my hospital adventure
yo. This shit is wack.
I have snapped my achilles tendon. I was playing netball (goal shooter and ON FIRE for a usual defender), and in the last 5 minutes of the final quarter I went to take off in a run for the ball, which is what I'd been doing allllllllll night. Unusually, I heard a very clear snap, like a branch breaking, and, thinking I'd tripped over a branch, I looked behind me to see what I'd stepped on as I fell to my knees. But there was NOTHING THERE!!!! Spooky. So I tried to stand up again but my right foot had no strength and all this pain. The girls gathered round and as soon as they heard about the snap, they carried me off the court, into a car and drove me to the Alfred emergency department. Leeanne and Danielle stayed with me for ages, and then Jo turned up to see if I was ok, which was incredibly nice of ALL of them. Lee and Dan went home when Jo offered to stay until mum and dad rocked up, which was even NICER. Then mum and dad came, and we waited for more ages, then I had an x-ray, then we waited some more.
Then I was taken in a wheelchair (which are SUPER FUN by the way) to a little cubicle in the emergency department and my leg was examined by an incredibly attractive young New Zealand doctor (unfortunately with a wedding band on his ring finger). The x-ray hadn't shown any breaks or fractures in the bones, so they thought it was tendon or ligament damage. He got his older, balder, less-attractive boss to have a look, and after much mumbling announced that it was most likely a ruptured achilles tendon that would require an operation to fix.
Now, take the fact that I have never been admitted to a medical hospital (psych hospitals are a different story). Add the pain factor, the anxiety disorder factor, the overwhelming injury factor, the fear of operations factor, and every anxiety associated with long-term injuries and hospitals and operations, and what do you get? I'll tell you what you get. A HARDCORE PANIC ATTACK. I cried and shook and hyperventilated and palpitated and catastrophised. What if I don't come out of the anaesthetic? What if I bleed to death on the operating table? What if they find something else wrong with me and I have to start some new medication or treatment or something? What if they can't fix it and I can never play sport again? How will I get through the next year not being able to do all these things I'd planned to do?
So this went on for ages, until Damien, my night nurse (who was also extremely attractive) came in and gave me some Valium. I calmed down enough to say goodbye to mum and dad. By that time it was like 1am. Damien was awesome. When I had to go to the dunny, I bizzed, and he came and got me in the wheelchair and wheeled me to the dunny. Then I would bizz again, and he'd come get me, and we'd burn round the corner in the wheelchair with him making car noises. He put the IV thing in and it only hurt a little bit. But then he gave me morphine for the pain, and I swear to God, that feeling is the most disturbing thing I've ever physically felt. I don't care if I never feel it again. It was like it was burning inside, spreading all through my body and not dissipating. I panicked again - badly, again - and he asked me if I was ok. Then he said "I think you need more Valium" so he got me more. Then I calmed down and cried, and told him about Nanna Peg, and Phil, and how shit a year this has been, and he said that it would get better, and that I needed sleep. So he helped me lie down and I slept.
In the morning the surgeon came and marked my leg, and told me what was going to happen in the operation, which wasn't much. They were basically going to sew it back together. That's it. IT would last for half an hour. There weren't any major risks, except for clotting in my leg which might travel to my lungs. Sweet. He booked me in for 8.30am, but it got moved to 11.30am. Dunno why. They had to do it that day though, because after a certain number of hours the tendon becomes set in its new position, with no elasticity and thus inoperable. Fuck. So Damien went home, and I got a bitch nurse called Chelsea who took me to the dunny but forgot about me, and another nurse found me waiting patiently in my wheelchair for someone to take me back to bed. Stupid idiot. Then eventually it was my turn, but I was too scared to enjoy being wheeled on my bed through the hospital - even onto a lift!!
So I got to the pre-surgery room and the man in charge was very nice - spoke to me for ages when I came in, but after that I didn't see him again. My eyes kept leaking, annoyingly, so people kept asking if I was ok. NO DERRR!! Finally, after lying there for another hour, they wheeled me to the operating room. I was hyperventilating again, and they kept telling me to take deeper breaths, which I couldn't do. Then they put the mask over my face and an Indian nurse kept saying "deep breaths, deep breaths" till I wanted to punch her, but I didn't have the energy. The surgeon told me to keep my eyes open and I did, but I don't remember shutting them.
I woke up in recovery panicking, hoping they didn't have to chop my leg off, but also relieved that I was alive. They had a blood pressure monitor on my arm and I was worried that mine was abnormal, but they kept saying "normal and stable" so that was ok. I stayed there for an hour or so, then they wheeled me to a room somewhere. I was able to get off the trolley and onto the bed myself, but then I slept for hours, and woke up to see mum and dad. Hooray I was alive and my leg was still there!!
HOWEVER I discovered the most embarrassing thing on the face of the earth: having to use a bedpan. BEDPAN!! I was not allowed to move my leg for 24-48 hours, so of course I couldn't go physically to the toilet. SO they gave me a bedpan. "What the hell do I do with this?" I asked. My mother (no shame, my mum) demonstrated. I was so humiliated. They drew the curtains and as I pulled my underdaks down, my mum shoved this dish under my bum. I got stage fright!!!! You're not supposed to wee in bed! I could not go, even though I was busting. To help, mum set a tap going and made my dad say "running water, dripping taps" and make ocean noises over and over again. BUT the nurse and hospital admin staff chose that precise moment to come and talk to me about my admission!! For god's sake, I was sitting in bed on a fucking PLATTER trying to WEE and these turkeys want to talk INSURANCE and COVER and FUCKING SHIT THAT CAN WAIT UNTIL I HAVE STOPPED WEEING IN PUBLIC!!!! Eventually mum kicked them out and I was finally able to open the floodgates. Christ.
So all that day and night and the next day I was bedpanning and lying in bed. Doctors came and went, as did nurses, physios, and food-handlers. Finally I could leave. Mum drove me to Berwick, which is where I am now. I haven't been on the internet since last week, and I'm only on now cos Dad said I could use his work laptop by day. I can't sit at the computer desk with this stupid foot.
So here I am, in a half-cast wrapped in a bandage for 8 weeks. I can't put any pressure on it, I can't have it down for more than a few minutes before the toes turn purple, and I have to constantly have it higher than my heart to stop the swelling. Instead of just a rupture, it was a full-blown snap in half, so that it rolled up the back of my leg, just like a piece of elastic. The doctor described how they had to search up my leg to find the bit that had rolled up, and pull it down to sew it to the bit at my ankle. People shudder when they hear that. Me, I am morbidly fascinated by it. After the plaster, I need a space boot for another 8 weeks, and after that, no running or jumping for 8 or 9 months. I see the surgeon on Monday, and then I will find out my fate for the next week or so. Will I continue to be immobile? Only time will tell.