Abt a torn ligament & folded meniscus... & e growing pangs of a 24 year old gal.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Day of OP~1 week ago

The last verse of encouragement that I had before I was knocked out 1 week ago (8th May 06; 1215hr) was from my godsis that God has the sovereignty and authority to heal.
Pretty much at peace with the OP... had it all sorted out emotionally internally, but a little irked that mom was trying to tell every single nurse who was willing to listen what a troublesome, naughty and horrible gal i was. Anyway, anyway. I am 24 and it pains to see my 28 year old bro wrestling with my mom as she attempts to use her last bits of respect she still commands to clip his wings down to her nest. Just before I was wheeled in the theatre, a Malay nurse jokingly told me, "You mom complained that you are a very naughty gal..." Instinctively, I just smiled sheepishly and said "Mom's like that"...We both giggled to that...
Not that I agree to that. But I am so used to that, I think I learn not to react. People who have had a fair share of contact with me have a fair understanding to the type of person i am.
The OP theatre was Bright White, like a room straight out of the X-files. My surgeon had scribbled his name on my left leg and assured me. It was 10 minutes before they knocked me out... so I had a fair amount of time looking around the theatre, chatting with my anathestist, with around 8 people doing many different things to me (eg: placing the ECG probes on me, cleaning my leg, injecting some antibiotics and so on, OS was tying my bacon bit~allograft and commenting how pretty it looked ...) and that anathestist said in Mandarin... "Time to sleep gal" ... and he injected in something painful and forced me to breathe through the oxygen mask deeply... I counted with my fingers... by the 7th count, i was out.

It must have been 2 hours later, I woke up with a frozen leg and pins and needles all over. It itched and hurt. I dragged myself up and wriggled myself. Later that afternoon, my OS came to visit me with shots of my arthoscopy. It looked bloody. And I was pleased the pain wasn't that bad (I had a much worse stomachache 3 weeks back. Trust me). It was just a nagging achey feeling. Nothing too acute. Mark and Humin came to visit me with flowers. Mom spent her time chatting with new friends in the ward and telling my life story all over again. I pulled out my book by Keeping the heart by John Flavel and started reading.

That night was a pretty traumatic and agonising night. Not because of the pain. But I was woken up at least 30 times that whole night by the 3 patients sleeping opposite me. 1st patient was a 80+ year old Chinese woman who was so in pain, she needed a drip painkiller, yet she resisted the nurse as she tried to inject the probe in... eventually, she railed some vulgarities at the nurse and i could hear the nurse trying to keep her composure saying "Aunty, you are old and I respect you, but can you please not be so rude..." ... the 2nd patient, in her 20s wheeled out for a midnight OP to get her dog bitten wound stitched back. The 3rd patient, a diabetic who fell off her wheelchair had sustained many broken bones (pelvic, femur, tibia, left hand...) was whining "SAKIT, SAKIT" (pain in malay) incessantly. It was heart-wrenching to hear all these. I plugged in to my ipod and tried listening to hymns and read my book. I managed no more than half a page in 1 hour.
That night, I slept a total of less than 2 hours.


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