Two and a half years ago I began to have problems with limited movement of my left shoulder, which developed into a routine of getting really bad, to a point where I couldn’t change gear in the car or lift anything heavy, dress, or tie my hair back, then getting better. I had multiple physio sessions, some of which worked, but the problem kept returning. An MRI was inconclusive, and eventually, after swapping surgeons and physiotherapists, it was decided last month that surgery would be the best move forward: an ‘arthroscopy’ from the Greek to ‘look inside’ the shoulder and see what was wrong and treat accordingly. I was sent for a pre-op X-ray, which clearly showed a broken bone. Which hadn’t shown on the original MRI. But at least now I was on the way to finally getting it sorted. Dr T would fix the bone, and look for the original problem and treat that too.
Interestingly I have three friends with similar shoulder issues – two of them hairdressers, for whom it’s quite a common affliction, and a retired nurse, who in fact had the same op, with the same surgeon, two months ago, and so I was in the fortunate position of being warned exactly what to expect. One of the hairdressers is trying various alternate treatments currently, while the other is also booked with the same wonderful Dr T for the same procedure in January.
My friend had shared a room with a lad less than a quarter of her age, so I was delighted to be shown to a private room. I was given a backless gown and paper knickers to don and was soon put to bed (this was 9am). The nurse pressed the remote control to raise the bed to a sitting position, but there was an almighty bang and the bed and I abruptly fell back down. Maintenance was called, and soon I had five men in the room while I sat with my naked back firmly against a chair. The nurse asked, as it would be quite noisy, would I prefer to wait outside in the corridor? No, thank you.
Eventually the bed was repaired, I was tucked in, and , after a lot of hunting for veins, had a drip attached. I was given a leaflet which turned out to be a list of things I should have brought to the hospital. One of them being my passport – but as I’d also been told – before coming in – not to bring any valuables, and as the hospital had all my records and details, I’d not brought it. A lady came in and asked “Lunch?” Yes please, if I’m allowed; I’m vegetarian.” “Rice and vegetables?” “Yes please!” “OK, see you later”.Then another lady came in, explained she was from – I didn’t catch which department – and she needed some information. OK, I said. I need information, she repeated. Yes, what would you like to know? I need your passport. I explained I didn’t have it but I did have a photocopy of my MEU3. She looked at this with some disdain and asked “So you will be paying for operation?” “No, it’s on GESY”. “I will check”, she said, and left. I never saw her again . Then lady number 1 came back in, with a jug of water and a glass, which she tantalisingly placed in front of me before declaring “No lunch for you, you are Nil By Mouth”. So presumably no water, either.
About 11.45am I was wheeled down to the theatre – not the type I usually frequent – and my next memory is of five men slapping my face, pulling a tube out of my throat and – unforgivably – whipping away the cosy blanket I’d been covered in. I felt as if I was flying, but was actually being transferred from gurney to bed, then I heard “Sorry, we have to wash you” and felt several damp sponges all over my top half, this time by women. I was left to sleep, but could already feel the blissful anaesthetic wearing off and knew I’d then be waiting hours and hours stuck in a bed.
I was still pretty groggy when the surgeon came in and told me what he’d found and what he’d done. I remember thinking, I do hope you’ll tell me again when I’m fully awake, but he was definitely happy with how things had gone. All I could feel was a dull ache in my shoulder and, oddly, the back of my neck. I could see I had an American Footballer shoulder pad, and a warning blast of ache hit me if I tried to raise my arm at all, but from the elbow down, still full movement, so eating and reading were no problem (you don’t want to know me when I’m hungry, or have nothing to read). A few minutes later my phone pinged with an email – a detailed report from said surgeon, along with twelve full-colour photos of the inside of my shoulder.
I’d made sure my book and phone were by my bed before the op, so I had them to hand when I came round, and spent a not too unpleasant afternoon reading. Until it started to get dark. The light switch was on the other side of the room and I was hooked up to drips, and had read in the leaflet that I was not to leave my bed, but to press the call button hanging above me if I needed anything. But, the call button, along with the bed-raise button, had been pegged to the wall out of the way by the maintenance men and not replaced. The leaflet, I recalled, also said that there would be a phone by my bed, but a search showed this to be on a table behind the bed that I could not reach – again, moved out of the way. How I wished I’d been sharing a room after all – the other patient could have pressed their button. I now needed the loo and was getting scared at the idea of needing medical attention and not being able to get it, especially with the room darkening by the second. The door was shut, and shouting achieved nothing. I was just looking up the phone number of the hospital on my mobile to ring reception, when the door opened and a lady bearing a tray burst in announcing ‘Rice and vegetables!’. I’ve never been so pleased to see a waitress in my life – not only was I starving by this point, but she let there be light, and retrieved the call button and bed controls for me.
A lovely nurse unclipped my drip after (delicious) dinner and I was free to walk about. The evening passed without incident, other than the real challenge of trying to plug my phone charger in. The socket was high on the wall, behind a metal bar, so I couldn’t plug the lead into the plug and push it in, but had to plug the plug into the wall first, then tease the cable up behind the bar, and one handed (I couldn’t raise my left arm), blindly, push the cable up into the USB hole on the plug. It kept me entertained for about half an hour, but no way did I want to run out of phone charge in case the lights or call button disappeared again.
Throughout the day and night nurses would come and hook me up to a painkiller drip, but mercifully would remove it afterwards, so although I had uncomfortable plugs sticking out of my good arm, I wasn’t tied to a pole between doses. During the entire confinement and after wards, the only pain I’ve felt has been the cannula going in, and sticky dressings coming off.
The surgeon had told me I’d be released about 10am the next day, but he appeared much earlier, went through all my paperwork for pharmacy and physio prescriptions and follow up appointments, and once more described what he had found and done in the operation. (This surgeon has been highly recommended many times, apparently there is a long queue of students wanting to train with him, and when I went to fill the prescription, the pharmacist exclaimed “Oh, Dr T! He is a very very good doctor”. I have to agree.) Dr T then said that I just need one more ‘shot’ and then I could leave. Yay! A few minutes later a nurse came in and started hooking something up to to my drip. “Is this a shot?” I asked “Yes”, she smiled, “I guess you could call it that”. I rang home to sort my lift, and the second the shot and plugs were out of my arm I grabbed my clothes from the cupboard and waited for the nurse to leave the room so I could dress. But she started stripping the bed, and pointed to the open door, where a girl stood with a bag. “Next patient is waiting”. I understood. My surgery had been delayed by a day as they’d had an emergency the night before I was booked in, so I imagine they’d had to squeeze me in to an already-full schedule. No problem. I dived into the shower room and dressed as quickly as one can with one arm stuck to one’s side, and was outta there.
In and out in less than 24 hours, pain-free, and four days later I’ve regained almost full movement. Bravo, Dr T!
Jezebel features in Rumplestiltskin at Emba Theatre 3rd – 7th December www.stageonetheatre.net and hosts a Quiz Wednesday 11th December 7.30pm at Xrys Tavern, just above Tsada Square www.groovejetmedia.com
