Early
on the morning of Thursday 6 June 2013, having scraped myself out of bed almost
before I’d got into it, mum drove me to the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital in
Birmingham. I was due there at 7.30am to
have a right ankle arthroscopy and chielectomy.
This
procedure would be the joint equivalent of a scale and polish. My ankle has extensive arthritis from bleeds
into the joint when I was growing up. The joint
was steadily deteriorating and after two steroidal injections, aimed at
reducing the pain, hadn’t worked, this was the next step prior to the
possibility of an ankle fusion. It
seemed I was limping in the direction of a fusion, which would screw the ankle
joint into a fixed position removing the pain but almost completely restricting
movement, but I wanted to try these two final procedures before saying screw
it! The arthroscopy would clean out the
muck in the joint and attempt to smooth off the surfaces of the main two bones
to reduce the pain on movement and walking.
The cheilectomy would shave off the bony spurs that had grown on the
front face of both of the main ankle bones to try and increase my range of
movement.
Many
of my haemophiliac friends have had their ankles fused and swear it is the best
thing they have done. I’ve put it off as
long as possible because I’m a girl. Or
more specifically: a vain girly girl who has admitted to herself that the lure
of a beautiful high heel cannot be denied.
I cannot actually physically perambulate any more, once in said heels,
but I love being able to sit and look at a gorgeous pair of pointy heeled
feet. How daft is that?! Over the last few months of ankle weakness
and increasing pain I think I have finally reached the tipping point. Where pain overcomes stiletto pleasure. Or wedge pleasure. Or kitten heel pleasure. Or platform pleasure. Anyway, I think I am facing the wall of
reality onto which I have fallen due to stupidly high heels and finding that
screws and Clarks active air are the way of the future.
But
not quite yet! This is my final
operative fling before signing the consent form to be fused and upon very
sensible orthopaedic advice (not just cos I wanted to). I am having these procedures done in the full
and certain knowledge that they may not help and may, in fact, send me quicker
down the slope towards fusionville, but on the proviso that there may
be some short term pain relief and movement enhancement. So now you know my somewhat irrational reasoning!
All
the preparatory work had been done. I’d
spoken to the haemophilia specialists at the Queen Elizabeth (QE), another
Birmingham hospital, to establish the treatment plan. They’d arranged for me to stay in over night
for what was usually a day procedure. I
would be having my clotting factor levels measured pre-op, then receiving 2000
units of Haemate P, then clotting factor levels would be taken post op and
another 1000 units of Haemate P administered that evening. Then the next morning my levels would be
checked once more and if they were ok I’d be free to go home, all being well
with the ortho docs. They’d also made
the decision to give me some platelets prior to the op. This was based on previous experience where
clotting factor ironically failed to make me clot and platelets had been needed
to finish the job. All this had been
arranged with QE blood bank and the Royal Orthopaedic team.
I’d
done my prep: legs Veeted, and then epilated to remove the hairs Veet left
behind. I would do it the other way
round but the Veet bit loosens them, or so I reckon, and epilating first is
inordinately more painful. Shaving can
be like taking razor wire to my legs and I can’t afford to wax on, wax off at
the moment. My toe nails had been naked
for a couple of weeks, to get them used to the exposure, and me used to the
look of em (not that picturesque if I’m honest). I’d purchased a new lightweight dressing gown
– half price from Sainsbury’s – so I wouldn’t swelter in the undoubted heat of
the hospital ward, and slippers that were a touch less manky than my usual
ones. I’d starved myself since before
midnight except for the vast quantity of pills and supplements I’m currently on,
which I’d swigged with my pint of water at 6am.
I
was ready. We were ready.
Or
so I thought....
To be continued.
