Whilst I was unconscious - From my husband's eyes

By the time Alex called me to let me know she was going in for an emergency operation, I had been awake for over 24 hours and didn't know what to think. Part of me wanted to believe that the operation would be done quickly and simply and that there would be no need to be worried. The rest of me heard the obvious terror in Alex's voice when she told me she loved me before the end of the call. I wanted more than anything to be able to get to the hospital to be with her, but I respected her request for me to stay put at home and see her after everything was done.

It wasn't until I got to the hospital and tried to find out where Alex would be taken after the operation that I had my first inkling that something more serious might have happened. At first I decided to go to the NEU ward, as this is where she had been taken after her gastric bypass in June, however I was told that she was not scheduled to have a bed there. I then walked down to the ward she had been on when I had last seen her that morning, where I was told that following the operation she would be taken into the ICU. Desperate for more news, I headed down to the ICU and spoke to a doctor who told me that although he couldn't give me any information about how the surgery was going, he would take my details and give me call once Alex was out. What followed was the longest three hours of my life, where me and Alex's family sat around a table in Costa glancing nervously at the time, steadily growing more and more frightened. As we watched the afternoon give way to evening, we periodically kept phoning the ICU, desperate to get some news, but each time we were just told that she was still in surgery. By the time it got to 6pm, we all decided to get another coffee and we were waiting in line when I suddenly got a call.

I had expected to hear from the doctor I had given my number to in ICU, but instead was told it was Mr Miller, which meant he must have called almost as soon as he left theatre. I thought he was just calling to let us know that Alex's surgery had been a success, however he gravely asked whether it was possible to speak to me in person, which immediately made us all terrified. Without hesitation we abandoned our place in the line and hurried down the long corridor to the ICU and were swiftly buzzed onto the ward. Although we were quickly met by a doctor, who ushered us hastily back into the relatives rooms, we caught a fleeting glimpse of Alex, with a maze of tubes and wires springing from her. Alex's mum was instantly distraught, fearing the worst, but I was determined to be optimistic and told everyone that it was probably just to make sure she was given plenty of time to heal. Even though I tried to reassure everyone that everything was going to be fine, there was one thing that had me scared – Alex was on a ventilator.

After we were shown to the room, we were left alone for almost twenty minutes, during which everyone fixated on Alex lying in amongst the myriad tubes and machines. Her mum kept jumping to the darkest conclusions, assuming she was terribly ill and at death's door; that her greatest fear was going to be realised and she would lose her eldest daughter months after her son. Although I didn't want to show it, I was just as worried – not really that she was going to die, as I had convinced myself that there couldn't possibly be anything seriously wrong with Alex – but that there was something I should have noticed earlier in the evening, that might have meant she had gotten seen to sooner.

Into all this anguish and worry came Mr Miller and my hope that he would simply tell us that the operation had taken a bit longer, but otherwise had been successful. Such hopes were quickly dispelled by the grim look on his face. The first thing that he told us was that contrary to what we had first thought, it had not been a gall stone.  She had something called acute mesenteric ischemia; her gut had become trapped and had become starved of oxygen and died. He went onto explain that it wasn't only a small section of intestine, but almost all of it, which he had no choice but to remove. Far from being out of the woods, Alex was, at present, lying with her abdomen open with her bowel in three, disconnected parts. She would need to have a second operation to have them all connected together once he was sure that the remaining bowel would remain healthy and he hoped he would be able to do this the following day.

I normally find it irritating when people misuse the word stunned, but that is precisely how I felt at that moment. I don't think I was capable of fully processing what Mr Miller had said apart from the fact that he would be essentially reversing the gastric bypass. Its funny, the thing I was most worried about at that moment was having to tell Alex that after all her hard work, her bypass had been reversed. After that, it dawned on me that the operation had been open, which was something that Alex had been adamantly against. This was yet another thing she would have to be told, but I don't think it had really sunk in just how seriously ill Alex was.

Both of her parents seemed to grasp the situation much better than me, which in a way was much, much worse, as they realised just how bad things were. I don't think I even took it in when Mr Miller said that someone who was twice Alex's age might not have survived the illness, let alone the subsequent surgeries.

I asked a number of questions that, in hindsight, might have seemed idiotic to an outsider; As Alex had lost most of her bowel, would she be given a transplant? No. The intestinal tract was one of the most immuno-active parts of the body, so it would be very risky. As her bypass had been reversed, would she be she be back to square one, likely to start gaining weight quickly? Again, no. He was more concerned about the possibility that she would be unable to absorb nutrients sufficiently, which would cause rapid weight loss. Indeed, would she ever be able to become pregnant now that this had happened? He didn't see any reason why Alex wouldn't be able to carry a child, but it was far too early to comment.

When he eventually left us no-one knew what to think. Her mum and sister were both distraught, although I am sure that for all of the brave face that her dad had, he was feeling just as terrified. I think I was still in a state of unreality, unable to process what we had been told. It could have been shock or exhaustion – perhaps a combination of both – but I just remember me trying to console Alex's sister by telling her that whatever had happened to her, it hadn't been that serious, so there was no reason to worry.

After what seemed like an age, we were finally called through and told that we could briefly go and see Alex, although she was unconscious and heavily sedated. It was at this point that it became real for everyone. It is all well and good being told that something had happened to the person you love most, but it is easy to convince yourself that there was some kind mix-up and it wasn't MY Alex. I cannot begin to describe the utter devastation of seeing the person you have shared that last six years with lying on a bed with what seemed like a dozen different tubes coming out of them. There was a plethora of different tubes about her; drips containing saline, pain relief and sedatives; a catheter; the ventilator going into her open mouth; two or three drains from her open wounds and another from her nose. I think if it was just that, it might have been bearable, but seeing the ventilator tube protruding from Alex's open mouth was horrible – to know that without that great hulking machine, she wouldn't be able to breathe. We did the only thing we could think of, knowing that in all likelihood she didn't know we were even there, stroking her hair, holding her hand and telling her that we were here and loved her.

We didn't have long with her before we were told that we should go home and rest, as she was in the best possible place and that we would be contacted if they needed us. In these circumstances you almost hope that they never have to contact you, especially with someone in such a critical state. After saying fraught goodbyes, Alex's family and I left in silence. What could we talk about except for her? But how could we bring ourselves to discuss it, as it only made everything seem so much more real. I'm not sure if I remember the journey home, just being dropped off outside the door and being asked if there was anything I wanted or needed. I knew they were all suffering, as I was, and they needed time to deal with the enormity of the situation, so I said I was fine and they should get off home. There was only one person I needed around me right then, but she was miles away in a hospital bed, completely unaware of anything that had happened, so I opted for solitude.

I knew that I had to tell everyone in my family what had happened to Alex, so I called my sisters, parents and aunt and managed to keep myself composed, although it seemed like a superhuman effort. My family rallied around me, asking if there was anything I needed – my sister and aunt actually got together and baked me a load of pies, pasties and cakes so I would have quick food.

The last call I made was to my work to let them know the situation and to tell them I wouldn't be in the following day, for obvious reasons. I agreed to start working half days when I came back to work, as that gave me an opportunity to visit Alex in the afternoon.

After the phone call it was just me again, alone in a home that was meant to have Alex in by my side. I tried to watch some television, but found it impossible to concentrate on anything. I then tried to play a game, something that should have helped take my mind off the fact that she wasn't here. It didn't. Finally, I decided to try and surrender myself to sleep in the hope that things would have changed for the better the next day. It was then that I broke down under the strain of everything that had happened and I sobbed and cried, partly because Alex wasn't lying next to me, but mostly because I had no idea when, or indeed if, she would be again. It finally hit me; Alex was seriously ill in hospital and still had another operation to go before we would know if she was OK

When I woke up the next day I knew that nothing bad had happened over night as there had been no missed calls from the hospital, or indeed from Alex's parents, but I still wanted to check with the ICU, just to make sure and was told that she had been stable all night and there had been nothing worrying to report. I had go over to the hospital with Alex's parents to see her before the second operation, which was scheduled for early afternoon. As we all gathered around her, Alex appeared to respond to us, but quickly started to attempt to pull out the ventilator and various drips. We were told by the nurse that the sedative had been briefly withdrawn to see how she was responding, but it was still upsetting seeing someone so clearly distressed.

As there were so many of us there – Alex's grandparents had rushed down, so there were seven people in total – we had to take it in turns to be with her. It shames me to say it, but part of me resented the time that the rest of her family spent with her, as I wanted desperately to spend every second I could with her. Before we knew it, we were being told that Alex was being prepared for surgery and we should wait to hear back. Thus started another excruciatingly long session in Costa, constantly glancing at our phones in hope that a little more time would have somehow slipped by. I don't remember precisely how long it was, but I just remember the relief when we were told she had come out of surgery.

Back down in the relatives rooms, Mr Miller said that he had successfully reattached the three parts of Alex's digestive tract and he thought that there was just enough bowel left for Alex to live a fairly normal life. We were told that we would be able to go in and see Alex in a while – we were told they were busy inserting a central line – but she would still be kept unconscious until the following day to give her body more time to adjust and start healing. When we finally got called through, she looked much the same as before, with an extra tube or two sticking out of her, but it still felt wrong. Alex wasn't supposed to be just lying there, not talking or moving; it just felt wrong and upsetting.

For some reason best known to my brain, I tried to cope with the situation by examining the surrounding machinery in detail, asking the staff anything that I wasn't sure about. Quite why a relative of a seriously ill patient would choose to find out what each of the monitors were measuring, or indeed why they would find it interesting that the ventilator has a saline drip attached to it in order to hydrate the air, is beyond me. Although we were all still worried about what would happen to Alex, when we left the ICU that night, we at least knew that Alex had survived both operations and seemed to be responding well.

That evening I actually managed to watch a film and put in a few hours on some game or another, but I still wound up in bed crying myself to sleep because Alex was not with me and I was still terrified that something would happen to her.

Before I knew it, it was morning again and time for me to go into work. Some people, Alex included, can't understand why I chose to go into work when she was still in intensive care, but it was just my way of coping. I knew that in work I would just listen to some music and get into a zone where hours could pass without be being fully aware. Of course, before I started work, I had to call the hospital and make sure that Alex had been OK over night – she had.

Just as I was finishing work I received a call from the hospital saying that Alex was awake and off the ventilator. I pretty much ran almost two miles across York to get to her.