Surgery

The paramedics must have realised I was in a bad way. I live just around the corner from The Royal United Hospital. However, instead of taking my broken body there, I was driven all the way to Souuthmead Hospital in Bristol.

I arrived at their Emergency Department sucking on a canister of Entonox, like my life depended on it – at the time, it felt as if it did . Incidentally, with Christmas just around the corner, should anyone be stuck for what to buy for me, Entonox would be lovely. You can probably buy a festive gift box of the stuff from the Seasonal Aisle at Sainsbury’s.

You know where I mean… the shelves of all those miniature bottles of spirits. You pay more than you would in the Ritz Hotel minibar, for a tiny bottle of Baileys, simply because it comes in a box with a holly leaf on, and occasionally with a small playing counter-sized chocolate, which is supposed to taste of mint, but instead resembles Listerine mouthwash.

Not content with destroying my new coat, the staff at Southmead proceeded to cut off my new polo shirt. Again, my only concern at that moment was getting my damn arms fixed, so was more than happy for them to snip away at my new clothes, although would have intervened had anyone gone anywhere near my luxury silk scarf, which cost more than my late coat and shirt combined (RIP).

I was admitted to Intensive Care, with a view to perform surgery over the next day or two. I am unsure when I attended radiology, to have a series of x ray images taken, but I do remember the results. Both arms – broken. Part of my face, above my right eye – broken. Right leg – I’ll givel you one guess…

Thankfully, my left leg – which broke in January – survived. It was presumably stronger, having had a nail literally hammered into it. In essence, the left had become stronger, with the right shattering under pressure. I hope that this is a metaphor for next month’s general election.

It was decided that only my leg would be operated on. The arms would be left to heal conventionally, along with my face. To be honest, if I had not been told about the damage, I would be unaware of anything wrong with my face. Perhaps I can withstand pain to that area – have I left it too late to pursue a boxing career? Would Sky Box Office be interested in showing a man in a wheelchair, attempting to fight his way out of a wet paper bag?

Surgery took place the following day (Tuesday). By this point, I had not eaten or had had anything significant to drink since Sunday. Even with all the pain and trauma, I was rather peckish, by that point, and extremely thirsty.

I had told the doctors upon admission, that should surgery become necessary, I do not want to be given the drug ketamine. I had a very negative reaction to the horse tranquiliser, when my left leg was operated on in January.

As I was taken to theatre, I reiterated my request. There was concern from the anaethetist, as to how the operation could be carried out without the drug.

After I explained that ketamine caused frightening and realistic hallucinations, it was agreed that I would only receive a very small dose of “ket”, once I was fully knocked out. An alternative tranquiliser was to be used instead – one which the anaethetist assured me, only causes “nice dreams”.

The only downside to this drug, is the fact it causes memory loss – primarily affecting the minutes before the start of the operation.

I agreed to be given this new drug. Ironically, that is the last thing I remember, until…

… I woke up. Thinking that I was still in the theatre corridor, I asked if I was finally ready for surgery. I was told it had taken place successfully, and I was back on the ward.

I realised that I had dodged a bullet there – my right leg had a nice, strong nail in it. Surely surgery would be the worst element of any hospital stay. How wrong I was…

I will continue to update my blog, detailing what happened next. As I remain in hospital, with limited use of just one hand, these updates may not be as frequent as I would like.