It is hard to believe that it has been nearly seven years since I had the surgery to remedy this problem. And, in all honesty, I don't think it will ever be right again.
It had started innocuously enough. I made a trip down to my friend Rod's,
who was living in Toongabbie at the time. We both loved cricket, and
for about fifteen years years we had an annual trip to a cricket match,
be it a day or two of a test, a one-dayer, or even a state one-dayer. On this occasion, it was the West Indies versus Zimbabwe, a low scoring game, but enjoyable. Zimbabwe won.
The
morning after the game I woke up to find my left hand still asleep.
Thinking nothing of it at the time, I showered and Rod dropped me off
at Westmead station so I could catch a train back home. By the time I
got to Strathfield, the little finger and half of its neighbour were
still numb. I found it strange, but didn't wonder too much about it.
When the numbness had been ongoing
for a few weeks, I decided to head off to the doctor's at Woy Woy (with
a couple of other medical complaints) and see what was wrong with it. I
recall him saying that the other problems were easily dealt with, but
as for the numbness he stated “you'll need surgery” and passed on the
number for a neurologist for me to see in Gosford.
It
was March by the time I was finally able to get in to see him. The specialist's had me sit
down whilst he secured electrodes to parts of my arm and then zapped me
a few minutes. I was then informed that the nerve
responsible for that part of my hand was caught in the elbow joint and
had to be freed.
The next stage was a surgeon in
Gosford. I was in the waiting room far longer than the time I spent
with the surgeon. The veteran surgeon explained the procedure to me,
informing me that it was a simple procedure requiring day surgery, and that
his intern would be carrying out, under his supervision. The day for
the procedure was November 27,
a particular date on the calender that hardly leaves me alone. I rang
my dad up that evening and told him the news. When I mentioned what day
it was on, he was not surprised.
After months of
waiting, the day finally arrived. I had to take a very early bus over
to Gosford in order to get to the surgery by 6.30am. It was a lovely
trip over, taking the dawn ride around the Brisbane Waters. I was quite
apprehensive about all this, seeing I had not gone under the knife for
some twenty years or so. I was given a bed in a room where all the
other male day surgery patients were, and discovered that I was the
youngest out of the lot of them by a couple of decades. A middle-aged
man, armed with a collection of razors and scissors, came up to me and
started preparing my elbow for surgery. He effortlessly trimmed the
area around my elbow and with a smile and a nod he was off to prepare
the next patient, a sixty-something year old who was having some
growths removed from his private parts. (I can just imagine the
conversation this man would have had with his wife when he got
home that afternoon. “How was your day dear?” “Not too bad love, only
had to shave an elbow and a couple of scrotums.”)
I
was wheeled off around 7.30 by a porter to what appeared to be a
children's surgery waiting room, seeing it had a number of Sesame
Street characters plastered around the purple walls. On closer
examination of them, I declared “Where's Mr Snuffalupagus?” The
hospital staff stopped what they were doing and had a look around. They
eventually nodded in agreement - the imaginary mammoth wasn't on the
wall.
One of the staff then had a couple
of attempts to try and find a vein that would cooperate with her. She
tried my arm, without any luck, then tried one near my knuckles.
Another nurse gave me her hand to hold whilst the needle was being
jabbed into me for the second time.
“That wasn't much of a grip,” she said.
“It's the one being operated on remember?” I responded.
The
conversation then somehow turned into a discussion about Canada's
contribution to world music. I was talking about my favourite band at
the time (The Tea Party) when I was being wheeled into the theatre. I
was greeted by the intern, a pleasant chap from India, and the surgeon.
(It was at this time that I had a golden opportunity to utter the
immortal Monty Python quote “Is that the machine that goes 'bing'?” but
it slipped by and I must say I really, really regret not thinking of it
at the time!) I was informed by the anaesthetist to start counting
backwards from ten. Before I had reached five I was out.
My
next recollection was waking up in a ward, with a drip hitched to my
right arm, my left swathed with bandages and a strong desire to go to
the toilet. It was a bit difficult to move, considering the drip was
connected to a stand that three good wheels and one bad one, much like
every shopping trolley I've ever used, and very nearly walked into the
wrong toilets. Upon my return, I was given sandwiches, told to watch a
bit of TV (some black and white romantic comedy from the Balkans on
SBS) until my ride showed up.
I wasn't too
motivated to do much when I returned home, and going to TAFE the next
day was the last thing I wanted to do, but seeing I was trying to
complete my work experience section of the course I was doing at the
time (Cert. 3 Library Assistant) at Newcastle Library, I had no choice
but to go in. I didn't have to do much that day, thankfully. The
numbness had abated, thankfully.
But as I said at
the start, I still don't think it's completely fixed. Every now and
again, if my arm is at a wrong angle, or the elbow is resting on a hard
surface for too long, the fingers go numb and I have to straighten out
the arm for a few minutes. Apparently the nerve was freed from the
elbow joint, but not secured, so I'll just have to put up with it.
Getting
the stitches out was quite amusing. When I returned to Gosford hospital
a week or so later the nurse asked me to lift up my shirt. Surprised, I
obliged.
“Where's the scar?” she enquired.
“Right here,” I responded, lifting up my elbow. She looked at her list.
“Whoops,
sorry, wrong Turner.” Silly girl. The other Turner she was meant to see
was 60ish, had a stomach operation and was female.
As
she was getting the stitches out, she was chatting to me about a
conversation she had had recently with one of the other nurses. This
nurse had had problems finding a decent date in Gosford, and so I was
asked about my current “status”.
I'm glad I didn't get a chance to pursue that avenue any further. I had a good look at the nurse in question. She looked too much like one of my mate Dave's exes.