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ventaJust in case you thought I'd resumed normal posting, fear not! The knee injury saga continues...
This entry describes me being in hospital. It's not especially graphic, but it does contain references to medical stuff and illness and post-operative issues. If you'd rather avoid that kind of thing, then the short version is that the operation was successful and I'm home now.
Day 142 - also known as July 11th - was the day scheduled for me to go and have reconstructive surgery on my snapped ligament. Due to the peculiar malice of hospitals (even private ones), I was required to present myself at the hospital (in Wimbledon) at 6:45am. There was then a small burst of admin, I was shown to my room, and then there was a large burst of admin. The concept of "paperless" has really not reached this particular hospital yet. Vast reams of forms were read, checked, filled in, scrumpled, smoothed, piled, shuffled and re-read by a nurse - still a member of the nightshift, it was so bloody early - and I was in.
He'd brought me a white hospital wristband, but went off to swap it for a scarlet one when I answered that yes, I have a mild allergy to hazelnuts. I'd assumed that that would not be especially relevant - and indeed, later on the anaesthetist gravely informed me that they were "unlikely to be serving hazelnuts in the operating theatre today" - but apparently they were taking no chances.
The nurse had even delivered me some delightful new fashionwear, which I was instructed to don. And some more paperwork so I could make my choice from the "post-op menu", the dinner menu, and the following morning's breakfast menu. The specialist swung by to check I understood, and consented to, what was going to happen. He introduced his anaesthetist and advised me I'd be heading to theatre in about two hours. He also advised ChrisC to go somewhere more interesting for most of the day :)
My room overlooked the very edge of Wimbledon Common. As he departed, I asked ChrisC to chuck some litter out as he went so that I could Womble-spot, but I think he forgot. I didn't see so much as a glimpse of a furry nose, even very early in the morning.
About three hours later someone collected me and walked me down to a little ante-room, popped me on a trolley, and started hooking me up to all the bits and bobs. "Your heart-rate is up," observed the anaesthetist's assistant, "but that's probably just because we're scary."
There was a certain amount of kerfuffle when it was revealed that I hadn't had a pregnancy test - it wasn't like I'd declined one, just no one had mentioned it up until then. On the one hand, we had someone who stuck firmly to the line that protocol said I had to have a test. On the other we had (a) the anaesthetist, who seemed perfectly content to accept my word and supporting evidence that I wasn't pregnant and (b) the consultant, who pointed out that since he was planning to use no x-rays and was going nowhere near my abdomen, it didn't matter anyway. There was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and some very polite arguing. I was more alarmed that every time object-y guy to'd or fro'd there was a howling gale coming in through the door which seemed to be blowing loose papers around like confetti. If the hospital lost your records that day, I'm very sorry, they're probably down the back of the counter in Anaesthesia 4.
Throughout this the anaesthetist had been lobbing various drugs in through an IV line (at least one of which I'll swear was a fat syringe full of PVA glue). I'm not actually entirely clear whether the pregnancy test argument was ever resolved, or whether the anaesthetist and his assistant (who both seemed pleasant, friendly, sensible people) just elected to go ahead anyway. Then a voice behind me asked what was my favourite holiday destination. Aha, I thought, that sounds like the sort of question you ask so that you can tell when the answerer has gone to sleep.
Me: I'm not sure of my favourite, but the holiday destination I go to most is Whitby, in North Yorkshire.
Voice: Whitby?
Me: Yes. It's a Victorian seaside town.
Voice: Most people don't
... and I never found out what people don't, because then I was in the recovery room where Mr Consultant (who was surprisingly stretchy and blurry and wouldn't stay still) was telling me that operation had gone very well. He may also have told me some more things, but I was only very vaguely awake and have no idea what they might have been.
I'll skip over the details of how the surgery works - if anyone is genuinely curious, then there is a description of the procedure here. The short version is that part of my hamstring has been pressed into service as a new ligament.
As I was wheeled back to my room, I was feeling pretty unwell and not looking forward to the part where I had to move (or be moved) from my trolley to my bed. Surprise! My room was strangely empty, my bed having made its way to join me. I was already in it. Sufficiently advanced admin is like magic.
The rest of the day can basically be summed up as confused, and vomity. My post-op meal showed up (a glass of juice, and a smoked salmon salad sandwich, exactly as ordered). Despite having a dry mouth that no amount of water seemed to be able to shift, I spent about a million years eating a quarter of the sandwich. Then I gave up and went back to sleep, and then woke up and was very ill. Repeatedly.
Nurses pottered in at intervals with a ludicrously hi-tech thingy for checking my blood pressure, heart rate and temperature. A couple of times they fetched me anti-sickness medication (which appeared totally ineffective). One kindly retrieved the bottle of fizzy water I'd brought with me from my bag, and let me have that instead of hospital-issue iced water. The nursing staff were all genuinely pleasant and helpful, but didn't really appear to be able to do much about the fact I felt bloody awful, the room was spinning, and various odd things seemed to be crawling up the walls.
I declined my evening meal (which, being a hater of food waste, I felt terribly guilty about). A member of the catering staff tried to talk me into it, so I was sick at her to prove my point. At which point she suggested ice cream, which was weird. We compromised on a fruit salad, which I ate later in the evening. Sadly, I remained dizzy, drowsy to the point of vaguely conscious, and (according to expert witnesses currently sitting in my living room) thoroughly incoherent. At ten pm I took my evening painkillers, and jolly fed up, went to sleep for the night.
I woke just before six feeling a lot better. Good, right, that's the after-effects of anaesthesia out of the way. I can lie back and enjoy my nice bed and nice meals delivered. Also all these trashy novels I stocked up on. I had my morning painkillers, and a little doze, and by the time breakfast arrived I was feeling a bit undecided but logic suggested I take the poached eggs, toast and fruit on. Then I went back to sleep. By the time ChrisC showed up to visit I was generally off life again, basically feeling both horribly drunk and cripplingly hungover at the same time, with extra vertigo and hallucinations. The physio came to see me, but backed away offering to come back later. A nurse looked sympathetic, and suggested that I probably wasn't going to be discharged at 11 as expected. She consulted my drugs chart, checked how many green and yellow pills I'd had before breakfast and politely suggested that (a) the sickness, dizziness, hallucinations and everything else horrid were almost certainly the side-effects of Tramadol (an opiate painkiller) and (b) a 100mg dose was rather high for someone of my size anyway. She brought me two forms of anti-nausea medication - neither of which made any difference. Lunch showed up, so I did my best with it, and got two spoonsful of soup into the process before my breakfast came back (I still hate food waste, so Chris threw himself nobly into the breach and ate my unwanted lunch). I warned him off my old friend, the fruit salad, which I kept for later and ate in stages through the afternoon.
The physio came back several times, until we decided I was just about OK to attempt the process of walking. One of their discharge requirements for someone with mobility restrictions is that they have received training on how to do stairs, and demonstrated competence. I got a few yards down the corridor before wobbling alarmingly, breaking out into profuse sweating, and having to be brought a chair. Back to bed. The extremely patient physio agreed to come back later.
Throughout the previous day I'd been struggling with something whose acronym I forget, but which basically means "inability to wee after surgery". Eventually I was able to report that yes, I had been to the loo, but even 24 hours later I still felt like I was doing a very poor job of it. I raised it with a nurse, who promptly produced a machine which measures how much urine is in your bladder - immediately after going to the loo, apparently mine made it to "hmm, not good" (106ml) but not into "worrying" (150ml). She gave me some advice about drinking and promised to keep an eye on it. Later, having put a nurse to all the trouble of fetching the machine again, the entire process went completely normally for the first time and she triumphantly pronounced 0ml.
I went off and did my stair training and was certified good to leave. Washed, dressed and with the world only a little bit spinny and shifty, ChrisC drove me home. I did pick up my prescription of Tramadol, with unofficial instructions from a nurse to only take a half dose, and only then when going to bed and if I felt my leg was very painful. I mentioned to the pharmacist that I may not be taking the Tramadol and she agreed: "I wouldn't either, it makes me see things". Since I'd already declined the ibuprofen (which gives me a very bad stomach), that left me with over-the-counter paracetamol.
Fortunately, as it was after I first injured myself, getting up and walking about is painful but actually sitting still isn't that bad. I guess opiates and I are just not going to be friends.
This entry describes me being in hospital. It's not especially graphic, but it does contain references to medical stuff and illness and post-operative issues. If you'd rather avoid that kind of thing, then the short version is that the operation was successful and I'm home now.
Day 142 - also known as July 11th - was the day scheduled for me to go and have reconstructive surgery on my snapped ligament. Due to the peculiar malice of hospitals (even private ones), I was required to present myself at the hospital (in Wimbledon) at 6:45am. There was then a small burst of admin, I was shown to my room, and then there was a large burst of admin. The concept of "paperless" has really not reached this particular hospital yet. Vast reams of forms were read, checked, filled in, scrumpled, smoothed, piled, shuffled and re-read by a nurse - still a member of the nightshift, it was so bloody early - and I was in.
He'd brought me a white hospital wristband, but went off to swap it for a scarlet one when I answered that yes, I have a mild allergy to hazelnuts. I'd assumed that that would not be especially relevant - and indeed, later on the anaesthetist gravely informed me that they were "unlikely to be serving hazelnuts in the operating theatre today" - but apparently they were taking no chances.
The nurse had even delivered me some delightful new fashionwear, which I was instructed to don. And some more paperwork so I could make my choice from the "post-op menu", the dinner menu, and the following morning's breakfast menu. The specialist swung by to check I understood, and consented to, what was going to happen. He introduced his anaesthetist and advised me I'd be heading to theatre in about two hours. He also advised ChrisC to go somewhere more interesting for most of the day :)
My room overlooked the very edge of Wimbledon Common. As he departed, I asked ChrisC to chuck some litter out as he went so that I could Womble-spot, but I think he forgot. I didn't see so much as a glimpse of a furry nose, even very early in the morning.
About three hours later someone collected me and walked me down to a little ante-room, popped me on a trolley, and started hooking me up to all the bits and bobs. "Your heart-rate is up," observed the anaesthetist's assistant, "but that's probably just because we're scary."
There was a certain amount of kerfuffle when it was revealed that I hadn't had a pregnancy test - it wasn't like I'd declined one, just no one had mentioned it up until then. On the one hand, we had someone who stuck firmly to the line that protocol said I had to have a test. On the other we had (a) the anaesthetist, who seemed perfectly content to accept my word and supporting evidence that I wasn't pregnant and (b) the consultant, who pointed out that since he was planning to use no x-rays and was going nowhere near my abdomen, it didn't matter anyway. There was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and some very polite arguing. I was more alarmed that every time object-y guy to'd or fro'd there was a howling gale coming in through the door which seemed to be blowing loose papers around like confetti. If the hospital lost your records that day, I'm very sorry, they're probably down the back of the counter in Anaesthesia 4.
Throughout this the anaesthetist had been lobbing various drugs in through an IV line (at least one of which I'll swear was a fat syringe full of PVA glue). I'm not actually entirely clear whether the pregnancy test argument was ever resolved, or whether the anaesthetist and his assistant (who both seemed pleasant, friendly, sensible people) just elected to go ahead anyway. Then a voice behind me asked what was my favourite holiday destination. Aha, I thought, that sounds like the sort of question you ask so that you can tell when the answerer has gone to sleep.
Me: I'm not sure of my favourite, but the holiday destination I go to most is Whitby, in North Yorkshire.
Voice: Whitby?
Me: Yes. It's a Victorian seaside town.
Voice: Most people don't
... and I never found out what people don't, because then I was in the recovery room where Mr Consultant (who was surprisingly stretchy and blurry and wouldn't stay still) was telling me that operation had gone very well. He may also have told me some more things, but I was only very vaguely awake and have no idea what they might have been.
I'll skip over the details of how the surgery works - if anyone is genuinely curious, then there is a description of the procedure here. The short version is that part of my hamstring has been pressed into service as a new ligament.
As I was wheeled back to my room, I was feeling pretty unwell and not looking forward to the part where I had to move (or be moved) from my trolley to my bed. Surprise! My room was strangely empty, my bed having made its way to join me. I was already in it. Sufficiently advanced admin is like magic.
The rest of the day can basically be summed up as confused, and vomity. My post-op meal showed up (a glass of juice, and a smoked salmon salad sandwich, exactly as ordered). Despite having a dry mouth that no amount of water seemed to be able to shift, I spent about a million years eating a quarter of the sandwich. Then I gave up and went back to sleep, and then woke up and was very ill. Repeatedly.
Nurses pottered in at intervals with a ludicrously hi-tech thingy for checking my blood pressure, heart rate and temperature. A couple of times they fetched me anti-sickness medication (which appeared totally ineffective). One kindly retrieved the bottle of fizzy water I'd brought with me from my bag, and let me have that instead of hospital-issue iced water. The nursing staff were all genuinely pleasant and helpful, but didn't really appear to be able to do much about the fact I felt bloody awful, the room was spinning, and various odd things seemed to be crawling up the walls.
I declined my evening meal (which, being a hater of food waste, I felt terribly guilty about). A member of the catering staff tried to talk me into it, so I was sick at her to prove my point. At which point she suggested ice cream, which was weird. We compromised on a fruit salad, which I ate later in the evening. Sadly, I remained dizzy, drowsy to the point of vaguely conscious, and (according to expert witnesses currently sitting in my living room) thoroughly incoherent. At ten pm I took my evening painkillers, and jolly fed up, went to sleep for the night.
I woke just before six feeling a lot better. Good, right, that's the after-effects of anaesthesia out of the way. I can lie back and enjoy my nice bed and nice meals delivered. Also all these trashy novels I stocked up on. I had my morning painkillers, and a little doze, and by the time breakfast arrived I was feeling a bit undecided but logic suggested I take the poached eggs, toast and fruit on. Then I went back to sleep. By the time ChrisC showed up to visit I was generally off life again, basically feeling both horribly drunk and cripplingly hungover at the same time, with extra vertigo and hallucinations. The physio came to see me, but backed away offering to come back later. A nurse looked sympathetic, and suggested that I probably wasn't going to be discharged at 11 as expected. She consulted my drugs chart, checked how many green and yellow pills I'd had before breakfast and politely suggested that (a) the sickness, dizziness, hallucinations and everything else horrid were almost certainly the side-effects of Tramadol (an opiate painkiller) and (b) a 100mg dose was rather high for someone of my size anyway. She brought me two forms of anti-nausea medication - neither of which made any difference. Lunch showed up, so I did my best with it, and got two spoonsful of soup into the process before my breakfast came back (I still hate food waste, so Chris threw himself nobly into the breach and ate my unwanted lunch). I warned him off my old friend, the fruit salad, which I kept for later and ate in stages through the afternoon.
The physio came back several times, until we decided I was just about OK to attempt the process of walking. One of their discharge requirements for someone with mobility restrictions is that they have received training on how to do stairs, and demonstrated competence. I got a few yards down the corridor before wobbling alarmingly, breaking out into profuse sweating, and having to be brought a chair. Back to bed. The extremely patient physio agreed to come back later.
Throughout the previous day I'd been struggling with something whose acronym I forget, but which basically means "inability to wee after surgery". Eventually I was able to report that yes, I had been to the loo, but even 24 hours later I still felt like I was doing a very poor job of it. I raised it with a nurse, who promptly produced a machine which measures how much urine is in your bladder - immediately after going to the loo, apparently mine made it to "hmm, not good" (106ml) but not into "worrying" (150ml). She gave me some advice about drinking and promised to keep an eye on it. Later, having put a nurse to all the trouble of fetching the machine again, the entire process went completely normally for the first time and she triumphantly pronounced 0ml.
I went off and did my stair training and was certified good to leave. Washed, dressed and with the world only a little bit spinny and shifty, ChrisC drove me home. I did pick up my prescription of Tramadol, with unofficial instructions from a nurse to only take a half dose, and only then when going to bed and if I felt my leg was very painful. I mentioned to the pharmacist that I may not be taking the Tramadol and she agreed: "I wouldn't either, it makes me see things". Since I'd already declined the ibuprofen (which gives me a very bad stomach), that left me with over-the-counter paracetamol.
Fortunately, as it was after I first injured myself, getting up and walking about is painful but actually sitting still isn't that bad. I guess opiates and I are just not going to be friends.
