The last few days have been, well, shit.
No one really wants an operation even if they want it.
This was my first surgical experience with the NHS, and some aspects were faultless, while others left me surprised I wasn’t in prison.
Firstly, the information given to me at my pre op turned out to be different from the ward, so all my timings were wrong: I was late, which was, of course, my fault.
Even my surgeon joked about me deciding to turn up then…
Alone and scared
Almost immediately on arrival, hubby was told had to leave because it was a female-only bay. Not ward – that was mixed – but the bay of 4 beds was female. So, without any thought of how I might be feeling, I suddenly had to wait alone for a scary surgery.
I was already in tears because my teenager had forgotten about my surgery and didn’t even get out of bed to say goodbye, and so more tears flowed. And flowed.
I got drawn on by my surgeon in marker pen, both Bert and Ernie, and subsequently saw about 400 anaesthetists and surgical staff who I had to explain it to – yes, it was the one with the bloody arrow pointing to it not the other heslthy one.
Confidence is waning.
Should have been an Octopus
Then we come to the fun of which arm to use for what, or in my case, can we grow more arms? Medically, because I have Lymphodema in my left arm from breast surgery #1 in 2004 where they took loads of lymph nodes away (Bert), I cannot have any treatment, whether injections, blood tests, blood pressure, etc on that arm, so everything since has happened on my right arm.
Even though I had surgery #2 on Ernie in 2019, as only the sentinel node was removed – the one that tracks back to the tumour – i have still been able to have tests etc in that arm.
But as this was now the side they were operating on, that was no longer an option.
So instead, I had a blood pressure monitor put on my right calf and a cannula put into my left foot. Both of which required immense discussion about whilst I lay outside theatre freeing my tits off (get it??!).
And pointing out, once again, it was the one with the arrow…….
The next few hours I have no recollection of, thankfully, but waking up in recovery was hideous. The pain immense. They kept giving me drugs that did nothing, and I was there for a long time apparently.
I remember suddenly being back at my bed and it was gone 10.30pm. I’d lost several units of blood during surgery and my oxygen levels were low, my blood pressure high. That’s new.
I woke up with an oxygen mask on which stayed for about and hour until it was swapped to the little tubes up your nose, which stayed on until about 8am. Seems to have got rid of my cough though.
A new blood pressure monitor was put on my right foot that took readings between every 1 – 2 minutes – I counted the seconds – which was not a joyful experience.
Consequently, I didn’t really sleep. It was also really frigging hot. I was dripping with sweat – yes I realise this is making me look even more attractive than usual – but I dozed every minute until the monitor squeezes, with some requests for morphine in between until about 6am.
The cold light of morning
Shift change, breakfast, and my surgeon arrived about 7 am to say that it all went well, expander was in, and there was plenty of room for more expanding. Just as well as my noob (new boob) is about a AA v my original DD. I was then told at 7.30am that I could go home.
Whilst pleased, I was also surprised as I was originally told I wouldn’t be going home until about midday. Things did not run smoothly this side of the gate. Firstly, the nurse did not seem happy that my husband was not sitting outside waiting for me already, and that he couldn’t pick me up for a couple of hours. To be fair, I hadn’t yet asked him but I wasn’t quite ready to venture home. So I arranged for him to pick me up about 10 am, only to be told minutes later to cancel him because I wasn’t going home after all.
It seems that because I’d lost lots of blood, I needed to have my blood checked to make sure I didn’t need a transfusion. I’m sorry what? Isn’t that kinda major? Is that why I looked deathly pale in the mirror? I thought I saw Buffy earlier…
Someone then comes to take my blood, and I refer you back to the needing more arms paragraph.
“Sorry, we are only trained to take blood out of arms,” when they were asked to use a different body part. Surely not. I found this bizarre as I cannot be the only person who cannot have blood taken from arms. In the country. My only option, therefore, was to risk cellulitis (a blood infection_ by having blood drawn from my left hand, and then I sat back to wait for the results.
All change
And then we are not waiting for the results, I can go home again, and they’ll call me next week. Okay.
So can hubby to come and get me? I called him to arrange. And then again, I’m calling to cancel because I now do have to wait until the results come back from Watford before I can leave (because of said blood transfusion) After a special driver has collected them. Not any old taxi driver mind, I was reassured. I have no idea what kept happening to make the process change so frequently but it was really quite unsettling and not confidence inspiring.
So by this point, it’s around 11am and I’m having lunch, but not the gluten/dairy intolerant lunch they rang me the day before to check about. So I thought fuck it, I’ll have a normal cuppa tea with two sugars and make it snappy.
At some point in the afternoon, I am moved to a side room because my bay was suddenly becoming male only. Huh? And an order taken for dinner. Yay.
And more tea. Yay!
We have a winner
Eventually, at about 2.30pm the results are in. My haemoglobin is low, and so the decision is now made that I can go home with some iron tablets. Really? Somehow, we have gone from blood transfusions to iron tablets. But since my only medical knowledge is ER (showing my age), I’ll go with it.
And then I was asked if .my husband can come and get me. For the third time, Yes he can once he has finished his own appointment. This did not.go down well. Don’t I have someone else to come and get me? Like a list of potentisl suitors. Seriously? Well yeah probably but I’m not calling them. I want my husband to come and get me, and needed him since you chucked him out yesterday and who has already been on his way to collect me twice today already, so for the sake of another hour, I’ll wait in this lovely sunny room that has noone else waiting for it, thanks.
With more tea.
Eventually, at 4.30pm I left the hospital with drugs, antibiotics, and good old iron. For home.
Oh and two drains feeding into two not very small plastic bottles from my chest that are stitched into me. Somewhere. I didn’t ask.
So I wait now for a nurse to call in to see me at home tomorrow, to make sure I’m still alive and to check said drain, and potentially remove one if the volume is at the required level. Or not.
It feels a bit surreal and I am now set up in the spare room to try and sleep sitting up and avoid being jumped on by my lovely animals. It’s only half working as I am being guarded by the two youngest centries, which is actually very heartwarming.
Perhaps someone could make me a cup tea??
