I was first in the surgery list at 8am on Thursday at Holy Spirit Northside Private Hospital and so was up there in the surgery area nice and early. The surgeon visited me pre the procedure to give me an assuring smile, and the anaesthetist interviewed me to tell me he’d be putting me to sleep and get answers to all the questions he needed to make sure he didn’t kill me. I was assured that 10 minutes after the end of my operation he’d have me fully awake, free of pain and free of nausea. After some last minute paperwork I was whisked straight through the ready room into the centre of their modern high-tech theatre with a cast of thousands waiting for me – the surgeon, anaesthetist, various assistants and nurses. I was a little bit tense but confident as I was in the good hands of the Lord as well as all these seasoned professionals. They had a radio playing "My angel is a centrefold" which I was not keen on being the song that got stuck in my head for however long I was out for, or heaven forbid if anything went horribly wrong, the last song I ever heard!
I was told I’d start to float as I was injected with the first painkiller drug (after a couple of attempts to find a vein) and indeed I was hit with a reasonably pleasant feeling as I gazed at the bright lights of the ceiling above and tried not to concentrate on the nurses to the side sorting the vast array of sharp and blunt implements intended for rearranging body parts in various ways. I should not have read the Wikipedia article "Intraoperative awareness" (or, for that matter, "General anaesthesia") in the days beforehand. Nevertheless, I was confident of the care I’d receive in this private hospital.
I don’t recall any sensation of going off to sleep, but next thing I know I’m in the recovery area, people are peering down on me and I catch a glance at the clock on the wall. 3 hours since I went in! It wasn’t expected to be that long. My surgeon or someone else encouraged me to wiggle my right fingers which I duely did, confirming no damage to the radial nerve. I had just enough energy to punch the air in triumph with my left hand, and then realise I was feeling far from 100% well. An oxygen mask over my face seemed to be inhibiting by breathing, it was far easier when I took it off for a moment. I had nausea and was sweating profusely, and my heart rate was banging away at about 140. Some of the nurses had quite a bit of concern about my symptoms. My arm was in a new cast and was pain free, but otherwise my condition was in stark contrast to what my anaesthaeist had promised. A return to unconsciousness would have been welcome. There are worse things than post-surgical pain. Eventually a nurse said it was time to take me back to the ward. Fine, I thought, I’ll either feel like dying here or feel like dying there.
Back in the ward I had another unwelcome symptom, the impossibility of mentally concentrating on anything. I could barely tolerate the sound of conversation in my room, let alone join it for more than a sentence. Watching 3 overs of uneventful Test cricket on TV was was a mighty mental feat that seemed to be the hardest work I’d done. I had to turn it off again. Lunch was out of the question. Food seemed like poison to my nauseous stomach. Later on I barely managed to answer a series of questions from Dad to determine the next day’s menu. The fact that I still hated food probably influenced me, as well as the inability to say anything much more than "yes" or "no".
I did manage to eat a bit of dinner, but it was after dinner that the fun, if you can call it that, really started. My breathing was not too laboured any more, but still not relaxed enough to sleep. The nurses assessed me and called my surgeon, and also a doctor from the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). My heart rate, which had come down but not much, and my breathing were classic symptoms of Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT) and its follow-on effect of Pulmonary Embolism in my lungs. I had certainly got everyone’s attention! Given that this was the reason my grandfather was here one minute and gone the next in 1992 (due, I’ll always maintain, to the diagnostic negligence of staff at another hospital in Brisbane), the situation had got my attention too! The surgeon indicated this was a common post-surgical effect for leg injuries but he’d never seen one with a humeral fracture. I’d have to be pretty unlucky to have it.
A CT tracer scan was ordered, which involved injecting an iodine based fluid which shows up under a CT scan which then would show if I had any blockages in the blood vessels in my lungs. Some people were allergic to the fluid, specifically the iodine. Was I? Who knows? As in most of these things, there’s cheerfully only one way to find out. The CT machine is a big donut shaped loop through which the patient is moved in a horizontal position to expose the appropriate area to the scan. I was informed once again that "some people have a reaction to this fluid;" (as if I needed reminding) "but we really think this test is worth doing." I was told to expect a warm feeling and a funny taste and smell if my reaction wasn’t severe. First scan was a dry run to make sure I was well positioned. Second one I was told would be the real one. I was relieved to come out of the loop with no adverse reaction only to be told an IV line failure meant it hadn’t happened. 3rd attempt, I may have experienced a bit of warmth but nothing else. Success this time, thank goodness. The test had been physically arduous as it involved getting everything including the broken arm in a small enough space to fit me through the loop. Now the stress of waiting for the results. My surgeon said that if the test revealed a blood clot I’d need to be given blood thinners. He earnestly told me that this would be "great for the clot, but it won’t be good for your operation" due to more internal bleeding being likely, interference with the healing process etc. Back in the ward all options were discussed. There was very real talk about me possibly being moved to Intensive Care! Time passed. There were computer problems in the CT unit, results delayed. Great. Mum and Dad had been with me in the ward the whole day and night, and it was decided one would sleep on a recliner chair there for the night and one would go to my brother’s place close by. I was very grateful for the company. More time passed and nurse Amanda, who had done a great job of caring for me, walked in and announced "that test is negative, you haven’t got any clots in your lungs". One of the nicest things I’ve ever heard!
My self-diagnosis of my breathing was that it was necessary to feed the oxygen demand of my heart rate. The question of the cause of my heart rate remained though, and my surgeon referred me to a heart-lung specialist physician to examine me in the morning. Meanwhile my mother read aloud a couple of great pieces from the book of Psalms prompting a hearty "Amen" (I was still too mentally incapacitated to read myself) and settled to sleep on the couch. Thanks Mum! I had a sleepless night due to the breathing and thinking about all that had gone on.
Friday my condition was greatly improved, at least I could happily watch cricket and carry on long conversations, and breakfast was a lot more appetising than dinner. My heart rate showed a steady decline and breathing was easier. Still, to cut a long story short, by the time I left the hospital 2 nights later I’d had 3 electrocardiograph (ECG) tests, a blood test to determine clotting susceptibility, 3 precautionary low dose blood thinner injections, an echocardiograph (ultrasound heart examination) and on the very last day a deep vein ultrasound to check out a sore calf muscle as the spectre of DVT raised its ugly head for a final time to delay my leaving – and a post-surgery X-ray of my arm to check all was well there, which now seemed rather incidental to the rest of my health. The arm is, by the way, in a good position thanks to the great job done by the surgeon despite difficulties encountered along the way which is why it took longer than expected. All tests came back completely clear, and indicated I seem to have a heart and lungs in as perfect a working order as is possible. I raise a prayer of thanks for this, and when I am fully recovered I am doubly keen to return to my long-distance running to maintain my good health. For those who have not yet had reason to have a series of tests scrutinising the function of the most vital organs, I can say it’s an experience that focuses one’s mind on what is important. A big thanks goes to all the staff at Holy Spirit Northside Private, who gave me the best possible care and took all possible measures to ensure, as far as possible, my continuing good health.
The cause of my ugly recovery from the surgery is still unknown, but I am over it. Walking out of the hospital on Sunday afternoon was a triumphant experience, and there are no words to describe how happy I am today just to be alive. I am thankful that I now have another time in which to live which seems more indefinite the more this experience fades, but have a new awareness of the temporary nature of life and the urgency to ensure life is lived to the fullest and the most possible is achieved. I am also reminded that we have an eternity to live beyond this life which can be filled with unending joy and peace if we so choose. Despite the anxiety of uncertainty over all sorts of symptoms and tests, I could still remember that Jesus Christ chooses when we stay and when we go, and all he does is for my good. If I was going right there and then, it was to a better place (or maybe, more likely, complete unawareness and freedom from suffering until the last great resurrection when all things will be made new). Choose today where you stand with him, because you cannot be sure that you will still be here tomorrow…
This is the power of Christ in me
From life’s first cry to final breath
Jesus commands my destiny
No power of hell, no scheme of man
can ever pluck me from his hand
Till he returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand"
– Stuart Townend
Astro's random writings 