Dreadful Nonsense

The Story Of My Epidural:

Getting in to hospital for 8am is a ridiculous notion. I mean, I realise that hospitals work to a completely different time frame and world view than any other institution, but 8am in any person's book is slightly on the loopy side. Couple that with the weird instructions not to have a bath or shower that morning, and I was wandering the corridors of the quite confusion hospital feeling like maybe there was some big jape afoot that no one was telling me about.

Happily checked in and having registered every detail imaginable with the admissions officer (we decided between us that my religion was 'Christian' since they didn't have 'agnostic' as a category), me and my sister found the day ward where the nurse told me to pick a bed for myself. I went for the one behind the door, first on the left as you walk in to ward as it was slightly in shadow and I thought no one would notice me there. Louise said I should take one by the window, with the pretty views over the car park. So we went by the window, last one on the right.

There were two other ladies in the ward with me that were getting the same procedure done, and one of them was all too happy to chat merrily away about the two serious car crashes she had been in that had brought her to this day. One of her legs, I found out, was an inch and a half shorter than the other, she had had 10 operations, had nearly died, and no longer had a knee. I think she felt slightly cheated when I said my problem was genetic.

The SHO (senior house officer - a jumped up medical student who is made to do all the nonsense work, what they call a 'third year resident' in ER, like Pratt or Abby) took details galore, and then for reasons known only to him drew on my right foot with black indelible marker pen. On the top he wrote "28/1", his name and an arrow pointing towards my ankle. On the sole of my foot, as I tried not to scream in distaste and despair (I hate people touching my feet, let alone drawing on them) he coloured in another big fat arrow pointing to my heel. I was not impressed.

All too rapidly, an orderly trundled a bed in and starting calling my name, so I had to scramble into the backless hospital gown, remove all clothing other than pants and lie down on the trolley. It was like the old opening title sequence of Casualty, where you are wheeled under lights through corridors, but without the annoying rave-like themetune or smashing glass at the end.

Ick factor begins - I had to go in to the operating theatre. Being wheeled through those doors isn't something I think you should be doing fully conscious. It's a scary place to be. People rush up and down dressed head to foot like doctors with masks and gowns and gloves and x-ray protection jackets and scalpals and needles and hair nets. And you lie there on your bed trying to think of ways to talk yourself out of it.

Graphic details:
Don't ever listen to what anyone says to you. When a doctor assures you that you will feel "hardly anything", he's lying through his doctor's teeth. Epidurals, my friend, are not a painless affair. Even with the local anaesthetic, they can do nothing to shield you from the feeling of what they like to term "slight pressure" as they squirt first dye, then anaesthetic and finally steroids in to your back. And the insertion of needle and taking of investigative films is a long and drawn out process that you don't want to stick around for either. They told me to tell them if they were hurting me. I told them. A lot. Through tears and clenched teeth and the use of the word "OW", I told them. They ignored me for a while, but after about 20 minutes of me alternating between holding my breath and sobbing, they stopped. In short, I'm a bad patient.

The rest of the day in hospital passed peacefully. I turned the sound down on my phone and texted people, in direct contravention of the signs in the hospital. My blood pressure apparently dropped and then came back to normal. My temperature stayed the same throughout. I sat up after about an hour, which brought a nurse rushing out to tell me to lie back down again. The local anaesthetic slowly wore off and the feeling that someone had kicked me right in the back began to wear on. And finally I was discharged, with absolutely no instructions about after care.

I've to go back in 6 weeks for a check up. Tell you one thing, there's no way they're getting me on a trolley this time.

This entry was posted on 03 February 2004 at 1:03 pm. 0 comments

Dreadful Nonsense

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