Yes, I actually am back in hospital, again. This time, it’s to fix the damage to my shoulder done several weeks ago on our last ski holiday -(https://www.thebearandthebees.com/?p=1632(opens in a new tab)).
This morning, I had a ‘last breakfast’ of bacon and eggs at 05:45 and feeling like a condemned man, but hopefully without the noose at the end of it, I checked over my day bag and went outside into what looked like it was going to be a lovely day to feed the animals and go and get myself repaired.
For me, it meant six hours of fasting and then, as we had luckily reactivated our health insurance, it was off to the (very) Catholic private hospital in town. The Covid – 19, semi safe check in only took a few moments and I took the lift up to the third floor. I passed through their lobby following another lady of certain age rocking a lovely shock of white/grey curly hair. She obviously sensed that I was a little out of sorts and mistook my haunted look of hunger for nervousness. She glanced up at the ‘Christ on the cross’ icon hanging on the wall, perhaps thinking that I might also draw some comfort from the sight, but I had actually noticed the unusual pose of Jesus, firmly affixed to the cross, but with his arms strangely raised in a hallelujah gesture. For some reason I thought that it should be captioned “LOOK DAD, NO HANDS” but I didn’t mention that to the nice lady.
I was processed through the formalities and issued my knee length anti blood clot stockings, my familiar backless nightie and thankfully a fluffy white dressing gown. She showed me to a curtained waiting area with a surprisingly comfortable reclining chair and then offered me a warm blanket. Now, if you’ve ever been in a cold hospital and accepted the offer of warm blanket, you’ll know just what a pleasure they are and this one certainly was. I booted up my laptop and put on an episode of ‘Dope’ and promptly fell asleep dreaming of what legitimate painkillers I might be offered.
Around two hours later, I woke up thinking about what was to come as I was being loaded onto a cot and wheeled into the waiting room. The very experienced surgeon, breezed in and boosted my confidence no end by asking me which arm he was ‘doing today’ I semi confidently identified my left shoulder and presumably as an aide memoire, he used a felt pen to clearly mark the side he was supposed to cut.
I could hear the staff in the operating room joking and laughing between patients and then a slightly manic Scottish anaesthetist bounced into the room, looking like a cross between a Wiggle and Salman Rushdie. Giggling, he introduced himself and described his part in the proceedings as passing a needle encased wire down the side of a nerve in my neck and said that he’d electrify the wire and he’d know that it was in the right place when my shoulder started ‘jumping’ He must have noted that my eyes had widened somewhat as he told me not to worry saying that he had some ‘really good stuff’ to fill my veins with and that I wouldn’t remember a thing. In fact, he said, as he passed over my premeds, I probably wouldn’t remember anything after the multi coloured pills. He was quite right, as moments later, I had floated away into unconsciousness and this time, missed the whole procedure.
Mrs Jerry had kindly come into the hospital to check on me that evening as I partially came out of the fog of narcotics and demanded MacDonalds. The shoulder ‘block’ was still working spectacularly well, as I also demanded to know where my arm was? I then allegedly loudly broke wind and passed out again. A few moments later, I repeated myself (minus the fart), again demanding Macca’s and to know which bastard had stolen my arm. Mrs Jerry thought this was hilarious and after I had fallen asleep again, promptly called #2 son and shared the story with him. The (not so) little swine very creatively said that she should tell me that “I had lost it in the war years ago”
Some hours later I came too again and feeling a little strange, I reached over to feel my stump. I couldn’t even find that, and I began to panic until I discovered that my arm had actually fallen through the bars on the side of the bed and was hanging almost vertically down to the floor. When I dragged it back into the bed with the other hand, I was relieved to note that although I had absolutely no feeling in it, it was still warm at least.
As is my wont, during stretches of hospital incarceration and very much earlier than I am supposed to, I dragged myself to my rather unsteady feet and attempted to dress myself. This simple procedure can be a little hit and miss for me at the best of times, but I had clearly under estimated the degree of difficulty in doing it with a completely dead arm. I had cunningly packed a zip up hoody, for convenience, or so I thought, but I figured that I could at least get my jeans back on. Not so convenient, doing up the zip one handed and tackling the buttons on the fly… That was a diverting forty minutes that I will never get back but I managed it and tried to read a paper while I waited for the surgeon.
He was horrified that they had made me stay overnight, until the accompanying nurse told him the story of my missing arm, as recounted by Mrs Jerry. He left chuckling with a comment that he’d see me in two weeks for a check up. On the way out, I received my party bag, full of different kinds of medication and without looking left or right, I hurried directly to the lift. ‘Y’MCA Jesus did catch my eye however and I could have sworn his eyes mournfully followed me down the corridor. Over the last three years, I have had both hips and both shoulders fixed, so hopefully there’s nothing major left to break. Or am I speaking too soon?