Day 3...
I had my surgery on October 5th at Manchester Royal Infirmary. I was booked in for 0715 and I arrived for 0700, sat with Peter in the waiting room and listened to some music for the last time with both hearing aids. (Birdie - Wings, Maggie Rogers - Alaska) Fortunately for me, I was first on the list which meant my surgery time was between 0830 and 0900. I was a colossal wuss, and cried when leaving Peter, so much so that they had to call him back because I couldn't concentrate to answer the admission questions.
While waiting for the surgery, we met the anaesthesiologist then the surgeon. It all seemed to happen very quickly and before I knew it, I was stood in a rather undignified hospital gown and trying to preserve my modesty while asking last minute questions about the location of the processor magnet. The surgeon was lovely and explained the surgery would take between one to two and a half hours and that all was in hand. To help him identify the correct side of the skull to drill into, he marked me (somewhat aggressively, I felt) with a permanent marker pen, at which point Peter cackled, "Don't worry honey, he's going to do much worse than that, soon."
"I don't think that's helping," replied Mr Freeman who was stifling laugher.
"It's OK," replied my husband, "I know where the line is."
Yes, moments before major and traumatic surgery, the surgeon and my husband were having a good old giggle at my expense! After being marked and prepped, it was about half eight and I toddled off down to the anesthesia room with someone who then disappeared, which meant the surgeon waited with me while the anaesthesiologists prepped.
After a few funny moments of jokes, Mr Freeman then went through to the theatre room while I was laid out and hooked up to a range of machines. Ironically enough, the one that hooked me up to the heart monitor made me sniffle because it reminded me of a flat-line tone except with rapid beeps as I managed to make myself cry yet again as a result of being able to hear my rapidly speeding heartbeat. I know, I'm dependably morose in all situations! I had a lovely little conversation with the chaps putting me under, one of whom was called Asif and was rather handsome. Apparently he had been putting people under for about four years, but still had to get help after jamming the needle thingy in my hand which hurt a lot! I have no memory of counting backwards, I suspect they wanted to shut me up in the end...
After a three hour (roughly) surgery, I woke up with the most uncomfortable feeling of pressure around my entire head and with the worse, metallic taste in my mouth. It was rotten, uncomfortable and really unpleasant. I didn't enjoy recovery, and I suspect I made that plain with the poor nurses! I was eventually wheeled out to the ward where I proceeded to sleep a lot and hunker down for what little comfort I could get from the scantily padded beds. As I was wearing a pressure bandage, I couldn't hear in my other ear as a hearing aid wouldn't fit so I was reduced to using notes to communicate and exasperated huffing and puffing. I have no idea how the girl across the way was sat up, amenable and able to chatter. I was dying. Not literally, but close enough. I told you I was a wuss.
I think the nurses had grown impatient with my unwillingness to move out of bed because the next thing I saw was Peter, crouching apprehensively next to the bed in the manner of someone cornering a feral animal. I perked up just from seeing my lovely husband who proceeded to help me get dressed and ready to go, because apparently major head surgery is day-case stuff nowadays. The headband was mercifully removed and the splitting headache I had woken with soon disappeared. Somewhat unsteadily, I was discharged with enough co-codamol to knock me out for days and strict instructions to keep the wound dry for a week. I did not, however, leave with the sick note that had been written, bugger.
The journey home was... interesting. As a result of rail strikes that day, there seemed to be a lot of traffic on the roads and so a straight forward commute turned into a three hour horror story, most of which I was unconscious for. Eventually, the lovely Jane delivered us to our home and I promptly fell asleep.
I don't remember much of Friday apart from the amazing leek and potato soup that Peter made us for lunch, I think I slept in between small meals. Living the dream! Saturday felt like Christmas day in that we watched too much TV and too many films with very little fresh air. Today, which is Sunday, has been passed in a similar way, with the addition of a brief trip to Booths to pick up some food.
I have no idea how I will survive the next few days of sick leave by myself. I shall perish from boredom!
The pain isn't as bad as I though it would be, I feel fairly sleepy all the time because of the co-codamol, and the wound area is achy but it's not as bad as I thought. I'm definitely feeling aware of my skull as the days pass but hopefully I'm over the worse of it. I'm going to try and get out for a walk every day to stave off the cabin fever.
While waiting for the surgery, we met the anaesthesiologist then the surgeon. It all seemed to happen very quickly and before I knew it, I was stood in a rather undignified hospital gown and trying to preserve my modesty while asking last minute questions about the location of the processor magnet. The surgeon was lovely and explained the surgery would take between one to two and a half hours and that all was in hand. To help him identify the correct side of the skull to drill into, he marked me (somewhat aggressively, I felt) with a permanent marker pen, at which point Peter cackled, "Don't worry honey, he's going to do much worse than that, soon."
"I don't think that's helping," replied Mr Freeman who was stifling laugher.
"It's OK," replied my husband, "I know where the line is."
Yes, moments before major and traumatic surgery, the surgeon and my husband were having a good old giggle at my expense! After being marked and prepped, it was about half eight and I toddled off down to the anesthesia room with someone who then disappeared, which meant the surgeon waited with me while the anaesthesiologists prepped.
After a few funny moments of jokes, Mr Freeman then went through to the theatre room while I was laid out and hooked up to a range of machines. Ironically enough, the one that hooked me up to the heart monitor made me sniffle because it reminded me of a flat-line tone except with rapid beeps as I managed to make myself cry yet again as a result of being able to hear my rapidly speeding heartbeat. I know, I'm dependably morose in all situations! I had a lovely little conversation with the chaps putting me under, one of whom was called Asif and was rather handsome. Apparently he had been putting people under for about four years, but still had to get help after jamming the needle thingy in my hand which hurt a lot! I have no memory of counting backwards, I suspect they wanted to shut me up in the end...
After a three hour (roughly) surgery, I woke up with the most uncomfortable feeling of pressure around my entire head and with the worse, metallic taste in my mouth. It was rotten, uncomfortable and really unpleasant. I didn't enjoy recovery, and I suspect I made that plain with the poor nurses! I was eventually wheeled out to the ward where I proceeded to sleep a lot and hunker down for what little comfort I could get from the scantily padded beds. As I was wearing a pressure bandage, I couldn't hear in my other ear as a hearing aid wouldn't fit so I was reduced to using notes to communicate and exasperated huffing and puffing. I have no idea how the girl across the way was sat up, amenable and able to chatter. I was dying. Not literally, but close enough. I told you I was a wuss.
I think the nurses had grown impatient with my unwillingness to move out of bed because the next thing I saw was Peter, crouching apprehensively next to the bed in the manner of someone cornering a feral animal. I perked up just from seeing my lovely husband who proceeded to help me get dressed and ready to go, because apparently major head surgery is day-case stuff nowadays. The headband was mercifully removed and the splitting headache I had woken with soon disappeared. Somewhat unsteadily, I was discharged with enough co-codamol to knock me out for days and strict instructions to keep the wound dry for a week. I did not, however, leave with the sick note that had been written, bugger.
The journey home was... interesting. As a result of rail strikes that day, there seemed to be a lot of traffic on the roads and so a straight forward commute turned into a three hour horror story, most of which I was unconscious for. Eventually, the lovely Jane delivered us to our home and I promptly fell asleep.
I don't remember much of Friday apart from the amazing leek and potato soup that Peter made us for lunch, I think I slept in between small meals. Living the dream! Saturday felt like Christmas day in that we watched too much TV and too many films with very little fresh air. Today, which is Sunday, has been passed in a similar way, with the addition of a brief trip to Booths to pick up some food.
I have no idea how I will survive the next few days of sick leave by myself. I shall perish from boredom!
The pain isn't as bad as I though it would be, I feel fairly sleepy all the time because of the co-codamol, and the wound area is achy but it's not as bad as I thought. I'm definitely feeling aware of my skull as the days pass but hopefully I'm over the worse of it. I'm going to try and get out for a walk every day to stave off the cabin fever.
Comments
Post a Comment