It was a wintry 23rd January 2012 that saw me being transported to the Royal Berkshire Hospital in Reading to have fusion surgery. I had to report before 7am and I don't *do* mornings. A lovely pal drove me there in her other half's 4x4 which felt safer than a 'normal' car on the icy, slightly snowy streets.
Once there I found out that I'd been bumped out of second place on the wickedly adorable Mr Patrick McKenna's surgical list to later in the day; like nearer 4pm. Fortunately they were happy for me to pop off to my mother's for a few hours and I was given leave to drink water or very weak squash until 2am.
I was signed in once I got back to the Orthopaedics admission list and given a shot of gloop. The gloop was a mixture of pain killer and a drug designed to stop me from fitting on the table. The latter being a distinct possibility due to the surgery being so close to my spinal cord.
Previous surgeries had led me to expect to be taken to a bed for surgical preparation but the Royal's Orthopaedics suite does not work like that. I was led through to a small room with a changing cubicle. I sat down on a bench outside the cubicle and asked the usual questions to confirm ID and procedure. I had two labels attached to my right wrist, one with my identity and one detailing drug sensitivities. I then entered the cubicle, stripped down and get into a cotton surgical gown. The fastenings were down the side but I couldn't reach so had to hold it around myself as I peered around the door looking for the nurse. He had me place my possessions into a locker and then did me up. I went back into the cubicle to wait for a member of the surgical team.
The surgeon again confirmed my details and then got me to turn around so that he could draw on my lower back with a thick black marker pen. He got me to confirm which level of my spine was to be fused and the details of the work to replace the right hand side of my L5/S1 facet joint. I was then led through into an anteroom to the operating suite itself.
Shedding my flip-flops, I was helped onto a surgical trolley bed and released my gown from underneath myself. The anaesthesiologist did most of the talking but it was the surgical nurse who again confirmed my ID and so forth. I noted that the oxygen mask had been massively re-designed since the last time I'd had a general anaesthetic. It was much, much smaller and made of a transparent, clear, rubbery material. It was held just above my nose in recognition of my claustrophobia. The anaesthesiologist talked away my nerves as he placed a cannula with tap into the back of my left hand, taking care to avoid the ganglionic cyst I have near the centre of my wrist.
It seemed to take ages but was probably only a few minutes before I was injected with the anaesthetic which seemed to take me over much more quickly and gently than in previous surgeries.
I do not remember much about the next few minutes, just the trip up to Hunter Ward and the transfer to a six-bed sub-unit. The turn into the unit was tight and I was a bit uncomfortable due to the bed being bumped against the wall. Several of the other women in the bay introduced themselves as I was wheeled through to a bed adjacent to the window. I came to appreciate this 'easing of relations' so much over the next few days.
The bed I was transferred into was far more comfortable than the surgical trolley bed but felt extremely wrinkly. My lower back itself was cushioned by the specialised dressings placed in theatre. There seemed to be a lot of hazy fussing around me but I was finally arranged on my back in a reclined position with my lower legs enveloped in softly hissing, hydraulic, foot-less 'boots', and a soft rubber oxygen tube poking up each nostril. I had no pain, just a sensation of sitting on a lop-sided cushion (my butt).
I drifted between the frequent monitoring checks (blood pressure, temperature, blood oxygen saturation) until the demands of my bladder became too much to ignore. By this time the unit's lighting had been dimmed so I guess it must have been around ten in the evening. I called a nurse who proceeded to get me to try to use a cardboard bed pan. The 'log-roll' needed to get on to the pan presented few issues but I simply could not get started. It felt like I was trying to pee out of my ears. Very weird! We decided to leave it a while before trying again. I was told that the anaesthetic stops smooth muscle from working well due to blocking the innervating nerves. This meant that one's urethra does not dilate easily. It also explains why one is asked to cough at many of the monitoring checks as it impacts lung function too.
A second attempt with the bed pan was equally fruitless. The nurse warned me that I might need to be catheterised however she offered to let me try to use a commode placed adjacent to the bed first if I felt able to try standing. I knew Patrick wanted me to stand and to walk as soon as possible after surgery and not fancying having a tube inserted, I agreed.
I had practised the 'log roll' method of getting out of bed before coming into hospital and I'm glad that I did as it gave me a lot more confidence that I would be able to get up and sit on the edge of the bed safely. I was surprised that sitting gave me absolutely no discomfort and that I was slowly able to stand without pain, wobble or other alarms. Lowering myself onto the commode took time as I was terrified I might cock up and end up butt first on the floor.
I could not go at first but using a simple mini body scan meditation and utilising my pelvic floor muscles as a pump brought relief in more ways than one. I was comfortable and knew the surgery had not let me with urinary incontinence.
Once back in bed, I started the first of the pints and pints and pints of water I was to down over the next few days. The nurse plugged my 'boots' back in and told me to try to sleep. I think I must have managed a little eventually but the heat and hissing of hydraulics throughout the unit made that difficult.
Once there I found out that I'd been bumped out of second place on the wickedly adorable Mr Patrick McKenna's surgical list to later in the day; like nearer 4pm. Fortunately they were happy for me to pop off to my mother's for a few hours and I was given leave to drink water or very weak squash until 2am.
I was signed in once I got back to the Orthopaedics admission list and given a shot of gloop. The gloop was a mixture of pain killer and a drug designed to stop me from fitting on the table. The latter being a distinct possibility due to the surgery being so close to my spinal cord.
Previous surgeries had led me to expect to be taken to a bed for surgical preparation but the Royal's Orthopaedics suite does not work like that. I was led through to a small room with a changing cubicle. I sat down on a bench outside the cubicle and asked the usual questions to confirm ID and procedure. I had two labels attached to my right wrist, one with my identity and one detailing drug sensitivities. I then entered the cubicle, stripped down and get into a cotton surgical gown. The fastenings were down the side but I couldn't reach so had to hold it around myself as I peered around the door looking for the nurse. He had me place my possessions into a locker and then did me up. I went back into the cubicle to wait for a member of the surgical team.
The surgeon again confirmed my details and then got me to turn around so that he could draw on my lower back with a thick black marker pen. He got me to confirm which level of my spine was to be fused and the details of the work to replace the right hand side of my L5/S1 facet joint. I was then led through into an anteroom to the operating suite itself.
Shedding my flip-flops, I was helped onto a surgical trolley bed and released my gown from underneath myself. The anaesthesiologist did most of the talking but it was the surgical nurse who again confirmed my ID and so forth. I noted that the oxygen mask had been massively re-designed since the last time I'd had a general anaesthetic. It was much, much smaller and made of a transparent, clear, rubbery material. It was held just above my nose in recognition of my claustrophobia. The anaesthesiologist talked away my nerves as he placed a cannula with tap into the back of my left hand, taking care to avoid the ganglionic cyst I have near the centre of my wrist.
It seemed to take ages but was probably only a few minutes before I was injected with the anaesthetic which seemed to take me over much more quickly and gently than in previous surgeries.
...ooOoo...
I woke in the recovery room, unaware of having been wheeled out of theatre (I had been on previous occasions). It was the first and last time that I got to meet Mr McKenna himself. I was tearful on waking. I had expected this as modern generals seem to have the same effect on me that gin does on some women. I had warned Patrick beforehand so he was grinning at me. He squeezed my hand and briefly explained that he'd had to cut bigger incisions due to access issues and that he'd only been able to fuse up the back of my spine, leaving the front of my disc in place. I had been warned of both possible complications ahead of time so was not surprised. He squeezed by hand again and left me. A few minutes later my attending nurse came up and told me it was all okay as I was still crying.I do not remember much about the next few minutes, just the trip up to Hunter Ward and the transfer to a six-bed sub-unit. The turn into the unit was tight and I was a bit uncomfortable due to the bed being bumped against the wall. Several of the other women in the bay introduced themselves as I was wheeled through to a bed adjacent to the window. I came to appreciate this 'easing of relations' so much over the next few days.
The bed I was transferred into was far more comfortable than the surgical trolley bed but felt extremely wrinkly. My lower back itself was cushioned by the specialised dressings placed in theatre. There seemed to be a lot of hazy fussing around me but I was finally arranged on my back in a reclined position with my lower legs enveloped in softly hissing, hydraulic, foot-less 'boots', and a soft rubber oxygen tube poking up each nostril. I had no pain, just a sensation of sitting on a lop-sided cushion (my butt).
I drifted between the frequent monitoring checks (blood pressure, temperature, blood oxygen saturation) until the demands of my bladder became too much to ignore. By this time the unit's lighting had been dimmed so I guess it must have been around ten in the evening. I called a nurse who proceeded to get me to try to use a cardboard bed pan. The 'log-roll' needed to get on to the pan presented few issues but I simply could not get started. It felt like I was trying to pee out of my ears. Very weird! We decided to leave it a while before trying again. I was told that the anaesthetic stops smooth muscle from working well due to blocking the innervating nerves. This meant that one's urethra does not dilate easily. It also explains why one is asked to cough at many of the monitoring checks as it impacts lung function too.
A second attempt with the bed pan was equally fruitless. The nurse warned me that I might need to be catheterised however she offered to let me try to use a commode placed adjacent to the bed first if I felt able to try standing. I knew Patrick wanted me to stand and to walk as soon as possible after surgery and not fancying having a tube inserted, I agreed.
I had practised the 'log roll' method of getting out of bed before coming into hospital and I'm glad that I did as it gave me a lot more confidence that I would be able to get up and sit on the edge of the bed safely. I was surprised that sitting gave me absolutely no discomfort and that I was slowly able to stand without pain, wobble or other alarms. Lowering myself onto the commode took time as I was terrified I might cock up and end up butt first on the floor.
I could not go at first but using a simple mini body scan meditation and utilising my pelvic floor muscles as a pump brought relief in more ways than one. I was comfortable and knew the surgery had not let me with urinary incontinence.
Once back in bed, I started the first of the pints and pints and pints of water I was to down over the next few days. The nurse plugged my 'boots' back in and told me to try to sleep. I think I must have managed a little eventually but the heat and hissing of hydraulics throughout the unit made that difficult.
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