from hell. But I’m through it and heading out the other side. 

I’m different now — not so much because I’ve survived a health scare, but more because I’ve learned something profound. About love and support and working through, and how remarkable my family is.