6am Wed 15th April. My brother's birthday and time to get up to head to the hospital. My mother kindly drops me off at ODP 6 at 7am and I hobble to the ridiculously located orthopedics department. At reception I am told to go into the waiting room. No good mornings, no welcomes, no calming of nerves. In the waiting room there are already around ten people - each with their little overnight bag and reading material. There's a strange camaraderie in the room - no one wants to impose but everyone is warm and friendly.
Within 15 minutes I am called to see the nurse. Go through the check list again. Then through to the changing area.... Picture the scene. Small narrow room. Down the left wall four large wheel chairs, each with a blanket, a theatre gown, and theatre pants (ugh!). On the right a number of large plastic boxes piled onto a theatre trolley - each with a patient's name and a ward number. With horror I see that I am heading to Ward 109. This is a trauma ward - in essence the same as 108 where I was the last time. There is no god - no justice. The room is reminiscent of a mental health institution circa 1940. I am about to get changed when the nurse rushes in. There is some confusion. I am not first on the list after all. I am second, or actually, perhaps I am sixth - there are two competing lists and no one seems to know which is the correct one. I am sent back to the waiting room - to wait.
A nurse turns the TV on and we are subjected (mostly against our will) to GMTV and then day time telly. There is some dreadful show (Jeremy Kyle?) where couples fight about their collapsed relationships and then take a lie detector test so that Jeremy can shout at them in front of a studio audience (and presumably another 1000 odd people watching in hospitals around the country). No one wants to be seen to be watching this - but where else to look? There is no window in the waiting room and we cant really stare at each other...
We form friendships in the waiting room depending on where we are sitting. Bill, beside me, has a hip flask of whisky in his bag and is ready for his right knee replacement. The friendly woman beside him is having her hip done. The youngish deaf guy down the end has just been told that his operation has been cancelled - for the second time in two weeks.
As we all get to know each other, the procedure unfolds. Each patient is seen by a nurse, one of the theatre medics, and an anaesthetist. Once the theatre teams leave for the theatres - they don't return - thus the need to be in early to see them. So even if an operation is scheduled for 2pm, the patient still needs to arrive around 7. My junior doctor sees me in what can only be described as a store room - there is a wheelchair for me and no chair for him. So he stands and I sit. He draws a black arrow on my leg with a marker, asks me if I have any questions and then leaves. I think I knew more about my operation than he did.
An hour or two later I am called by Dr Swan. He is my anaesthetist. This is a good sign. He has decided I will have a general anaesthetic as there is a one in ten chance I would have severe headaches if he gives me a spinal. This is news to me - especially as I was recommended a spinal for the last orthopeadic operation. Perhaps I needed more pain relief that time? He is kind and helpful. I am to take my painkillers with a sip of water.
20 minutes later, at around 1pm, I am sent to the changing room - again. I struggle to get the gown on and complain about the theatre pants. Apparently these monsters are to protect my dignity. A green oblong of nappy type cotton with a tie at each corner. I protest that it would be more dignified not to bother with the pants at all. A silent response.
I sit in my chair, wrap myself in my blanket and watch my right foot turn purple with cold. Then suddenly I'm called. I recognise my theatre porter immediately - same guy as last time - tats and chewing gum - I love him! We race down to the theatre in a disorderly fashion - burst through the double doors and arrive in the theatre complex. More familiar faces. My anaesthetic technicians are again the same as the last time - and they remember me. There's plenty of backchat and its not polite. I relax. This is all going to be fine. I transfer onto the theatre trolley and am wheeled into the anaesthetic room. I show off my 'free flap' skin graft - I'm hoping they will be impressed - the last time they saw my leg it was a bloody open mess. I am pricked, tubed and stickered, the mask goes on and within a few minutes I am out for the count - my last mumblings oddly requesting Bach to be played during my operation.
I wake up in the recovery room some three hours later and am wheeled to Ward 109 to meet my three fellow inmates - the youngest is 87. This doesn't bode well.
Within 15 minutes I am called to see the nurse. Go through the check list again. Then through to the changing area.... Picture the scene. Small narrow room. Down the left wall four large wheel chairs, each with a blanket, a theatre gown, and theatre pants (ugh!). On the right a number of large plastic boxes piled onto a theatre trolley - each with a patient's name and a ward number. With horror I see that I am heading to Ward 109. This is a trauma ward - in essence the same as 108 where I was the last time. There is no god - no justice. The room is reminiscent of a mental health institution circa 1940. I am about to get changed when the nurse rushes in. There is some confusion. I am not first on the list after all. I am second, or actually, perhaps I am sixth - there are two competing lists and no one seems to know which is the correct one. I am sent back to the waiting room - to wait.
A nurse turns the TV on and we are subjected (mostly against our will) to GMTV and then day time telly. There is some dreadful show (Jeremy Kyle?) where couples fight about their collapsed relationships and then take a lie detector test so that Jeremy can shout at them in front of a studio audience (and presumably another 1000 odd people watching in hospitals around the country). No one wants to be seen to be watching this - but where else to look? There is no window in the waiting room and we cant really stare at each other...
We form friendships in the waiting room depending on where we are sitting. Bill, beside me, has a hip flask of whisky in his bag and is ready for his right knee replacement. The friendly woman beside him is having her hip done. The youngish deaf guy down the end has just been told that his operation has been cancelled - for the second time in two weeks.
As we all get to know each other, the procedure unfolds. Each patient is seen by a nurse, one of the theatre medics, and an anaesthetist. Once the theatre teams leave for the theatres - they don't return - thus the need to be in early to see them. So even if an operation is scheduled for 2pm, the patient still needs to arrive around 7. My junior doctor sees me in what can only be described as a store room - there is a wheelchair for me and no chair for him. So he stands and I sit. He draws a black arrow on my leg with a marker, asks me if I have any questions and then leaves. I think I knew more about my operation than he did.
An hour or two later I am called by Dr Swan. He is my anaesthetist. This is a good sign. He has decided I will have a general anaesthetic as there is a one in ten chance I would have severe headaches if he gives me a spinal. This is news to me - especially as I was recommended a spinal for the last orthopeadic operation. Perhaps I needed more pain relief that time? He is kind and helpful. I am to take my painkillers with a sip of water.
20 minutes later, at around 1pm, I am sent to the changing room - again. I struggle to get the gown on and complain about the theatre pants. Apparently these monsters are to protect my dignity. A green oblong of nappy type cotton with a tie at each corner. I protest that it would be more dignified not to bother with the pants at all. A silent response.
I sit in my chair, wrap myself in my blanket and watch my right foot turn purple with cold. Then suddenly I'm called. I recognise my theatre porter immediately - same guy as last time - tats and chewing gum - I love him! We race down to the theatre in a disorderly fashion - burst through the double doors and arrive in the theatre complex. More familiar faces. My anaesthetic technicians are again the same as the last time - and they remember me. There's plenty of backchat and its not polite. I relax. This is all going to be fine. I transfer onto the theatre trolley and am wheeled into the anaesthetic room. I show off my 'free flap' skin graft - I'm hoping they will be impressed - the last time they saw my leg it was a bloody open mess. I am pricked, tubed and stickered, the mask goes on and within a few minutes I am out for the count - my last mumblings oddly requesting Bach to be played during my operation.
I wake up in the recovery room some three hours later and am wheeled to Ward 109 to meet my three fellow inmates - the youngest is 87. This doesn't bode well.
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