I settled onto the couch for the long-haul. My mom brought me a stack of pillows to elevate my leg and covered the surface of my coffee table in necessities like bottled water, Tylenol 3s, granola bars, kleenex, and books. A similar pillow configuration was built in my bed for when I would relocate to sleep.
Sunday passed uneventfully, with me learning how to shuffle myself around the apartment between fits of restless sleep. I talked to my supervisor on the phone, crying while she told me not to worry, to rest, to take care of myself. They were exactly the kinds of things you would say, but the comfort for me was immeasurable. At this point in time, my contract at work was less than a week expired and no new arrangements had been made. I could have been let go and I wouldn't have been surprised. I probably should not have been thinking this way, but being on a contract feels unstable enough, so I was fearing the worst. Finding out I was safe meant I could move on to worrying about the more pressing issues.
Tylenol 3s are helpful but they never addressed the pain I was feeling rippling out from my ankle, the tendons that had been damaged with my break. My pain was dull but it was deep. I slept. Barely. I was upset, zoned out.
Monday came and I began a long day of fasting, which made me feel worse and worse with every passing hour, my stomach tight not only because of the hunger, but also with anxiety about the possible surgery. My supervisor came to visit after work, bringing me a stack of dvds, magazines, a card from my coworkers, and a bowl of blueberry crisp still warm from the oven. When I made it past 8pm with no word about surgery, I ate the crisp first, before my dinner.
Then it was Tuesday, January 18th and my phone rang shortly before 8am with a call from the hospital asking me to come in for surgery. My parents came to pick me up and take me to Admitting. I was wheeled to a shared room in the day surgery ward and answered a long questionnaire about my medical history and circumstances over the past 24 hours. I put on a gown and they bagged my clothes and took them away. My parents left to go back to work. The man in the room with me had a portable TV or something on which Regis and Kelly was watched; I didn't sleep.
I was taken to Pre-Op around 11am and wheeled into a dock alongside about 12 other patients, most with a guest beside their beds. I was alone and very aware of there being no privacy curtains in this room. I stared at the ceiling and let my tears leak down the sides of my face into my ears. A nurse visited to start an IV. She complained I had "dainty veins" and had to send a specialist to hook me up. I was given a plastic bonnet to put on. The specialist came to poke me some more and finally got me started.
I was visited by a male (I later learned he was a resident) who asked me what was being operated on. When I indicated my left ankle, he flipped back my bedsheet, pushed up my gown, and drew on my thigh with a permanent marker. He walked away. My heart was racing and I had to convince myself to keep breathing otherwise I might have screamed. I replaced my sheet, but left my cast out in case that wasn't making it obvious enough about why I was there. My anesthesiologist visited to confirm my height, weight, medications, and lack of food/drink intake. My surgeon came next, to ask me the same questions I had already answered and to tell me about the surgery. Again, I don't remember this. I wouldn't look at him and I couldn't stop crying.
A while later, I got taken into the operating room. Either it was freezing or I was having an even harder time coping. I was able to shift myself from my stretcher onto the table and laid down. There were about seven people in the room. One peeled my gown down my front and began attaching sensors to my chest. The anesthesiologist got to work quickly, thank goodness, otherwise I was going to lose my mind. He put a mask on me, but not before someone else began strapping my arms down. I was still crying when I was knocked out. This may sound silly to you, but as a sexual assault survivor, this was traumatic. As a sexual assault survivor where restraints were used, this was especially traumatic. In the hospital, your body is not yours.
I woke up in the Recovery Room with my throat on fire and my stomach threatening to jump up, out of my mouth. Noises that began as low moans turned more frantic and whining as I began to realize the pain in my ankle. A nurse approached me and told me to relax. I couldn't keep my eyes open and I couldn't speak. I wasn't able to relax no matter how hard I tried to focus on breathing. The nurse returned and seemed to huff as she shot something into my IV - morphine, I found out after. This worked, though it made me feel like someone had steamrolled me onto the bed. They brought a huge machine to my bedside to take x-rays. I couldn't move so they had to position me accordingly and the pain screamed inside me again. After that I got permanently hooked up to a blood pressure cuff that filled consistently, what I guess would be every 5 minutes. Eventually someone came over and told me I was fine to go back to the day surgery ward but there was no bed for me. This is when I became aware of the Recovery Room having about 20 other bays, all filled, all curtainless. It could be my imagination, but I feel like everyone was doing much better at recovering from their own surgeries. I felt ill all over again knowing everyone could see the fit I had.
At about 1:30pm, they gave up on getting me a bed in the ward and wheeled me into a dim corridor so someone else could use my bay in the Recovery Room. It was quieter. I was alone. I also felt forgotten. Time did not exist in this place. All I knew was that I needed to pee so badly and there was no one to tell. Finally someone came to fetch me and take me upstairs. I learned it was around 3pm. My mom came to see me as a nurse hooked up an antibiotic drip, saying I needed it before I left. My dad came in and told me to get better because I was worrying my mom too much. I felt sick.
They brought me my clothes back and let me dress myself so I could go home. I wouldn't let my mom help me because I have a tattoo she doesn't know about. Childish, I know. My surgeon sent up a prescription for Percocet and I got wheeled out to the car. We made it back to the apartment and I was able to get myself into bed somehow. I was incredibly weak. I slept.
Second cast - my least favourite.
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