On Wednesday morning my neighbour dropped me at the Day Surgery Unit at 7.15. The waiting room was surprisingly busy, surprisingly cold and bereft of mental simulation. The receptionist (also a nurse) had lost the list for Theatre 18. Being on Theatre 21 list meant by interest was purely theoretical. Why wasn't the list on a computer file somewhere? Why was she phoning other departments to ask them to fax it to her? Whatever happened to a health care service fit for the 21st century? Or is it simply that so many people need access to the list, that a computer file would be less manageable?
Around an hour later I meet my nurse and we do the usual checking and testing. Next - the anaesthetist who is under the impression I am having something done to my elbow. Having corrected her we discuss anaesthetic options. She decides on a general. Apparently I am fit and healthy. Then the minion of my consultant draws an arrow on my leg with a black felt pen. Minion, I guess, probably isn't fair - but I can't quite remember who he was. At this point I am second on the list. Then suddenly I am first. Whipped into a changing room. Gown, hat, slippers and some weird space blanket thing which is to be my dressing gown on the way to theatre. Onto the trolley and down the corridor at a brisk pace.
In the anaesthetic room (which is horribly small) the desultory conversation turns nasty over the Edinburgh Trams. As a protagonist for sustainable transport, clearly I am a supporter. The anaesthetist and one of her sidekicks clearly aren't. I am on my back and vulnerable. They wield the power. And the drugs. I panic. Not over the trams - which are outwith the control of a patient in the ERI about to have surgery, but at the mask - which appears too fast. I push it off and mumble something along the lines of 'no yet'. This has little effect. I am given a hand to hold. The anti-trams people win, and the next thing I know I'm in Recovery.
I move from Recovery to a ward without windows. There are more nurses in one place than the total I have seen in the last year. Well, I think they are nurses. Its very hard to tell. From cleaners to surgeons the uniform is the same. Which may be useful for cost savings. But it ain't great for patient confidence. They do have badges. But these cant be read from a distance.
At some point I get tea and a biscuit. Later a sandwich and a yogurt. Even cheese and biscuits. The food is fresh and good and the tea is horrible. Meant to bring my own. My blood pressure drops like a stone. I'm not allowed up. This, it turns out, is because I have had a sciatic nerve block. Which, for the uninformed - is in essence a dead leg. I don't remember agreeing to this. Which later becomes a problem. Because although I am ready for discharge. Have my GP letter, my drugs and wound dressing instructions, I am not allowed home until the block effect disappears. Which I am told in the afternoon, could take 24 hours.
I weep. I rant. I try persuasion. I do not want to stay the night. I was not prepared for this No one mentioned it. I have no stuff. No money. And there are no windows in this place. I have not had a wash. Eventually I am told I can only leave if I sign a self discharge form. Clearly I am not going to do this. I don't want it on my file. I give in. Ask to be moved to the other side of the 'ward'. Complain of the stifling heat. Am given a fan. And surprisingly, sleep for most of the night. In retrospect this tantrum was probably caused by stress. And lack of control. And the weird prison like environment - despite the general friendliness of the nurses. I dont want to be a prima donna... But still....
Around 3am I realise my block has vanished. I now understand the link between the block and pain. And that the block was probably a good thing. I sleep a bit more until we are woken at 6 so that the night shift can prepare the ward, patients and breakfasts before the day shift comes on. This seems a bit early to me - but I guess its the routine that works for the staff and the numbers of patients they need to process each day.
I take a handful of painkillers. Panadol. Dihydrocodeine, Ibuprofen. And hope for the best. Breakfast is stunning. There is juice, but only be chance. I am reminded I am lucky to have this - left over from yesterday. Juice is not normally available for breakfast. I eat bran flakes in misery and wash my face at the sink with no mirror. I hop on my crutches without permission and head for the bathroom. I do my teeth and ignore the shower. The instructions for keeping my wound dry meant that showering is far too much hassle. I discover several more patients down the corridor that have been as quiet as mice all night.
Around 10.30am I am rescued by an anesthetist friend and delivered home. I am intact, minus the tension wires that were removed, with a small neat scar with dissolving stitches. I have survived operation number 5.
Around an hour later I meet my nurse and we do the usual checking and testing. Next - the anaesthetist who is under the impression I am having something done to my elbow. Having corrected her we discuss anaesthetic options. She decides on a general. Apparently I am fit and healthy. Then the minion of my consultant draws an arrow on my leg with a black felt pen. Minion, I guess, probably isn't fair - but I can't quite remember who he was. At this point I am second on the list. Then suddenly I am first. Whipped into a changing room. Gown, hat, slippers and some weird space blanket thing which is to be my dressing gown on the way to theatre. Onto the trolley and down the corridor at a brisk pace.
In the anaesthetic room (which is horribly small) the desultory conversation turns nasty over the Edinburgh Trams. As a protagonist for sustainable transport, clearly I am a supporter. The anaesthetist and one of her sidekicks clearly aren't. I am on my back and vulnerable. They wield the power. And the drugs. I panic. Not over the trams - which are outwith the control of a patient in the ERI about to have surgery, but at the mask - which appears too fast. I push it off and mumble something along the lines of 'no yet'. This has little effect. I am given a hand to hold. The anti-trams people win, and the next thing I know I'm in Recovery.
I move from Recovery to a ward without windows. There are more nurses in one place than the total I have seen in the last year. Well, I think they are nurses. Its very hard to tell. From cleaners to surgeons the uniform is the same. Which may be useful for cost savings. But it ain't great for patient confidence. They do have badges. But these cant be read from a distance.
At some point I get tea and a biscuit. Later a sandwich and a yogurt. Even cheese and biscuits. The food is fresh and good and the tea is horrible. Meant to bring my own. My blood pressure drops like a stone. I'm not allowed up. This, it turns out, is because I have had a sciatic nerve block. Which, for the uninformed - is in essence a dead leg. I don't remember agreeing to this. Which later becomes a problem. Because although I am ready for discharge. Have my GP letter, my drugs and wound dressing instructions, I am not allowed home until the block effect disappears. Which I am told in the afternoon, could take 24 hours.
I weep. I rant. I try persuasion. I do not want to stay the night. I was not prepared for this No one mentioned it. I have no stuff. No money. And there are no windows in this place. I have not had a wash. Eventually I am told I can only leave if I sign a self discharge form. Clearly I am not going to do this. I don't want it on my file. I give in. Ask to be moved to the other side of the 'ward'. Complain of the stifling heat. Am given a fan. And surprisingly, sleep for most of the night. In retrospect this tantrum was probably caused by stress. And lack of control. And the weird prison like environment - despite the general friendliness of the nurses. I dont want to be a prima donna... But still....
Around 3am I realise my block has vanished. I now understand the link between the block and pain. And that the block was probably a good thing. I sleep a bit more until we are woken at 6 so that the night shift can prepare the ward, patients and breakfasts before the day shift comes on. This seems a bit early to me - but I guess its the routine that works for the staff and the numbers of patients they need to process each day.
I take a handful of painkillers. Panadol. Dihydrocodeine, Ibuprofen. And hope for the best. Breakfast is stunning. There is juice, but only be chance. I am reminded I am lucky to have this - left over from yesterday. Juice is not normally available for breakfast. I eat bran flakes in misery and wash my face at the sink with no mirror. I hop on my crutches without permission and head for the bathroom. I do my teeth and ignore the shower. The instructions for keeping my wound dry meant that showering is far too much hassle. I discover several more patients down the corridor that have been as quiet as mice all night.
Around 10.30am I am rescued by an anesthetist friend and delivered home. I am intact, minus the tension wires that were removed, with a small neat scar with dissolving stitches. I have survived operation number 5.
1 comment:
I am glad you survived Op no.5.
How can anyone be against a tram?
Abrazos,
J
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