Fast forward to November 2017 - 7 days incarcerated
A trip to hospital for a surgical procedure is generally planned to at least a certain extent. You know in advance when you'll be admitted and the expected duration of your stay.
Unless you're me.
After a whirlwind diagnosis of partial spinal cord compression and a crumbling vertebrae, my life suddenly went mad. Phone calls and emails between medical personnel were obviously made, yet they somehow failed to include me in these communications, leaving me in a state of stress knowing that I had something seriously wrong with me, but not what and when something was going to be done to fix it. There were certainly hints at procedures and timescales, but nothing concrete was forthcoming. All I knew was that I felt a considerable sense of urgency. If something wasn't done SOON, there was a high chance I could become paralysed from the waist down.
After a week of going back and forth on the phone with various doctors, nurses and PA's it was decided that I would have a procedure that involved inserting metal rods into my spine together with a little 'cement' to fix the crumbling bone. I was finally called in to hospital for a pre op assessment, where following various tests to determine the state of my general health, I was told I would be operated on 'soon' and to be prepared for a phone call to come into hospital at any time.
This phone call came at 8am on a Monday, 4 days after my pre op assessment. They wanted me in by 10am. It woke me up and threw me straight into a tail spin, getting last minute preparations and hospital packing done without the benefit of even a sip of coffee to spur me on. To say I morphed into a drunken headless chicken would be an understatement as I hobbled from one room to another, checking if I'd done this or that and forgetting to take my pain meds.
And then I was on my way.
Arriving at the hospital, I was taken into a side room to wait. At no point did anyone come in to talk to me about the operation as I sat there with an elderly couple - the husband was also waiting to have surgery. This was his third time being called in to the hospital, the previous 2 times he was sent back home due to the lack of a bed. The three of us made small talk, as you do, the wife complaining of how incompetent she felt the hospital was, and how they'd not been seen by anyone during the 4 hours they'd been waiting.
We waited. And we waited, until completely unexpectedly a nice young fella in scrubs came into the room, said my name and told me they were taking me down to theatre. Just like that. Shocked at the suddenness, I followed him down a few corridors, into a lift, down a few more corridors and arrived sweating, right behind him in the pre theatre area, probably looking much like a stunned mullet. Some would say the suddenness of this was a good thing, giving me less chance to panic - I just thought 'what a barmy way to run a hospital'.
A nurse gave me a 'flash your butt to the world' gown, an anaesthetist came to see me, I signed some forms, had a quick chat with the surgeon and before I knew it I was in theatre, enjoying the sleep of the dead.
I don't recall waking up or being in the recovery room which is surprising as with all previous surgeries I have clear memories of the waking up process. The drugs they used this time must have been enough to knock six elephants out. However, I do remember with far too much clarity the second I became aware of pain, which was worse than any pain I can ever remember feeling in my life. I wanted to die.
On the ward later, I writhed and wriggled and moaned and shouted during the night feeling like I'd been smashed in the back by a bus. No amount of pain killers were touching the pain, and I was taking A LOT. No one on the ward got very much sleep that night. In the harsh light of day I was embarrassed at disturbing the entire ward with my behaviour as I'm usually able to tolerate pain fairly well, but this had been something else entirely. Sincere apologies were made to the nursing team and those patients that were early risers before I'd had my first cup of tea.
I think I was forgiven.
Luckily for me - and everyone else - once we'd got the medication regime correct I slowly became more comfortable and was able to 'sit', read slump, semi upright in bed and have a good look around. Most of the women were there for similar operations with a smattering of severely bandaged heads. Me? I had oxygen tubes up my nose, cannulas in my veins and a catheter tube wrapped around my legs in a bizarre attempt to keep me chained to the bed. Like I was going anywhere!
It took a day or two before I was strong enough to have my cannulas and catheter removed but once they'd gone my recovery was fairly straightforward. I was up and walking on a zimmer and using the toilet and showers with no problems just 48 hours after the operation. As the pain increasingly lessened, my time on the ward became increasingly interesting - I'd go as far as to say enjoyable. I'd struck lucky with the mix of personalities on the ward and although I missed Lola incredibly, my fellow patients and most of the ward staff were a fabulous mix of characters and never a dull moment was had.
I was almost sad to leave.
A trip to hospital for a surgical procedure is generally planned to at least a certain extent. You know in advance when you'll be admitted and the expected duration of your stay.
Unless you're me.
After a whirlwind diagnosis of partial spinal cord compression and a crumbling vertebrae, my life suddenly went mad. Phone calls and emails between medical personnel were obviously made, yet they somehow failed to include me in these communications, leaving me in a state of stress knowing that I had something seriously wrong with me, but not what and when something was going to be done to fix it. There were certainly hints at procedures and timescales, but nothing concrete was forthcoming. All I knew was that I felt a considerable sense of urgency. If something wasn't done SOON, there was a high chance I could become paralysed from the waist down.
After a week of going back and forth on the phone with various doctors, nurses and PA's it was decided that I would have a procedure that involved inserting metal rods into my spine together with a little 'cement' to fix the crumbling bone. I was finally called in to hospital for a pre op assessment, where following various tests to determine the state of my general health, I was told I would be operated on 'soon' and to be prepared for a phone call to come into hospital at any time.
This phone call came at 8am on a Monday, 4 days after my pre op assessment. They wanted me in by 10am. It woke me up and threw me straight into a tail spin, getting last minute preparations and hospital packing done without the benefit of even a sip of coffee to spur me on. To say I morphed into a drunken headless chicken would be an understatement as I hobbled from one room to another, checking if I'd done this or that and forgetting to take my pain meds.
And then I was on my way.
Arriving at the hospital, I was taken into a side room to wait. At no point did anyone come in to talk to me about the operation as I sat there with an elderly couple - the husband was also waiting to have surgery. This was his third time being called in to the hospital, the previous 2 times he was sent back home due to the lack of a bed. The three of us made small talk, as you do, the wife complaining of how incompetent she felt the hospital was, and how they'd not been seen by anyone during the 4 hours they'd been waiting.
We waited. And we waited, until completely unexpectedly a nice young fella in scrubs came into the room, said my name and told me they were taking me down to theatre. Just like that. Shocked at the suddenness, I followed him down a few corridors, into a lift, down a few more corridors and arrived sweating, right behind him in the pre theatre area, probably looking much like a stunned mullet. Some would say the suddenness of this was a good thing, giving me less chance to panic - I just thought 'what a barmy way to run a hospital'.
A nurse gave me a 'flash your butt to the world' gown, an anaesthetist came to see me, I signed some forms, had a quick chat with the surgeon and before I knew it I was in theatre, enjoying the sleep of the dead.
I don't recall waking up or being in the recovery room which is surprising as with all previous surgeries I have clear memories of the waking up process. The drugs they used this time must have been enough to knock six elephants out. However, I do remember with far too much clarity the second I became aware of pain, which was worse than any pain I can ever remember feeling in my life. I wanted to die.
On the ward later, I writhed and wriggled and moaned and shouted during the night feeling like I'd been smashed in the back by a bus. No amount of pain killers were touching the pain, and I was taking A LOT. No one on the ward got very much sleep that night. In the harsh light of day I was embarrassed at disturbing the entire ward with my behaviour as I'm usually able to tolerate pain fairly well, but this had been something else entirely. Sincere apologies were made to the nursing team and those patients that were early risers before I'd had my first cup of tea.
I think I was forgiven.
Luckily for me - and everyone else - once we'd got the medication regime correct I slowly became more comfortable and was able to 'sit', read slump, semi upright in bed and have a good look around. Most of the women were there for similar operations with a smattering of severely bandaged heads. Me? I had oxygen tubes up my nose, cannulas in my veins and a catheter tube wrapped around my legs in a bizarre attempt to keep me chained to the bed. Like I was going anywhere!
It took a day or two before I was strong enough to have my cannulas and catheter removed but once they'd gone my recovery was fairly straightforward. I was up and walking on a zimmer and using the toilet and showers with no problems just 48 hours after the operation. As the pain increasingly lessened, my time on the ward became increasingly interesting - I'd go as far as to say enjoyable. I'd struck lucky with the mix of personalities on the ward and although I missed Lola incredibly, my fellow patients and most of the ward staff were a fabulous mix of characters and never a dull moment was had.
I was almost sad to leave.
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