February 18th 2009 - D+1 "We can rebuild him..."

I feel euphoric. That’s not a personal opinion, it’s medical vernacular. According to the leaflets accompanying the cocktail of painkillers that I’m filled with, ‘euphoria’ is a likely side effect. And I do feel incongruently pleased with life.

I finally had my ankle operation yesterday. Having had the original appintment postponed by two weeks due to snow(!!!), I had a peculiarly macabre sense of excitement and anticipation at being sliced open. I imagine it’s the same ghoulish glee a serial killer feels prior to finishing a victim. But really, I was keen to get it out of the way so I could start on my recovery. With weddings and stag weekends on the way, I’m not enamoured by the thought of dragging a useless limb around dancefloors like a bad impersonation of Verbal Kint in The Ususal Suspects.

Nevertheless, my surgeon clearly thought I was a tad unusual when I asked if he could take a photo of my exposed ankle joint mid procedure. His quizzical look prompted an explanation: “Just morbid curiosity, you know, and something to use as a motivator in recovery.” He raised an eyebrow and laughed nervously, probably making a mental note to self – ‘if there’s a spate of surgically themed murders in London, report this guy to the cops’.

Everything seemed to go remarkably smoothly. Arriving at The Hospital of St. John & St. Elizabeth at 7am, my surgeon and anaethetist visited my room to explain what was going to happen. The surgeon’s explanation was more appealing than the anaethetist who highlighted some of the potential side effects of going under: dizziness, sore teeth, vomiting, death.

Shortly after discussing the likelihood of death (about one in a million apparently), a nurse handed me a gown and a pair of thin paper underpants. Yes, paper underpants. I was beginning to wonder if the anaethetist had missed a scatological risk from his briefing – massive potential for a loss of dignity. I was being wheeled into theatre at about 9.30am and found myself waking up around an hour and a half later. Confused, I thought I was still waiting for my op and sat up only to see my foot encased in plaster and bandages. I looked at the nurse next to me. “Will I be able to dance the tango?” I croaked. She gave me a weary and polite smile, but declined to respond. She probably hears that gag twice a day.

Half an hour later, I was in my bed devouring the enormous breakfast I had ordered. I was inordinately pleased that I hadn’t vomited. A friend who recently had knee surgery had managed to fill two cardboard bowls expelling the contents of his bowels post-op. His shame was compounded by the grimacing “fit nurse” holding the receptacles to his dribbling face.

The next few hours were hazy and surreal. I drifted in and out of sleep, trying to read whilst awake and having strange dreams and hallucinations in sleep and semi-consciousness. My blood pressure and pulse were checked regularly, seemingly by a different nurse every hour. “I don’t feel any pain at all” I said to one, “Did they give me some painkillers in post-op?”. She smiled. “Oh yes. You’ve had all sorts! Particularly morphine.” No wonder I felt so good/strange. By early afternoon, I had already made several garbled phone calls to friends and family, delivering rapid one-minute rhetorics before passing out again.

Later on, my surgeon popped in to let me know that all had gone according to plan. My peroneal tendon had been flattened so was stitched back into a tubular structure. Small metal pins were used to secure the retinaculum ligament back over my tendon. Finally, sutures were used to reinforce this and reconstruct the lateral ankle ligaments to stabilise the joint. “Oh, and I took some photos for you”, he said on his way out. Lovely.

Having popped enough brightly coloured pills to make Shaun Ryder blanch, my final medication for the day was an injection into my stomach to prevent blood clotting overnight. The nurse commented on how eagerly I was watching ‘The Silence Of The Lambs’ whilst this was administered - probably adding to my reputation as the weird sicko in Room 4.

I managed a few hours of sleep, more often finding myself in a strange no-mans land between sleep and awake, having more strange visions and dreams. It probably wasn’t helped by the nurse who measured my vitals during the night and told me my heart rate was worringly low. I concluded it was the blood thinning injection.

After another enormous breakfast, I was discharged this morning to return in 2 or 3 weeks to have my cast removed. My brother drove me to my mum's home in Kettering, trying to engage with my jumbled stream of consciousness. During a pause on the motorway, he suddenly said “So, I guess that’s the end of football for you then.” I glared at him. “What do you mean? Of course not. It’s the pre-season tour in six months. That’s my target.” He laughed. “You’re an idiot.” I like to think it was meant as a backhanded compliment on my bravery.

This wasn’t the end of it. As I finished my last mouthful of the vast lunch my mum had cooked, she said coyly “I think it’s time you stopped playing football”. I bit my tongue for a few seconds. “I’ll be fine in a few months, this was just bad luck”. She sighed and started reeling off the number of times she’d heard me say that before. I tuned out.

Finally, my eldest brother came over for dinner later on. After he’d settled himself on the sofa, he said “Well, that’s the end of your football days then.” I erupted. “Is this some sort of conspiracy???”

Highlights & stats:
DVDs watched: 0

Cups of tea per day: 5

Hours of football watched: 0.5 (Luton Town vs. Brighton)

Current reading: Fiesta – The Sun Also Rises
Music: Let Your Love Flow, The Bellamy Brothers
Annoying: Trying to have a shower on one leg.
Pleasing: The artificial high from my painkillers. I’ve got to get some more of these.