As most of you know, my surgery was yesterday. The procedure was an arthroscopic surgery on my left knee because of a torn outer meniscus. They were unsure if they would be shaving the cartilage or if they would actually be repeairing the tear and they would not know for sure until they opened the knee up.
I awoke around four thirty at the insistence of my mother, left the house around five thirty, and arrived to check-in for the surgery just a little past six am. My parents received wristbands that were marked PG (for Parent/Guardian) and I was told I would receive mine when my name was called. When we arrived, already the room was becoming crowded with relatives, other young patients, and concerned parents and guardians.The sight was a little heartbreaking but hopeful with all the younger kids there obviously getting the help they needed in some form or another. I was easily the oldest there.
The wait didn't take long. Soon I was being weighed at the station with a nurse, an armband placed on my right wrist, then taken up a floor to room thirteen. Thirteen, you say? Isn't that unlucky? Fortunately, I think just the opposite. I think it very lucky because I've always enjoyed the number thirteen.
Upon arriving in the room, which was cheery (since I my surgery did take place at the children's hospital) and nonthreatening were it not for the hospital bed and other distinctly hospital accessories, I found on the bed a gown and some special socks.After a few tests, I changed into these and took my place on the bed, scooting my legs over for the surgeon and nurse, respectively and at different intervals, to sit. The surgeon explained the procedure again, the anesthesiologist who explained what methods would be used to keep me under, and then the nurse who placed an IV port in my right arm. I still have a purplish bruise from where the tube was inserted.
After the arrival of the man who would actually be performing the procedure, I said good bye to my parents (who were asked to take their seats in the waiting room where we were sitting before) and was wheeled down the hall to the operating room. If you have never had an operation, I have news for you. The actual room is freezing and the table they use is little more than a sheet covered ironing board (as the anesthesiologist pointed out to me). They placed five heart monitors on my chest, as well as one around my finger, then place a mask over my face and after a few deep breaths, I was under.
When I awoke again, I was in an open room, having just been wheeled there after my surgery. My parents were brought in and things were explained to them, pictures handed over of the inside of my knee, and told that the surgeons shaved the cartilage, they did not repair it. Most of it I don't remember. I do remember being awake and lucid enough to ask my mother for my glasses so that I could see the pictures. After that, and handing my glasses back to my mother, my father left to go to work and I closed my eyes to rest as I was wheeled into another room to wait for the effects of the drug to wear off.
Time, when you're in a hospital and under a drug's influence, is fleeting and never lasts as long as you think it should. When I awoke next, more fully aware and functioning this time, my vital signs were taken and I was proclaimed fit to leave at any time. It was about this time that I noticed that my leg was completely covered and my knee itself was in a lot of pain. They literally wrapped me up in an ace bandage from knee to ankle, with more padding on the knee, to keep the swelling down. The pain was to be expected, I know, but still, something about it just made me cringe, this mummy looking knee that didn't even look to be a part of me. I was assisted to the bathroom, where I dressed in privacy more or less with the help of my mother, then waited for the wheel chair to take me out to the waiting Jeep.
And so I was driven home and assisted up to the front yard, the front steps, through the front door to the couch without crutches at around eleven. Yes, it hurt, but I managed. Later in the afternoon, I was able to more or less go where I wanted within a very short distance without assistance. As the night progressed, I was able to move further distances. Today, I can pretty much walk the length of the house and stand but it still hurts. It still feels like something is shifting under my skin that shouldn't be shifting, and the creaking and popping is painful to hear and feel.
Unfortunately, the pain medicine that they gave me has not been working. The hydrocodone that I had left over from my skateboard accident hasn't helped the pain anymore than tylenol would - like candy for a diabetic basicly, no help at all. Lortab is also not working, which was what was perscribed to me yesterday. The only thing that puts a dent in the pain is the left over pain medicine from my oral surgery back in May, the roxicet and even that isn't numbing it well enough.
For those of you who don't know, pain medicine doesn't effect me as it probably would others. Morphine, which I have a mild allergy to and have built up a tolerance to, works just about as well as hydrocodone, which is nearly not at all. So while someone else might trip out on these drugs, I'm pretty much sober, a little sleepy, but still very much myself and grumpy with the pain.
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