Two weeks ago I had a hip replacement operation. When I came to, I thought I was lying on the beach which, come to think of it, is lucky I wasn't. I remember a fair amount of pain, and being told I was able to self-medicate with morphine whenever I needed it. Since I still thought I might be on this beach, I didn't really take any notice of that instruction. Why would you?
As soon as I realised those around me weren't in swimming togs, but rather, were nurses, I took more interest in the morphine. This was drip-fed directly to the vein and controlled by a small pressure pump which, when triggered, released a restricted amount of the drug. 'Well', I thought, 'may as well try it if it's going and legitimate.' One quick pump and my limbs immediately felt as though they were paralysed. Well, if not paralysed, struck by intense pins and needles. That's when I took off. Nothing made sense any more, just a rather disjointed feeling of not being with it at all. Sort of like the moment when you try to drag yourself awake but keep slipping back to sleep and into a continuous stream of consciousness. I kept trying to tell the nurses they were angels and no one else could have the personality to do their job. Yep. I was ridiculous. Would not stop contributing to the 'I love Nurses, who do you love?' club. I was surprised when they left me to it.
After a bit, and when I'd stopped making a fool of myself about the nursing staff, and stopped crying, I figured the morphine business was a little too overpowering for a sensible, if ageing, baby boomer like myself. After that, I just relied on the heavier pain-killers that came around whenever I seemed to need them, in a tiny little plastic cup. Do you know what? Even these tiny little plastic cups were added up and calculated into the final medical bill that arrived in the post shortly after I'd been discharged. Every single item down to the last swab, was meticulously accounted for which now makes me understand the comment from one of the nurses after I'd apologised for leaving half my lunch, "it doesn't matter as you're paying for it anyway" or words to that effect.
What I'd done was get ahead of myself when I realised the daily menu covered far more than just jelly and ice-cream, and I'd ticked several of the boxes with great glee and anticipation. What arrived that particular afternoon for lunch was a feast that would have kept a village in Biafra happy for a fortnight. Of course I couldn't eat it. In fact, even now, the thought of egg and ham club sandwiches with white bread and lettuce, sends a shudder of nausea through my body. What I did like best though, was that first night's meal after the op, which had the most delicious sticky date pudding. All the food on that plate was wonderful and for the first time in my life, I actually ate slowly, savouring each mouthful. I asked the nurse whether I could have the remainder of the sticky date pudding for breakfast, but I think she thought I was joking. She later was kind enough to respond to my request for something for nausea, with an immediate feed-in to my vein. Thankfully, it worked, as I had no intention of releasing that sumptuous first meal.
My stay in hospital cost more than a stay in a four star hotel. Mind you, I doubt very much you'd get quite so much support in a four star hotel during the night when you were desperate for a pee. A ring on the bell might have brought room service, but I imagine a further request to help one to the lavvy might have been turned down out of hand. You see, once the nurse had removed that wonderful catheter which gave one complete freedom from having to pee - and guaranteed a dry bed into the bargain - I had to go through a huge procedure to get to the loo. First came the ringing of the bell which brought the nurse. Then a slow manoeuvring to sit position, swing both legs together (gripping a pillow between the knees) floorwards, followed by the adjustment of crutches and a shuffling to bathroom, thankfully ensuite. Then a careful manipulation of tiny turning manoeuvres until nearly seated. Finally a quick whip-up of nighty, a lowering of bum, and then, relief. But the infuriating thing was that this happened nearly every half-hour. Probably due to the enormous amount of liquid pumped into me via the entry point on the back of my hand.
It's a shame, in a way, that the last couple of days of my expensive stay in this four-star hospital was taken up with the desperate urge to pee, which needed to be calculated according to the amount of time it took to get through the entire procedure, but that's what happens, I guess.
After four days, I'd covered the menu options, learned how to manipulate the crutches, including how to climb stairs, and the bed was starting to feel rather hard and resilient. It was also difficult to sleep in one position - on the back - without wanting to turn. Time to go home. With last instructions on how to get into a car (still gripping aforementioned pillow between knees) and admonitions not to bend, twist, lean down, cross knees or ankles in case the new titanium and ceramic joint should pop out, I waved farewell and was driven home to a comfortable bed and lots of post-op TLC.
It takes a while to recover, and recovery cannot be rushed, so I spend quite a bit of time reading or watching daytime TV. The latter is mostly some excruciating cookery show designed to show up a person's failures, particularly if there's a spot of emotion, rather than instruct the viewer on how to cook better. I still have to try to sleep lying on my back with pillow between the knees, which means the night-time is very broken, but the rush to the bathroom is not quite so urgent, fortunately. Luckily I have my trusty laptop right beside me to help while away those long hours between pill-popping.
Recovery, though, is a good state of affairs and highly recommended.
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