You last heard from me, in one of Southmead Hospital’s operating theatres. Prior to the use of any any scapels or blades, I was being pumped full of medication, keep me calm and pain free.

In reality, I was behaving much like a horse that had consumed an entire jar of pills, from James Herriott’s tranqualiser curboard.

Slicing and dicing

• I was promised that during surgery, despite being wide-awake, I would not feel any pain. I’ll give the staff credit – they stuck to their word.
• The waves of nauesea were nasty and apparently a result of tranqualisers and antibiotics, which I kept apparently being given, via some tube on my arm.
• The pain control and calming techniques, I was receiving were pretty much what women experience during a caesairian section. On hindsight, a tad embarrassing, as they seem to shout and protest a lot less than I did. Even worse, is when you see a cow on TV, cut open with offal and organs hanging out, stood on all four legs, not giving a shit. All because it was injected with a tiny needle numbing the animal.
• There is a screen in between my face and everwhere else in the room. I don’t know the full purpose of this screen – I have heard it’s to prevent me from spotting any gore and freaking out. One slight problem…
• The screen seperating my face from the surgeon and his work area – my body – is transparent. Clearly visible was a pool of claret on the floor, along with red pebble-dashing all over the surgeon (and even the screen).
• I couldn’t help but be amused, when a student entered the theatre. He was very keen to learn. By this point, I was being stitched up. He had two choices – observe some excellent needle-work, or mop up a pool of blood. He ended up doing the latter. In fact, I don’t think he was offered needle-work, or any alternative to mopping, for that matter.

The rest of that day, and indeed the entire week, was a long and drawn out affair.

I was subject to some real pain on the evening of the surgery and felt as if I was climbing the walls, like the girl on the horrible film, The Exorcist.

The pain felt as if somebody had taken a huge nail and repeatedly smashed it into my bones with a steel hammer. Then I remembered that is exactly what had happened earlier that day!

The pain was eventually eased, with medication. I may have only been in really bad pain for little over an hour; but, as anyone ever unfortunate enough to find themselves in real agony will testify, minutes really do feel like hours.

You’ll see I am yet to write anything new on my blog, since I attended surgery.

This is because having an operation on a major limb, becomes very traumatic and tiring – affecting the patient both physically and mentally.

Preparing to go under

• My first post-surgery blog, was always written pre-op and simply scheduled for publishing.
• Therefore, some of the predictions in the blog, were just that. Predictions. For example – the type of anaesthetic, to be used…
• I was under the impression that a general anaesthetic was the favoured and preferred approach. I had psychologically prepared myself to be knocked-out – safe in the knowledge, that I would be  unaware of anything related to the procedure, until I woke up. Ignorance is bliss.
• I was therefore scared and underprepared, when, upon arrival in theatre, I was told that the operation would take place without any feelings below the waist, all while being fully awake.
• In preparation for the operation, I was injected with a strong sedative, called ketamine. I had only heard of this drug twice before – once when the local ‘Bobby’ visited my school, to tell us what drugs are bad, really bad, or really really bad. In case you didn’t know, ‘Bobby’ is slang for police officer and not drug dealer.
• The tranqualiser is also given, by Hannibal Lecter, to all-round nasty chump, Mason Verger, who is then encouraged to cut off his own face or nose – depending on whether you’re watching the movie or tv series version of the storyline – before feeding his resulting handywork to his dogs or self. Again, this all depends on if you’re watching the movie or TV version of Hannibal – or reading the book!
• I didn’t react well to the ketamine. By this, I mean that the drug did the job exactly as the anaesthetist intended. I was petrified, but I was distracted from what was going on, with regards to my operation.
• I remember warning everyone in the operating theatre, that I had seen Hannibal, and therefore knew what they were up to. I was told how a needle would be stuck into my back – to which I started laughing hysterically, telling the anaesthetist “nooo, you’re not going to!”.
• I also recall asking if my pet bunny would have been given the same medication, when he was castrated. Maybe this was the most unusual enquiry that I could have made – especially as I was yet to be injected with anything, at that point, so my mental state remained unaffected.

I like to be in control of my body and thoughts. It’s one of the reasons I rarely got drunk in my twenties, whereas many friends of mine would hit the pubs and clubs at least twice a week, without fail. That and the fact, alcohol usually made me vomit, way before I became close to any drunken shenanigans.

By this point, the effects of the ketamine were in full swing, with other pain killers and potions, working their way around my body.

But that’s for another post…

… now complete.

Two days earlier than expected.

I’ll be running like Usain Bolt, before you know it….

Yeah right – more like Oscar Pistorius… without his blades.

On a serious note, here are some thoughts of mine, regarding the operation.

I am writing these before I go down to theatre (Tuesday), but have decided against publishing them, until surgery is complete and I am back on the ward…

• Woken up at 6.45am, by a nurse keen to get me washed and the bedsheets changed. Apparently, having tiny bits of smoky bacon crisp, stuck to your skin, is not very hygienic, if going to theatre.
• Clearly there’s no breakfast for me – I’m Nil By Mouth. I could give or take the toast, but would commit murder for a coffee.
• At least I won’t go thirsty – they have me on a drip. Sadly, it’s a drip of saline and not a flat white.
• Serious bit alert… I’m not scared about having an operation. I have a lot of faith in the surgeon. I also know that I have no alternative, but to have this operation – unless I want to live in bed, suffering with strong pain, for the rest of my life.
• I feel a tad selfish – while I don’t expect or think anything will go wrong, if the very worst should happen, I won’t suffer or know anything about it. Those I would leave behind – my wife and family – would be the ones to have their lives ruined.
• Apologies for the two bullet points above, pretty hard stuff there. Although, as you’re reading this, you know that I’m ok.
• Everytime I hear a trolley coming down the corridor, towards my bedroom, I wonder if it’s the porters, coming for me.
• A nurse has taped my wedding ring to my finger. Obviously, I never forget that I am wearing the ring, but this simple act of securing it to my finger, makes me feel even more settled and that my wife, Claire, will be with me, as I am in theatre.
• Post-surgery, I’d love to think I would have the appetite to devour a huge plate of nachos and a large margarita from Pizza Express. Chances are, I’ll be sick and being begged to have a nibble of toast.
• This is one of the reasons I’m blogging now. All I will need to do, when I return to the ward, is hit the PUBLISH button, under this post.
• I think that’s about it. Wish me luck, although that’s a stupid thing to say, as like I said, the fact you’re reading this means that the operation is complete.

I’ve refrained from proof-reading all of the above.

Despite being in hospital and dealing with medical dramas, I do not become immune from encountering everyday annoyances.

Here are just some things which have ‘ground my gears’ today. Admittedly, a couple of these are unique to a hospital environment, but most could happen anywhere…

The wrong breakfast
In hospital, you are given breakfast in bed. Not that I have much choice – where else could I eat it? ‘Breakfast on a Bedpan’, doesn’t appeal. Before you all write to the Daily Mail about taxpayers money, treating patients like royalty, the menu is basic – cereal or toast – tea or coffee. The coffee is instant. The bread tastes cheap.

This morning, I was asked a number of times, what I would like to eat. I confirmed coffee, one sugar, in a beaker. White toast, with jam. “No tea? No marmalade?”, asked the breakfast lady. “No, thank you”, I replied.

My breakfast arrived – marmalade on toast and a beaker of tea! At least they got the beaker part right.

The wrong patient
Within seconds of the aforementioned breakfast been placed on my bedside table, a porter arrived in my room. Apparently I was required to have a CT Scan – under doctor’s orders!

At this point, I was yet to notice my brekkie order was wrong. To put it lightly, I was NOT happy. The nurses keep checking that I am eating and drinking properly. How the feck can I do that, when I am carted off, before any food or drink meets my lips?

I realised all was not right, when the porter asked if my oxygen was ready to be transported. Now, I may have a lot of medical requirements, but oxygen cylinders are not one such need. Therefore, either the CT Scanner was underwater, or the porter had the wrong patient. It was the latter. They had walked into the wrong room.

These doors really should have numbers on, or something… just in case the sarcasm didn’t come across then, the doors do!

Born in a Barn
There is a nurse on this unit, who was clearly born in a barn. I wouldn’t describe her as having horsey features, plus she is a good nurse – she is caring, gives me my medication on time and knows what she is doing.

Despite all this, however many times I politely ask her to close my side room door, she almost always leaves it open!

You may think that I am being a little petty, with this moan. However, it ties in very well with my fourth and final gripe…

Noisey Neighbours
The ward where I am staying is not like your traditional unit – with a number of open plan bays, each containing 6-or-so beds.

The majority of the patients on this ward, have their own side rooms – which is lovely. I’d describe them as a university student bedroom. Student accommodation is renowned for being very loud – this place is no different.

Now, there may only be one patient to blame for this, or there could be multiple offenders. Someone, or some people, don’t share the same desire as I do, to keep their room door shut. Fair enough. I’m probably in a minority, over the door issue.

However, if you are one of those patients, who likes to leave their door open, don’t have your television turned up to the maximum volume. So far, this evening, I’ve heard The Chase, the news, what sounded like an entire Harry Potter movie and an episode of Coronation Street.

I thought I would rival my neighbour, and instead of using earphones, while watching videos on my mobile, I played the sound direct from the phone’s speaker. Anyone with a Samsung Galaxy will testify that the mobile can get very loud!

I was enjoying watching the latest Kevin Bridges DVD. It’s standup, but I thought it wouldn’t offend. Granted, Kevin isn’t as cuddly as housewives’ favourites, Russell Howard or Michael McIntyre; but Mr Bridges is certainly no Frankie Boyle.

All was going well until Kevin started ‘effing. He swore a bit more. A lot more. Then he dropped the C-bomb “I’ll kick you in the punt!” – or something along those lines. It was at that point I decided to use my earphones again.

As much as I dislike hospitals, I would quite like my leg fixed, and not to be evacuated from the ward and dumped onto the cold suburbs of Southmead…

The first part of this post felt like the longest story ever told, so rather than binning the boring bits, I took Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings Trilogy approach. Instead of making one gigantic steaming turd, why not split it into three pretty big steaming turds? I think I’ll only to need to cut this poo into two – so, you’re lucky – no trilogy!

Part 1 ended with me entering my own private room, on a ward at Southmead Hospital. The room is, without a shadow of a doubt, exceptional, considering this is an NHS hospital. It reminded me of the photos of Kate Middleton, when she was in hospital, after having one of her vast number of sprogs.

Things I love about my own room…

• It’s my OWN room
• I get a relaxed, decent night’s sleep
• The temperature isn’t stupidly hot
• A massive window to look out of
• Free WiFi, that allows me to stream Sky Sports videos on my mobile
• A very comfortable bed
• Privacy!
• Not hearing old men moaning and farting, throughout the day and night

There is a widescreen TV (which I am yet to use), an en-suite bathroom (which I currently cannot use) and lots of latex gloves (for the nurses to use).

Despite all the plus points, there is one massive problem. The hospital is in Bristol and not in Bath. This causes a lot of problems for my visitors – especially Claire.

Whereas my wife and I live 10 minutes away from the Bath-based hospital, it can take over 45 minutes to drive to Southmead. It was so nice being able to see Claire over the last week. She was able to come and go, as we both desired. Plus, she could stay for over half a day. Due to the vastly increased distance, our time spent together will now be slashed on a massive scale. The sooner that I return home to her, our home and Roman, the better.

It was all a little crazy being admitted on a Saturday evening – especially during feeding time at the zoo. Basically, the ward staff were in the process of dishing out the evening meal to patients.

My Dad had told me that he would be eating crab for his tea. I joked about how anything fishy, especially crab, would be one of my worst meals ever. I therefore just had no choice, but to laugh, when I was offered crab cakes, by the ward, for my own meal.

As I had not ordered any food, the considerate nurses managed to put together a makeshift tea, from pasta, peas and rice pudding – without a crab, or any other marine life, in sight.

By this point, I was looking forward to falling asleep, in my new comfy bed, in my own private room. The thought of sleep never felt so appealing – especially after spending a week on a ward, with constant noise and bright lights, throughout the night.

Before I could set sail to the Land of Nod, I was required to take a trip to radiology for some x-rays. A pointless exercise. My leg was not strapped together properly. Apparently it must have a ‘traction’, before I could be moved.

Back to my room, I went. I slept… very, very well.

I was awoken in the middle of the night, to find a man playing with my leg. I mumbled something, probably incomprehensible. Looking back, in the brighter light of day, it seems that my leg was being strapped together, with the illustrious ‘traction’.

Sunday morning arrived, by which point I was Nil By Mouth, with only a 5am snack of coffee and toast, to keep me going.

I was taken on another journey, back to radiology, for a second attempt at taking a photo of my leg. This was where things became a tad farcical…

• The radiographers moved me from my bed to the x-ray table
• This was very painful and I probably made a lot of noise
• Upon being placed on said-table, it was discovered that they were unable to take an x-ray as the traction was missing from my leg
• Having endured the bed to table transfer, and not wishing a repeat, I pleaded that a photo be taken anyway
• My pleas fell on deaf ears, and I was moved (painfully) back onto my own bed
• I waited in a corridor, deep in the bowels of the hospital, while an understandably irate radiographer tried to find out which doctor said I had traction, when I didnt
• No doctor would admit to the mistake. Probably wise
• This lead me to believe, whichever doctor did say that I had the much sought-after orthopaedic tool, on my leg, must have either lied, guessed, or doesn’t know what a traction was
• I started to fantasise about the doctor, responsible for my earlier pain, being locked in a caravan, with an angry rhino. I hoped that his back and leg would experience the same level of discomfort, that I was unnecessarily put through
• My bed was then wheeled back into the x-ray room, for what seemed like attempt number 1,000, at getting an image of my fracture. It was, in fact, only the radiologist’s third effort – including the previous night
• I felt aggrieved – had the radiographer just left me on the x-ray table – like I originally begged – more pain and suffering, on my part, would have been avoided. I chuck the radiographer into my fantasy caravan, joining the doctor and crazed rhinoceros
• Somehow the staff got the x-ray taken, while I remained in my own bed. Very uncomfortable, but not agony.
• You could relate my experience to Brexit – remaining is painful, but the alternative is a lot worse
• I was wheeled out of the x-ray room, before eventually being returned to my own room.
• By this point, the fantasy rhino has escaped. The caravan is just a pile of twisted metal. The poor doctor and radiographer are nowhere to be seen

I later meet the consultant. Presumably not the one responsible for the whole traction debacle, as there was no rhino-horn-shaped-hole in his chest. Am told what most doctors have been telling me for the past week. They are working on a plan. Things won’t be long. Blah blah blah.

A nurse later tells me that the doctors now have a plan. The problem is, that the plan does not involve any surgery taking place until Thursday

Very frustrating. I can’t really blame Bristol. It may be a weak excuse, but I was informed that I was just dumped upon them at the weekend. It does, however, make me wonder what was going on, during my week in Bath. The words “waste of time” come to mind…