Under The Knife (Part 3)

The last thrilling (?) instalment.

Was I awake or was I just dreaming? I was conscious of somebody over my left shoulder.

I still wasn't sure where I was until I saw a large figure at the foot end of the bed. It was the consultant still in theatre garb.

"All went well," he said. "We did the basic fix and just sewed it up as the tendon hadn't shortened very much. It's looking good. Oh, and I scraped away some of the old scarring." Ha! What a bonus! An optional extra thrown in for free.

My heel twinged as he said it, but I'm sure it was just psychological. I thanked him and then nodded off again thinking how unbelievably clever these people were. I think I woke up a couple of times. I tried to take in details of the recovery room. It was a long room with lots of staff. I can't remember seeing any other patients. Perhaps I was in the tea room.

I remember being wheeled back onto my ward and I was propped up. My mouth was dry and my eyes were unfocussed. Two oxygen straws protruded from my nose and led to the oxygen outlet at the wall. After a few short minutes, I was fully compus mentis. A nurse came to perform the usual monitoring duties. I looked at my watch. I'd been away 3 1/2 hours, which meant I had been under the knife for about 2 hours.

I looked at my foot to make sure it was still there and that the surgeon hadn't made the mistake of operating on the wrong one. Excellent! They'd got the right one. Even though I expected it, I was a little dismayed at seeing the familiar white cast and my toes pointing toward the floor like a ballet-dancer.  Well, that's it. No weight on that for 6 weeks!

With mixed emotions, I picked up my novel and read. I was still tired but I didn't want to sleep again or else I wouldn't sleep that night. One advantage was that there was absolutely no pain.

I sent a text to Mr P to say I was awake. Her reply, "You're alive Number 5!" made me chuckle for hours until she came to see me. Unfortunately, as expected, she had eaten all the grapes by the time she arrived and left me with only the dregs of a fresh fruit salad. She also insisted in taking a photo, which was revenge for me taking pictures of her surgical experience a couple of years ago. After an hour of wrecking havoc but making everyone smile, she left me with the promise to be on one hour's standby to exfiltrate me the next day.

I was ready for my main meal at 7pm and eagerly scoffed it down. All 5 spoon fulls of it.

Mrs P and I had tried to get the TV monitor working. It was a pull round plastic affair with a flat screen. Apparently it had TV, radio and an integrated phone. We played around with the settings but couldn't get anything to work.

I caught the eye of the chap opposite me. A nice elderly man who had obviously had some hip surgery.

"If you want to use that, be prepared to pay out a lot of money," he said dryly. I pushed the monitor away in disgust. Is there nothing that doesn't cost?  I thought about the £3.50 an hour car parking fee. I wondered if there was a private option so I could get a decent meal.

I lasted until 10pm when at last the lights dimmed. As soon as they did, the patients' buzzers started. As I was at the staff desk end, I couldn't help but hear the incessant buzzing, which had a habit of staying on until cancelled. I'm not exaggerating when I say that for 2 hours, someone was calling out "Help me " in a distant side ward. My scowling glare at the staff was answered with, "Now, don't start this all night Mrs ***. We know there's nothing wrong." I finally managed to get to sleep about 3am.

At 7 o'clock the prospect of going home spurred me into action. In the confusion of shift change I got dressed and planned to make my way to the bathroom. I had a sneaky suspicion that I would be challenged and get caught like a potential escapee from Colditz. I planned the most un-noticeable route and went into staking mode. But I was right. I got nabbed!

"Not until you've been seen by the physio's" was the explanation.

"As good as they might be, I don't think even they will be able to make me walk that quickly," I replied.

"No, but they'll tell you how to use those crutches. It's Health and Safety."

There was no point explaining that I'd been using crutches for the last 8 weeks.

I was sent back to bed with a plastic bottle. I considered its value  for use in bushcraft circles. Man, could that thing take a lot of fluid! Great for hammock users! I didn't think that it would fit in a pack that well though. Wrong shape.

At last the consultant came round. We went through post-surgery procedure and a date when the stitches would be removed. He confirmed I'd eaten, drank, and urinated. He seemed surprised that I had not taken pain killers. I assured him I was no hero and it wasn't a ruse to expedite the escape. I was cleared to go subject to approval from the physios who subsequently assessed my crutch management skills as A1 (!) and gave me the green light. A nurse extracted the cannula from the back of my hand ("Don't want you walking away with that do we?" - No, we don't.)

I was free! I thanked the staff and sped-off down the corridor as fast as my crutches would carry me; out of the hospital and into cold January day.