Two Weeks Forward - Two Weeks Backwards

tl;dr - I re-broke my ankle and just came back from my second operation.
(Note: I am dosed up on pain medication while writing this...)

Thursday was two weeks post-operation so I planned on heading down to Fremantle Hospital with the expectation that my sutures would come out and the dressing on my foot re-done. At least that was the plan...Reality had something else in store for me.

So to start with my grandparents were going to pick me up from my house and drive me to Fremantle. When they pulled into the driveway my Grandmother, who suffers from Alzheimer's got out of the car and stormed off down the road. She wasn't happy that she wasn't told she was going to be coming to pick me up - of course she was told but didn't remember. I told my Granddad not to worry about me and go look after her. It upsets me when these things happen to both of them, but I had to head off to the clinic. I remember my Grandmother doing this once before when they came to visit. She just walked out the door and headed down the street only to forget two minutes later why she left in the first place. You hear about these things on the news, they go wandering and are found dead days later...

So I call for a taxi and meet a nice taxi driver (driving a hybrid) who offers to drive me back for a discount (considering he works around the area where I live and nowhere near where I am going to). When he finds out I study Physics he asks if I would be willing to tutor members of his community. Naturally I accept and am grateful for the offer. A $50 taxi ride later I arrive at the hospital a few minutes early.

This is when the receptionist told me my appointment was tomorrow...

Alas it wasn't the next day - I had my appointment card with me and showed her. She accepted it and told me where to go. I had the sutures removed by a lovely nurse named Jenny and got to see my scar. The removal was painless and my scar impressive. I was expecting the removal to be painful thanks to a burning memory of my sister screaming the doctors surgery down when she had stitches removed when we were much younger. As this did not happen, I was feeling much better. I was even feeling far more sprightly on my crutches. Happy days!

Despite not being on the system the correct day, they decided to X-Ray my ankle and I was to report to the doctor in between patients. Apparently this wasn't necessary, but I am glad they did. When the doctor came to see me the first thing he told me was that I re-broke my ankle.

What. The. Fuck.

I scanned my memory banks to wonder how the hell this could have happened. I had two candidates, my "fall" or the night I remember waking up in agony. Whatever - it wasn't that important. The question now was, now what? The doctors first suggestion was surgery next week (as in, seven days time) then after some phone-calls and what felt like an eternity lying down in the examination room with a million thoughts swirling in my head - he put me on the waiting list for the next day and booked me into the same day unit at Fremantle.

At this stage I would have been heading home ready to have a nap to compensate for waking up early, instead I was carted from the Orthopaedic Clinic to Emergency (to "check in") and then to the Same Day Unit. Upon talking to the male orderly who transported me, I found out he lives in Huntingdale, the same suburb I grew up in for ten or more years and went to primary school at. Finally arriving at my dingy and depressing bed-for-the-night, I gathered my thoughts before calling my father and friends to let them know what was going on.

Thursday night was rather crap. Next to me in one bed was a chronic snorer (to which the nurses offered ear plugs) and in the next was a poor young lady who might have lost vision in one eye. Listening to her plight, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. Fortunately my nurse was a very nice Asian woman named Dorothy who wore a small green tail and was called "Dorothy the Dinosaur". Little things like that make me smile. So too did the attractive young female doctor who was about to give me the consent for surgery spiel which I had already heard before. I should have just let her go on...

Friday came and around 10-11am I found out that I might have a chance to get surgery at Kaleeya hospital - so they bussed me there. In the transfer room waiting for the bus, I spotted an old male across from me with massively swollen feet, swollen ankles and a rather disturbing bulge on his upper thigh...

When I arrived at Kaleeya hospital and after a lengthy delay waiting for Fremantle to discharge me - I found out that listed on my file under religion was "JW: Jehovah's Witness". This freaked me out, given the potential implications - but I suspected the consent form (which indicated I would accept blood) would override this otherwise irrelevant information. The lady never asked me, so I didn't say anything (Why didn't I???).

I ended up in the same ward I stayed in the last time I had surgery there, but in a different bed. In my old bed was a sprightly old man who had a hip replacement after stumbling in the dark at his daughters home. His daughter was a rather...barbie/cougaresque individual and the one memory I perhaps will not forget of the man himself was his bum-wiggle he did while testing out his new hips.

The attractive, young (notice a theme here??) physio who was worried about me the previous time (because I made an ass out of myself) and kept me in for much longer than I had liked noticed that I was back and she wasn't too pleased. Quite a few of the nurses also noticed that I was back, including Jenny, who had helped with my cast the previous day.

Around 3-4pm, after waiting all day without a meal, I was told there wasn't enough time to do my operation (I was third and the second one took too long) and that I would have to wait until the next day. Okay - I know I can't do anything about it. That night the other man in the ward got his chainsaw up and running right when I needed to get up early in the morning for surgery. This man was a rather stern looking individual who spoke with an impediment due to his childhood inability to discern high frequency sounds. From what I overheard it sounded like he was involved, inadvertently with organised crime members of Perth. Despite seeming like he might be the type of person who would gun you down in the middle of the night, he was actually a mild mannered (mature aged) student studying psychology.

Saturday I got up at 5:30am, showered and fasted ready for surgery...At around 10am I got told that the waiting list had blown up to 15 people and I will not be having surgery today. At this stage I was getting rather despondent - so it was perhaps timely that things started to turn around at this point.

My Dad came by and dropped off my laptop with a new USB Digital TV receiver. I had desperately wanted to watch the soccer but didn't want to spend a ridiculous amount to do it on the hospital's TV system. The USB TV receiver's reception was poor and only one channel was found - SBS. Boo-ya! Okay, so I might not get to see the footy (maybe it was a good thing considering they both lost) but at least I can watch Australia vs Germany on Sunday night. While my Dad and I were having coffee near reception, he nearly got whiplash when he spotted the cougar and was left confused when she spoke to me. "Is she a nurse? No wonder you want to stay here", "No Dad, she isn't a nurse"...

When my Dad and I went back to my ward to set up the Digital TV receiver, my young attractive female doctor (a different one!) approached me and asked if I wanted to see the X-Rays. I accepted the invitation and it then dawned on me how bad things were. Before there was only a small spiral hair-line fracture in my fibula. Now the fibula had broken in two below the screws that were previously put in. Ouch! This time they were going to have to put a plate in as well as pins. The nurses and doctors all had a good laugh at the X-Rays, and truth be told - I found them funny too considering how ridiculous this whole situation had been.

After my Dad left some friends came by to visit which cheered me up immensely. The impeccable Madge dropped off her DS so that I could play games and Jerry gave me some yummy asian snacks (with the puzzling english phrase "Love Letters" on the box). I went to bed after having watched some soccer and played some DS feeling a lot better, and the snoring man had gotten a lot better overnight.

I got up Sunday and repeated the familiar fast and shower routine before getting the good news that I will be operated on. I was transported from Kaleeya to Fremantle via Ambulance, chatting to a nice Ambo about science on the ride there. I arrived in the "recovery ward" not knowing how long it would take until I was taken to theatre. To the right of me I saw the kids area, with ample amounts of Pooh smeared everywhere. On the curtains, on the walls, on the ceiling. (The bear that is...) It made me feel sad knowing that children have been here to have an operation. Perhaps some never even made it...

In between reading trashy magazines I overheard the induction of a lovely 92 year old lady named Dorothy and the disappointing tale of a young man who was involved in a crash while drink driving and still believed insurance will pay out!

The first magazine I read was called Grazia. The articles were inane and the models they used were not my type of female. It was an interesting look into the air-headed mind of a fashionista who is willing to pay thousands for a fucking hand bag. Note to self - avoid these kinds of women at all cost!! Woman's Weekly on the other hand was far more down to earth. I read a story about Glenn McGrath and his new lover which although being implausibly idealistic did have me enthralled (perhaps out of boredom more than anything). The other noteworthy article was one about a 10 year old girl who tried to divorce her much older Yemeni husband. The narrative, which was compelling reading, did appear to have been written by someone a lot older. It was now around 11:30am and I was about to go in to the theatre and was glad to have given up those magazines.

The anaesthetist read up on the previous drugs used and with my acceptance chose to use the same drugs to get me off to sleep. Ah ha! I remember the last time when I had the first drug how bizarre it made me feel. This time I get to experience it again...The theatre was surprisingly beautiful considering the old and dank feel of the waiting room. I was given the drugs and the "oxygen" (it was a funny smelling oxygen...) and felt the same feelings come back again. This time it manifested itself as a feeling of dread in my stomach and filling my lower torso. It took me longer to go under but when I did it was fairly instant, the next memory is waking up in recovery. Two to three hours just went by with no perceived time elapse, just the way I like it.

The first post-op memory was of the nurse proclaiming my bladder had 271mL of fluid in it and of me thinking "that's too accurate". Also, how did she know, and why is it important? I woke up and was whisked away by ambulance back to Kaleeya. I was much more sleepy this time and the journey wasn't continuously conscious. The rest of the afternoon was just a combination of sleep and battling pain until dinner came. It turns out the amount of fluid in my bladder is of concern. If it goes over 500mL and I am unable to discharge (due to drugs), I would require a catheter - and I didn't want a bloody catheter that's for sure! My bladder was starting to fill up, and it was getting to the stage where I had to go or...the unthinkable. With all my might, and with the taps in the toilet running I managed to fill the bottle (to over 600mL, despite the ultrasound bladder gauge saying I had much less!). It was almost orgasmic...

After dinner and a milo I had some pain medication and that's when things started to go funny. I was playing Pokemon on the DS when I came across a part of the game which I did previously (before the game was wiped!). For some reason no matter how hard I tried I kept failing to do it. It was like I was suddenly stupid! The next thing I know I'm breaking out in a sweat, am getting dizzy and feel like the milo is going to make a reappearance. My thoughts were like I'm losing control, almost the same feeling just before going under. I'm getting agitated and concerned which in turn is making things worse. I tell Jenny (the same nurse as the clinic before) and she gives me some oxygen and some anti-nausea medication. After a frightful ten minutes or so I drift off to sleep for an hour or so and wake up feeling better. I pick up the DS and complete the section of the game first time - I can think again!

Later that night I awoke to the sounds of soccer, so I turn on my laptop, set up the TV and watch it when Australia were down 1-0. At half time I was given some medication for the pain and fell asleep during the second half just after Cahill got sent off. I'm glad I didn't stay up to watch the score go to 4-0. Ouch.

This morning I woke up to the sight and sounds of rain. Two new guys came into the ward. Both of them sustained their injuries from doing stunts on motorcycles. One of them was just starting the journey to recovery and the other was ending the journey. And here I was, a rollerskating injury. How lame by comparison?

I just had to wait for the doctor and physio to clear me to leave which took a long time. Most of the day was spent trying to get comfortable with the pain ebbing and flowing from bearable to uncomfortable. The nurses helped by moving the cast which felt like it was crushing my leg. Many of the drugs also helped me sleep, which made it difficult to perform when the physio came by to test me out as I was somewhat woosey. I passed the test and was allowed to go home! It took another three to four hours to wait for the pharmacy to deliver the medication and to get everything set up so I could be discharged.

Now begins the long and boring recovery period...again. But in the mean time its hurting like a bitch! Need more drugs...