Employee's knees up in EOC
It is 7.30am and many Londoners are having breakfast or on the morning commute while I wait to be admitted to a surgical ward at Central Middlesex Hospital’s Elective Orthopaedic Centre (EOC).
The fast-track EOC is manna from heaven for patients like me who have been waiting for a knee replacement bought on by half a century of wear and tear.
The natural cushioning between the ends of the bones that meet in my knee had worn out leaving them grinding against one for several painful years.
No online wonder pills are going to reverse that amount of mileage on the clock … and I should know.
I have tried everything from physiotherapy, steroid and hyaluronic joint injections to an arthroscopy, herbal pills, and massage.
So, how do you fortify yourself for major surgery beside an early morning cuppa (no milk allowed), a spoonful of stoicism, and the dreamy belief that you will be vaulting the garden fence again in a year?
The quiet huddle of patients waiting outside Abbey ward for their name to be called are having the same thoughts as me.
What is it like inside an operating theatre? What is it like being put to sleep? Will I feel any pain? What if something goes wrong? Will I wake up?
The door to Abbey ward feels like an entrance to another world and, in many ways, it is, for people unfamiliar with hospitals.
“Mr Watkins?” calls a nurse.
The ward is quietly busy as staff check patients’ details and show them to their beds. This is bread and butter to the nurses and surgeons, another day in the office, and that reassures me as I am shown to my room and change into a smock and a pair of modesty pants.
I have four fears going into hospital; trivial as they may as be.
I get a lucky pass on the first which is being put in a hospital bay next to a snorer or enduring someone’s Eurobeat playlist (#hospitalfearone).
A pair of earplugs are a good thing to bring regardless for a good night’s sleep along with toiletries, a towel, phone charger, book, and simple change of clothes.
The second arrives in the shape of an anaesthetist who recommends a spinal injection (#hospitalfeartwo).
I admit the thought fills me with dread. However, a bit of gentle persuasion and the rubber stamp that an epidural is ‘the gold standard for knee procedures’ convinces me otherwise.
I am escorted to the anaesthetics room 20 minutes later. I don't feel the injection or anything below my waist several minutes later beside a warm sensation.
I am wheeled through the adjoining swing doors into theatre and can dimly see the surgeon lifting my left leg up and shaving around the knee.
I dreamily think it is nice to see that connection with the past still exists when surgeons where originally part of the Worshipful Company of Barbers.
I am given further drugs which I am told will keep me on the periphery of consciousness. If they did, I certainly do not remember it.
The two-hour procedure involves a vertical incision down the knee with the damaged parts of the lower end of my thigh bone and upper end of the shin bone replaced with metal and plastic parts.
I have no doubt this involves its fair share of cutting, sawing, banging, and screwing but drift through it blissfully unaware. The next minute I can vaguely hear someone calling my name.
Wake up, Stephen. Wake up.”
I am back in my room before I know it with a big bandage on my knee. The surgeon pops in later to say he opted for a full knee replacement which we had agree beforehand if needed. I end up staying four days - many people are discharged after two - because of poor flexibility in the knee.
A cocktail of painkillers kept me pain-free and the physios have me up on my feet the same day using crutches. Their role is to primarily get patients up, walking and back home as soon as possible.
I periodically shuffle up and the corridor on my crutches exchanging small talk with patients on the ‘promenade’ as one elderly woman calls it.
One of the side effects of being given strong painkillers is constipation and sometimes a temporary inability to pass water.
A catheter being fixed to the old chap (#hopsitalfearthree) might seem like the height of indignity but it means you don't have to worry about the mechanics of getting to the loo after your surgery and, no, it did not hurt.
The catheter was painlessly removed the following day.
The hospital food (#hospitalfearfour) was perfectly decent with the unexpected treat of Chicken Tikka Masala and a superlative Apple Crumble and custard.
I get the green light to go home on Sunday evening having been admitted the previous Thursday.
A big thank you to all the nursing and surgical staff who were lovely and the cleaners and meal servers from Medirest for the little chats we had which made all the difference. Hospitals really are the sum of their parts.
I must take my hat off to the EOC, despite the ongoing challenges facing the NHS. Quick, efficient, and friendly and, two weeks later, the only way is forward and hopefully up (some stairs).