My Left Foot - Part 2 - Surgery and Hospitalisation

Surprisingly, I felt very calm during the morning of my foot surgery. It was probably because everything was organised.

The kids were at school and would head to their dad's house in the afternoon. The dogs were at my brother's house and I had done 30% water changes on all of the fish tanks. The guinea pigs had fresh hay, water and food and the plants had been watered. My friend Darren was driving me to the hospital and my friend Jacky was picking me up. I had rearranged the lounge room, ready for many weeks of convalescence. There was food in the cupboard and ready-made meals in the freezer. There wasn't anything left to do, but I couldn't sit still and spent the whole morning on my feet pottering around the house.

I arrived at Epworth Hospital Hawthorn at lunchtime and waited on shaking legs for the admissions officer to call me to the window. When it was my turn, I was asked for payment of the hospital excess of $450. I had already organised to have the excess waived, and I took a seat while she searched for the right piece of paper to confirm it.

A nurse with a bubbly personality collected me from the waiting area and wheeled me into the pre-op ward. I was handed a surgical gown and a large paper bag and shown into a change room. Once I got the gown on I hobbled to the nurse's office where I was quizzed about what I had consumed that day and how I was feeling.

She left me alone with a stack of trashy magazines and after ten minutes or so the surgeon entered the office and greeted me. He asked if I was ready and I told him I was more than ready to get this show on the road.

"Ready when you are Doc,"

With a permanent marker he drew a dark blue arrow on my left shin, pointing at my left foot. "Now we're ready," he said. We laughed together before he left me alone in the room again.

Next to enter the room was the anaesthetist. He had warm hands and a gentle manner and he nodded sympathetically when I told him that, like just about everyone on the planet, I was terrified by the idea of general anaesthetic. He promised to look after me and changed the subject, asking me to climb up on the guerny and tell him about my work. I could feel my heart thundering in my chest as all of the anxiety I had suppressed all day came bubbling to surface and I babbled.

While I was part way through a despairing diatribe about union density in the Australian private sector the anaesthetist and his nurse wheeled the guerny the short distance from the office to the operating theatre. As the double doors were pushed open I heard myself say, in a fairly belligerent fashion, "they get all the benefits and the buggers still won't join their union!"

6 pairs of eyes stared at me, surgical masks hiding facial expressions. I sincerely hoped I hadn't been wheeled into a room full of Tories with sharp knives!

The anaesthetist asked me to sit up on the guerny and roll onto my stomach and said he was about to give me something to help me relax, as well as a nerve block.

I don't know who the other people in the room were, but they seemed busy fiddling with machines and murmuring softly to one another. I felt a quick sting in he back of my left knee and stayed face down for maybe 30 seconds more. The anaesthetist asked how I was feeling.

"A bit light headed actually," I told him.

He helped me sit up and the room started to spin. As soon as I lay down again, this time on my back, the anaesthetist said "We're ready to start now Leanne." A black mask was lowered over my mouth and nose and I was told to count backwards from ten. I don't think I even got to 9 before I was out like a light.

When I awoke a couple of hours later, my first thought was "It hurts."

My eyes blinked open and I saw a nurse behind a desk at the end of my bed. My elevated foot was resting in an open cast with crepe bandage wrapped around it, held together with tape.

"It hurts," I said, aloud this time, in a croaky voice.

She moved away from the desk and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again the anaesthetist's nurse was at my bedside.

"Hi," I said, "It hurts."

Then I cried a little She put her hand on my arm, to comfort me.

"We're going to move you into your room now and then we'll get you something for the pain."

I was becoming more alert and the pain was waking up too, growing in intensity.

"It hurts," I breathed, trying not to cry again.

The guerny was wheeled into an insanely large private room and I transferred to a bed with help from two nurses.

Now that I was fully awake I noticed how thirsty and hungry I felt and I could smell the hot meals that had been delivered to the other rooms in the ward. My stomach growled loudly. A nurse told me she would organise a light meal for me and handed me a cup of tablets, followed by a cup of water. I swallowed the contents of both before having a quick lesson in how to operate the bed and how to call for help. Before leaving the room the nurse switched the TV on and handed me to remote control, which I used to find ABC24. I watched the rolling news coverage through bleary eyes and it wasn't long before I dozed off.

When I opened my eyes again it was night and I could see the bright street lights through the window. I pressed the call button next the bed and a curmudgeon nurse appeared in the doorway. My most pressing needs were urination and food and she helped me get up on my right foot and pushed a wheeled walking frame within reach. I used it to hop to the bathroom and the nurse left to find me some food. The plate of sandwiches that arrived about 15 minutes later were gratefully received and I savoured all three of them.

When I had finished eating I was handed another cup of pills and a cup of water, and then I snuggled into the bed to watch Lateline. I slept well, deeply.

The pain woke up the same time I did and I buzzed for a nurse who told me the meds would arrive in half an hour. I counted the minutes, 28, 27, 26, 25, and tried to distract myself with emails and social media.

My first visitor that day was the surgeon. When he asked me how I was feeling I said "better than Campbell Newman," to which he looked perplexed - I'm not sure he got the reference, but he glanced at the television and said "Oh." (I can’t actually remember what was going on with Campbell Newman on that day). He told me the surgery went very well and the most important thing to do now was rest, and he’d stop by again the following day.

My next visitor was the hospital physiotherapist, who showed me a range of mobility devices I could use while in hospital and hire to take home. I took a knee scooter for a test ride up and down the hallway, moving fast on the smooth linoleum-covered floor. I chose the wheeled walking frame for in-hospital use and arranged to hire a knee scooter and a commode seat to take home. All three were delivered to my room before my next visitor arrive.

Darren was immediately drawn to the knee scooter and took it for a spin around the room before heading out for "real coffee". I was almost feeling like my old self by the time I finished that coffee.

I slept through the afternoon until my kids arrived, dropping in to visit me on their way home from school. I was so very happy to see them. We cuddled, held hands and shared a bag of lollies while they
told me about their respective days.

Mum's on Endone

After they left I tried to read, first a magazine, then a book, but I was struggling to concentrate and stared at the television instead.

The next day passed in much the same fashion, without as many visitors. Wake, visit the bathroom, take meds, eat, doze, repeat. The surgeon came again and Darren popped in to drop off a bottle of Vitamin D capsules and reassure me that the fish and the guinea pigs were all fine.

Day three of my stay was a Friday, the day that the acute surgical ward was converted to a weekend IVF clinic, meaning I had to move out. I was transferred to the rehab ward soon after lunch, for my final night in hospital.

There's a big difference in the level of nursing supervision patients receive in the rehab ward than in the acute ward - well, that's my experience any way. Things take a bit longer to get to you, nurses are more likely to be up for a chat (maybe that's why things take longer?)

I was in there for less than 24 hours and in that time a wheel fell off the walking frame twice - both times while I was using it, causing me to land heavily on my injured foot. The second time it happened, I was in the bathroom and had just finished using the toilet. The toilet blocked and overflowed and while I was moving away from the overflow - pretty quickly, I might add - when the wheel fell off for the second time. I was in pain, I was immobile and water from the toilet bowl was snaking across the bathroom floor toward me. I tapped the call button and was shocked when four nursing staff burst through the bathroom door.

I gestured, first at the toilet and then at foot, and asked "You're filming this right? Where's the camera?"

One of the nurses snarled at me "you pushed the wrong button - we thought it was an emergency."

I pointed at the overflowing toilet bowl, and my foot, and said "It kind of is."

Three of the four nurses turned their back and left he bathroom, one remained behind to get me back into bed and deal with the toilet situation. He unblocked it pretty quickly and mopped up, while I tried to get comfortable on the bed, bristling with nicotine withdrawal and indignation. I slept fitfully that night.

I'm just speculating, but the nurse who brought me my morning meds looked and smelled like she had come straight to work from a booze-fuelled all night dance party. Her long fake nails were decorated with glitter, her orangey skin peeped out over too low pants and under a too small shirt and her smeared make-up had a definite "morning after" look to it. She was nice enough though, and certainly wasn't going to take any crap from me.

She got me medicated, fed and showered and organised my take home meds from the hospital pharmacy. She taught me how to give myself injections of Clexane (an anti-coagulant, taken to reduce the risk of blood clots) and helped me get my things together, ready for departure.

The surgeon left a phone message saying he wouldn't be stopping by that day and that he was happy for me to be discharged.  He'd see me in a fortnight at our pre-arranged appointment.

Jacky arrived and gave me a big squeezy hug before picking up my overnight bag and the commode seat. The orange coloured nurse followed us to the lifts, carrying two pharmacy bags and yelling at me to slow down - I was scooting down the hall pretty fast and it felt great!

Jacky, who incidentally is the queen of parking, had found a spot right next to the hospital entrance. I got myself into the front passenger seat and waited there while Jacky and Nurse Orange wrestled with the knee scooter, trying to find the lever that would make it fold down. They found it (hooray!) and we took off, waving farewell to Nurse Orange.

I found my sunglasses, leaned back in the seat and lowered the passenger window.

It was time to go home.

#myleftfoot