Surgery in a pandemic

I was about 5 months post op on my left hip when lockdown began. My local orthopaedic hospital closed its doors to non-urgent patients; whilst my surgeon and physio were only contactable by phone or email.

Although I was still in pain, I do remember feeling relieved that I wasn't awaiting surgery.  

The NHS had gone into crisis and elective surgeries were being cancelled left, right and centre. Having had two operations cancelled in 2019, I knew the heartache and uncertainty that followed in normal circumstances, never mind during a pandemic.

In the months that followed, my symptoms worsened and I knew something was wrong.

The hospital began contacting patients and my surgeon agreed to see me face-to-face. 

When I arrived, the car park was half empty and the pay-stations were covered with ‘not in use’ signs.

The entrances had staff taking temperatures, asking patients to use hand sanitiser and to wear the masks provided. Visitors weren’t allowed inside the hospital, but I rely on a second set of ears at appointments. So I would call my husband, who was sat in the car outside, and I’d put my phone on speakerphone.

I’ve been a patient there for almost 9 years. I was used to seeing the waiting rooms packed with patients, however this time there were only 8 chairs laid out back-to-back, like a game of musical chairs, but without the joy or the sweets.

I had further investigations and eventually a fragment of metal was spotted in an MRI scan I’d had done back in March. The 5mm hitchhiker found its way into my hip in the previous year's operation. Although, even still, no-one has a clue what it is or how it found its way there.

I knew at that point that I'd be going under the knife again; during a pandemic. Bugger!

Obviously, this wasn't my first rodeo. It would in fact be my 6th joint operation, so I knew what to expect or at least I thought I did.

The pandemic meant that there'd be more red tape to cross and even more stress to contend with.

Because I would be admitted to the hospital overnight, my husband and I would need to self-isolate for two weeks before the big day. Usually I'd be trying to cram in a year's worth of partying in the lead up to surgery. Post-op recovery often meant that I'd be stuck in bed for weeks on end and it would take months to properly recover, so I always tried to make the most of my freedom. 

Of course, isolation meant that partying would be replaced by movies on Netflix and microwavable popcorn; drinking crap wine that I'd bought last Christmas and 'date nights' were eating at the dining table pretending to be in a restaurant, complete with candles and background music courtesy of Spotify. And yes, we dressed up!

I’d need two Covid tests before the operation date: one 4 days before and then again 2 days prior. I was told that the hospital would call me within 24 hrs of each test if it were positive, so no news was good news.

On the Sunday afternoon, 20 hrs on from the first test, a 'No Caller ID' flashed up on my phone - my heart sank. It was the hospital (panic!). They were calling to check that I had been self-isolating and that no-one in my household had been anywhere either. 

The heart rate on my watch showed I was in the 'cardio zone' at the time of this call! 

"Jesus Christ, don't do that to me” I said. I continued answering their relevant questions and then tried to climb down off the ceiling!

The day after my second test, the day before my surgery, I was already a nervous wreck when the phone went again, 'No Caller ID'. You have to be kidding me! 

"We're just checking you know where to come tomorrow, that you've been self-isolating and that you've been for two Covid tests" she read from her script.

Honestly, my nerves couldn't take much more. Boris had already put me on tenterhooks the week before with all this tier two, tier three nonsense. The hospital staff had reassured me that should the area go into ‘tier three’, my operation would still go ahead. 

I was then hit with more anxiety when hints of another full lockdown were ‘leaked’ to the news.

The following day Boris addressed the nation. The lockdown was to start on the Thursday (the day after my surgery) and the hospital reassured me once again that everything was still in place.

It's not as if I'm counting down to something exciting like Christmas or a holiday, but when you know surgery is on the horizon, you just want it over with. Cancellations drag out the whole process and it hangs over you.

On the day of the operation, my husband dropped me off at the admissions point. I kissed him goodbye and made my way down the path. Not having someone there to hold my hand as I waited to be called through, wasn’t a big deal to me. I'm not nervous at this stage but I imagine it's difficult for those not used to it.

I had my temperature checked, sanitised my hands and donned my face mask. I was called straight through as I was first on his list - although I later found out I was the only one on his list. 

Once the operation was all over, I flew through recovery and then head to a ward.

En route to ward 12, I couldn't help but notice the empty beds and dark corridors. 

The layout was 'bed, empty space, bed, empty space' and it was much quieter, except for the usual bleeping machines! I'll let you decide whether I meant actual bleeping machines or a mild profanity.

Visiting hours aren't limited, but only because they are now video calls with friends and family. I was only in for one night but I can imagine that's challenging for a longer stay.

I saw the doctors, nurses and physios all changing their PPE in between patients. It must be so challenging for them. But they never altered their smiles or compassion. Nothing was ever too much.

It still took all morning to get discharged though. There's an old saying - it's easier to get into hospital than it is to get out of one. That's so true.