OUT DAMN STENT!!

So, for the rest of the week (9^th to 13^th of November), I really didn’t feel like I was getting better.

I was just so lethargic and dizzy all the time, and really feeling like crap in general.  I feel that should be an official medical term: I feel like crap.  I think it covers just about everything, and when you say that to a doctor, they know exactly how you feel.

So may plan was to return to work on the 15^th of November.  My biggest obstacle was driving to work.  I have a two hour trip to make, and if I can’t keep my eyes open for more than 10 minutes at a time, I think my journey would be a considerable challenge, would it not?

So, on the morning of the 14^th of November (Monday), I had a CWA meeting, and I said to myself: ‘Self; you’re going to fire yourself up, get off the couch and go to this meeting.  Time to get back into it.’

So I showered, dressed, poured myself into the car, and drove the 7kms from my house to the Tooborac Hall for the meeting.

Third massive mistake.  When I got to the hall, I was shaking so badly, it took me about five minutes to get out of the car and into the hall.  The ladies all went into a panic at the sight of me, and sent me on my way home again.

I can’t even begin to describe the pain and trauma that those 5 minutes behind the wheel caused me, and I truly wish not to re-think it, to be honest.

But when I got home, I collapsed on the couch in a flurry of tears.  I must have fallen asleep at some stage, because I woke up some hours later, still feeling terrible, and decided that something was definitely not right.

So I agonised over the decision of what to do.  I didn’t want to be one of those hypochondriacs that drive hospitals, ambulance and anyone with a medical degree insane with their paranoid questions and demands.

However, I knew my body well enough to know that it was fucked.  Something was not right, because I usually bounce back from surgery pretty quickly.  The fact that I had failed to do this, and still felt terrible (although in no pain), said to me that something was wrong.

So I rang the surgeon.

Now I must say; I do understand that a surgeon that specialises is a field, such as mine did, would be difficult to get a hold of.  I understand that.  That’s where their clinic nurse comes in.  He/she is always available to talk to if you have problems, and talk to the clinic nurse I did.

Apparently, there are three reactions to a stent.  Number one: you don’t even know it’s there, and life rolls on like normal.  Number two: you feel some discomfort.  Number three: you feel sick, tired, lethargic, can’t pee properly, when you pee you feel like you haven’t peed, you’re in pain and constant discomfort.

Tick number three for Lee.

So Nicki the clinic nurse advises that we need to get that stent out as quickly as possible, and books me in for surgery (again) for the coming Friday.  By sheer miracle (well, in my view anyway) the surgeon was right there with her, and he told me to relax, stay as still as I can, don’t exert myself, drink heaps of water and some cranberry juice (good for the urinary tract) and do not drive.

Great.  Another fucken week off work.  Sad that was the first thing that popped into my head…

So I spend another week at home, bouncing off the walls, and doing some minor bits and pieces for work from home (thank fuck for faxes and the internet).  However, it was nothing too strenuous.  Sitting in front of the computer processing some payments for half an hour was absolutely exhausting.

So Thursday rolls around, and the admissions clerk from John Fawkner calls me to touch base with my procedure scheduled for the next day.

‘You’re booked in for admission at 12pm.’ she explained.  I knew this meant that I needed to get there by 12pm so they could make me sit there for three fucken hours before they took me in.

‘You will need to fast from midnight tonight.  Nothing to eat or drink until post-surgery.’ She said.

‘Whoa… wait a minute.  I’m a type two diabetic; I can’t fast for that long.  I’ll have a hypo.’

‘The doctor said that you must fast from midnight…’

‘You may want to check that with the doctors, because I really shouldn’t be fasting that long… my sugars will drop too low…’

‘That’s what the doctor has said.’ She quipped at me. 

‘I know it’s what the doctor has said.  In fact, I’m sure you’re rattling these instructions of a procedure sheet that some doctor in there has prepared for you.  However, it is not safe for a diabetic to fast for so long...’

‘I’m sure you can skip a meal and it won’t be a problem…’

‘Clearly, you have no idea what diabetes involves, do you?’

‘I’m not a diabetic…’

‘And you’re not a medical expert either; you’re an admissions clerk.  Yet, you’re dishing out medical advice, which I will tell you now is dangerously wrong.’  I don’t think she was impressed with me.  ‘You need to check with a doctor before giving me that advice.’

‘But I have checked, and this is what the doctor said…’ she said firmly.  ‘You have to fast from midnight.’

‘Okay.  Okay.  I’ll fast from midnight.’ I said in the end.  ‘If there is a problem pre-surgery, believe me; you will be hearing about it.’

Mistake number four: I should have called my mate Nicki, the clinic nurse, and double checked with her. 

Hindsight is such a powerful thing…