Surgery

The paramedics must have realised I was in a bad way. I live just around the corner from The Royal United Hospital. However, instead of taking my broken body there, I was driven all the way to Souuthmead Hospital in Bristol.

I arrived at their Emergency Department sucking on a canister of Entonox, like my life depended on it – at the time, it felt as if it did . Incidentally, with Christmas just around the corner, should anyone be stuck for what to buy for me, Entonox would be lovely. You can probably buy a festive gift box of the stuff from the Seasonal Aisle at Sainsbury’s.

You know where I mean… the shelves of all those miniature bottles of spirits. You pay more than you would in the Ritz Hotel minibar, for a tiny bottle of Baileys, simply because it comes in a box with a holly leaf on, and occasionally with a small playing counter-sized chocolate, which is supposed to taste of mint, but instead resembles Listerine mouthwash.

Not content with destroying my new coat, the staff at Southmead proceeded to cut off my new polo shirt. Again, my only concern at that moment was getting my damn arms fixed, so was more than happy for them to snip away at my new clothes, although would have intervened had anyone gone anywhere near my luxury silk scarf, which cost more than my late coat and shirt combined (RIP).

I was admitted to Intensive Care, with a view to perform surgery over the next day or two. I am unsure when I attended radiology, to have a series of x ray images taken, but I do remember the results. Both arms – broken. Part of my face, above my right eye – broken. Right leg – I’ll givel you one guess…

Thankfully, my left leg – which broke in January – survived. It was presumably stronger, having had a nail literally hammered into it. In essence, the left had become stronger, with the right shattering under pressure. I hope that this is a metaphor for next month’s general election.

It was decided that only my leg would be operated on. The arms would be left to heal conventionally, along with my face. To be honest, if I had not been told about the damage, I would be unaware of anything wrong with my face. Perhaps I can withstand pain to that area – have I left it too late to pursue a boxing career? Would Sky Box Office be interested in showing a man in a wheelchair, attempting to fight his way out of a wet paper bag?

Surgery took place the following day (Tuesday). By this point, I had not eaten or had had anything significant to drink since Sunday. Even with all the pain and trauma, I was rather peckish, by that point, and extremely thirsty.

I had told the doctors upon admission, that should surgery become necessary, I do not want to be given the drug ketamine. I had a very negative reaction to the horse tranquiliser, when my left leg was operated on in January.

As I was taken to theatre, I reiterated my request. There was concern from the anaethetist, as to how the operation could be carried out without the drug.

After I explained that ketamine caused frightening and realistic hallucinations, it was agreed that I would only receive a very small dose of “ket”, once I was fully knocked out. An alternative tranquiliser was to be used instead – one which the anaethetist assured me, only causes “nice dreams”.

The only downside to this drug, is the fact it causes memory loss – primarily affecting the minutes before the start of the operation.

I agreed to be given this new drug. Ironically, that is the last thing I remember, until…

… I woke up. Thinking that I was still in the theatre corridor, I asked if I was finally ready for surgery. I was told it had taken place successfully, and I was back on the ward.

I realised that I had dodged a bullet there – my right leg had a nice, strong nail in it. Surely surgery would be the worst element of any hospital stay. How wrong I was…

I will continue to update my blog, detailing what happened next. As I remain in hospital, with limited use of just one hand, these updates may not be as frequent as I would like.

Do you ever wonder why all the bad things happen to you?

I’m not going to suggest that I am the only person to experience hurt and turmoil, but nobody could say that I haven’t had more than my fair share of excrement.

The reason why I have not updated my blog until now, is because I have been, and continue to remain, in hospital. Yes, that old chestnut.

The Accident 

The accident occurred on Monday morning.

You know those awful news stories, where some poor soul is attacked, or suffers a terrible event yards from their home? That was me.

I wasn’t assaulted, although it could certainly be argued that I was attacked – in this case, by the concrete pavement.

I had set off on the short scooter ride to work, when at the bottom of the path leading to my house, things went a bit mad…

While I am unable to recall all the events, leading from me being sat on the scooter, to being thrown onto the freezing cold floor, I am certain that I was initially riding at a safe speed. I remember the realisation that I had lost control of the mobility vehicle. Seconds later, I was lying stricken in the street.

I knew instantly that I had caused serious damage to myself. As anyone who has previously broken a bone will confirm – you know you’re in trouble. You can feel the multiple pieces of limb under your skin – weak and unstable, where it was once a single, strong bone which you would simply take for granted and never think about.

My right leg was a mess. My left leg felt damaged too. I knew for certain that I had broken both of my arms.

Trust me, the red stuff isn’t tomato ketchup.

I screamed and screamed for my wife, Claire; who just moments earlier, I had kissed goodbye. From martial bliss to hell and pain, in a matter of seconds

Claire, who hadn’t had time to close the front door after my departure, heard my shrieks of pain and fear, and came running to my aid.

I could tell from my dear wife’s reaction that I was in a very bad way. No wife becomes hysterically upset if their husband simply grazes his knee!

I cannot remember how long it took for the ambulance to arrive. It may have been 15 minutes, or over an hour. However long it took, it was too long.

As I lay on the freezing ground, unable to move, concerned neighbours offered whatever help they could. Claire rang everyone who needed to know, including both our managers, to inform them that we would not be in work for a long time.

The ambulance finally arrived and I couldn’t be more relieved to see the paramedics, who may as well have been white knights, riding in on horseback to rescue me.

The knights had to cut my new winter jacket, in order to access my poor shattered limbs. Luckily, my coat wasn’t too expensive – however, it was stuffed with duck down.

As a result, white feathers covered the path where I lay. I was later informed that I had been bleeding from a wound sustained on my head and around my right eye socket. I can only imagine how the street would have looked, after I eventually left the gruesome scene in the ambulance. Unknowing locals must have wondered what great white bird had been slayed and by what creature.

Safely aboard the ambulance, the blue flashing lights were turned on, with the driver bypassing the local hospital altogether, and heading straight for Bristol and Souuthmead. This was going to be serious…

I will continue to update my blog, detailing what happened next. As I remain in hospital, with limited use of just one hand, these updates may not be as frequent as I would like.

I seem to be attending an awful lot of hospital and doctor appointments lately. Don’t be concerned, I am not becoming unwell again – in fact, some of the recent medical visits have revealed that I am healthier now, than I have been for many years. Despite receiving encouraging news, a trip to the hospital or a GP surgery is rarely a pleasant experience.

Today, I was summoned to the Cardiac Centre. This is on the top floor of the hospital – up three flights of stairs, where it has been for as long as I can remember.

The location of the unit has always amused me. Back in 2003, when I took my first job as an employee of the hospital, I thought it strange how all these patients with dodgy tickers were being forced to climb so many stairs, in order to receive medical treatment. I wondered how many would find it all too much and fail in their ascent to the highest-reaches of the main building.

Of course, lots of cardiac patients can climb many flights of stairs without any difficulties whatsoever. I can’t. My excuse is that it is, in fact, my back, which has buggered any dreams I may have once had of becoming a mountaineer, not my heart. I think that my mobility scooter would object to taking me up stairs, anyway.

There is a lift, so in reality, it wouldn’t matter if the Cardiac Centre was located on the 3rd or 303rd floor!

My reason for my appointment was to attend an ultrasound scan. Some of you may just associate such treatment with pregnant women. Well done! Ultrasound scans are taken during pregnancy – however, men can have them too, and I’m not just referring to Arnold Schwarzenegger in the film, Junior.

After getting my torso covered in jelly, which I was assured is neither edible or fruit flavoured, the radiologist placed a handheld device into the jelly on my chest.

Meanwhile, her colleague, another radiologist enquired into my well-being. She had performed a similar ultrasound scan on me, 16 months ago, when I was very poorly on the Intensive Care Unit.

Despite having a familiar face, I can’t say that I remembered her – although during my short spell on ITU, I must have seen almost a hundred clinicians (at least it felt like that), so I think I can be excused for not recalling her – and if you still don’t think that’s an adequate reason, my body was trying its best not to die. Remembering the details of total strangers, on the off-chace that our paths may cross again, years later, was not highest on my list of priorities as a lay hooked up to all manner of machinery.

I suspect that the radiologist remembered me for the same reason other hospital staff often appeared shocked when we first met – my age. At 37 (36 while in ITU), my days of being youthful are long gone – however, compared to most of the patients on the wards, where I stayed – I was half their age.

The scan must not have lasted more than 15 minutes. I remained seated on my scooter for the entire procedure. Probably a good thing – after a day in the office, I was tired, and had I been placed on a bed, I would have probably fallen asleep. The scooter isn’t the best thing to rest on, so I was pleased when the scan was all over and I could ride off into the sunset (hospital corridor).

In case you were wondering, the jelly was cleaned from my chest and stomach. I did consider asking for it to be left on my upper body – it would make a nice dessert, with some ice cream, once I had arrived home. Then I remembered that the jelly was apparently flavourless. What’s more, we only have Vienetta in the freezer – that does NOT go with ice cream! I made the right decision.

Oh, and most important of all, the ultrasound scan of my heart revealed no problems – a sharp contrast to summer 2018.

After that news, I feel like I could take on a marathon… I’m rather partial to a Snickers bar with my morning coffee.

I have been sans voice all week. Something I am sure has brought annoyance and joy to people I know in equal numbers.

Many of my work colleagues, while sympathetic, took amusement in my ailment and questioned if my voice had broken again. Considering a delivery man called me “love” twice last weekend (he heard me, but didn’t see me), maybe I could do with dropping a few octaves.

I have been getting my words out by whispering or shouting; although when I do try and raise my voice, I am barely able to rise above the decibels of a sneezing gnat.

When I am not bellowing like an earthworm, I have discovered that another means of communication is to write down what I would like to say, using my mobile phone or a computer, should I find myself sat in front of one.

One of those text-to-speech contraptions would certainly be helpful right now. I am, however, aware that this would effectively turn me into Stephen Hawking. I already get around on wheels, I wear glasses and share his IQ score.

That said, there is one major difference – I don’t wish to sound morbid, but fear it will be impossible – I am not dead. While he was alive, I think Professor Hawking’s reasons for not talking, were a tad more complex than a bout of laryngitis.

I am doped up on cough pastilles and Strepsils. An Olbas Oil nasal stick has been giving me a major head rush, everytime I stick it up my snout. If they ever make a Trainspotting 3, the druggies should throw their heroin in the dustbin and move onto the harder stuff – Olbas Oil.

I have even been prescribed antibiotics, under strict instructions only to take if I become more unwell. Mercifully, the antibiotics remain unopened.

Normally I wouldn’t be too bothered about losing my voice for a few days. It’s rather nice to be a mute for a little bit and is a fabulous excuse to avoid talking to people, who I would rather not engage with.

This time, however, I would quite like to regain the use of my vocal chords. I have an important event to attend in the next few days – one I need my voice for. All will become clear soon, but I can confirm that despite the rumours, I am not auditioning for X Factor.