Wednesday, June 02, 2004
November 18, 2003
I realize that I've been avoiding actually talking about my operation. Well, I'm about to face the monster head on:
I had my surgery on November 18, 2003 in a large well-regarded hospital in a major North-American city. My surgeon is one of the top orthopedic surgeons in our area, if not in the country.
A few months before the surgery he asked me if I would be interested in minimally invasive surgery (MIS), a relatively new technique. I immediately got on the Internet to see what information was available. Well, to quote someone else who has recently suffered an MIS-related complication, pretty much everything you find on the Net regarding MIS touts it as the best thing since sliced bread: faster recovery, on your feet right away, smaller incision...I was thrilled to bits that my surgeon felt I could be a candidate for this wonderful surgery.
My surgery began around 12:30 p.m. It was supposed to last 3 hours. My husband was sent to wait in the special waiting room reserved for those waiting for a patient in surgery. When they closed the waiting room, I was still not back. They sent him to wait in my room.
The surgery took 5 hours. When I awoke in the operating theatre I remember seeing my surgeon and some other people standing over me. All I can recall is immediately hearing that my femur had been fractured during the operation. Of course, I was shocked, groggy and in pain. "I'm confused," said I. To which a nurse responded, "Do you know what day it is?" Well of course I did!! But a fracture? That wasn't something I'd had any inkling could happen. I was overwhelmed.
They took me back to my room and told me that I was not allowed to move for the next week. And here I was expecting to be in physiotherapy the next day. The first night I was awoken at regular intervals to check my vital signs. I didn't have to worry about urinating as they had inserted a catheter. I was allowed to "eat" ice-chips--the best ice chips I'd ever eaten in my life.
My surgeon visited twice, staying perhaps a total of five minutes. He was always surrounded by his accolytes--young surgeons in training who no doubt hung on every word he said. He did not seem particularly concerned with what had happened to me and in fact admonished me to keep my leg straight.
The day after surgery, I was taken for a CT scan. I thought it had to do with the fracture and nobody told me otherwise. I was in a lot of pain lying flat on the table and I was also terribly frightened of being moved and somehow disturbing my fractured leg. The day I left for the convalescent hospital I was again taken for another scan and this time I asked why. It had nothing to do with my leg. Apparently, they had detected an anomaly on my lung in an x-ray taken before the surgery and wanted to check it out further. Couldn't someone have said something, or was I too stupid to be given the information? The scans didn't seem to reveal anything worrisome but I will have to go back again for another scan next November. I worry a tiny bit, but mostly I feel furious about how I was treated.
During the eight days I spent in the hospital I felt very weak, but I had lots of visitors and felt that this was but a relatively minor setback in my march towards a new and better life.
On the eighth day post-op (hey, this is sounding biblical!), I was transfered to a convalescent hospital where I stayed for just over three weeks. It was a wonderful place where I went from being totally dependent on others for everything except feeding myself to being able to dress myself, take a shower, use crutches, etc. I began physiotherapy the day after my arrival and felt excited about finally getting on the road to recovery. I was still not allowed to put any weight on my operated leg and would remain three-legged (one leg, two crutches) until seven full weeks after my surgery.
I had my surgery on November 18, 2003 in a large well-regarded hospital in a major North-American city. My surgeon is one of the top orthopedic surgeons in our area, if not in the country.
A few months before the surgery he asked me if I would be interested in minimally invasive surgery (MIS), a relatively new technique. I immediately got on the Internet to see what information was available. Well, to quote someone else who has recently suffered an MIS-related complication, pretty much everything you find on the Net regarding MIS touts it as the best thing since sliced bread: faster recovery, on your feet right away, smaller incision...I was thrilled to bits that my surgeon felt I could be a candidate for this wonderful surgery.
My surgery began around 12:30 p.m. It was supposed to last 3 hours. My husband was sent to wait in the special waiting room reserved for those waiting for a patient in surgery. When they closed the waiting room, I was still not back. They sent him to wait in my room.
The surgery took 5 hours. When I awoke in the operating theatre I remember seeing my surgeon and some other people standing over me. All I can recall is immediately hearing that my femur had been fractured during the operation. Of course, I was shocked, groggy and in pain. "I'm confused," said I. To which a nurse responded, "Do you know what day it is?" Well of course I did!! But a fracture? That wasn't something I'd had any inkling could happen. I was overwhelmed.
They took me back to my room and told me that I was not allowed to move for the next week. And here I was expecting to be in physiotherapy the next day. The first night I was awoken at regular intervals to check my vital signs. I didn't have to worry about urinating as they had inserted a catheter. I was allowed to "eat" ice-chips--the best ice chips I'd ever eaten in my life.
My surgeon visited twice, staying perhaps a total of five minutes. He was always surrounded by his accolytes--young surgeons in training who no doubt hung on every word he said. He did not seem particularly concerned with what had happened to me and in fact admonished me to keep my leg straight.
The day after surgery, I was taken for a CT scan. I thought it had to do with the fracture and nobody told me otherwise. I was in a lot of pain lying flat on the table and I was also terribly frightened of being moved and somehow disturbing my fractured leg. The day I left for the convalescent hospital I was again taken for another scan and this time I asked why. It had nothing to do with my leg. Apparently, they had detected an anomaly on my lung in an x-ray taken before the surgery and wanted to check it out further. Couldn't someone have said something, or was I too stupid to be given the information? The scans didn't seem to reveal anything worrisome but I will have to go back again for another scan next November. I worry a tiny bit, but mostly I feel furious about how I was treated.
During the eight days I spent in the hospital I felt very weak, but I had lots of visitors and felt that this was but a relatively minor setback in my march towards a new and better life.
On the eighth day post-op (hey, this is sounding biblical!), I was transfered to a convalescent hospital where I stayed for just over three weeks. It was a wonderful place where I went from being totally dependent on others for everything except feeding myself to being able to dress myself, take a shower, use crutches, etc. I began physiotherapy the day after my arrival and felt excited about finally getting on the road to recovery. I was still not allowed to put any weight on my operated leg and would remain three-legged (one leg, two crutches) until seven full weeks after my surgery.
