Recovery - Pain and Patience (part 1)

I'd pretty much made up my mind to live with it, the shooting pain that ran from my left hip down my leg into my ankle. But it meant two or three daily doses of Compral, a simple analgesic, which is half-paracetamol, half-aspirin, and even I know in my limited medical knowledge, that that is going to play havoc with your stomach lining over a protracted period of time. So off I went to the GP for stronger painkillers to dull the pain.

However, I have one of those really irritating doctors who actually asks the "why" question, and thus refused to do the quick thing to get me out of his office by just prescribing pain pills. Oh, I got the prescription, but I also got an appointment made for me with the radiologist for x-rays on my lower back. A week later there was a phone call from the doctor's office - an appointment had been made for me with a neurosurgeon. I had no idea until then what a neurosurgeon even did!

So one week later - 2 weeks after my initial doctor's visit - there I was with the neurosurgeon, who subjected me to a barrage of tests and told me how he prefers to treat his patients through physiotherapy and less invasive means. But, just to be safe, he sent me off for an MRI scan, after which I was to return to his office. Half an hour of lying down, in a huge tube, listening to beeps of various tones, and we were back in the doctor's office. He looked at the scan and several choice words left his lips. My scan looked a little like this:

I say a little like this, because the gap between L4 and L5 in my back was incredibly small, like it had been compacted, and much more disc than that had pushed itself out. The sciatic nerve was being completely crushed, resulting in, at best, the pins and needles in my left leg, at worst, the severe sciatic pain.

He offered to perform a dischectomy two days later (to remove the piece of disc that protruded from between the vertebrae). However, July was already a hugely busy month in our family, and in order to have time to get everything done and to sort out everything at work, I asked for three weeks. There were days within those three weeks I definitely regretted it, but I somehow coped. I was able to watch Cath perform in her play, the kids got their learners' licences, my work was up to date and I was able to hand over in full confidence.

But then, on my last official day of work, I felt the telltale tickle in my throat when I woke up, which soon turned to a scratchiness, my eyes started watering, my nose started streaming, and I started coughing. By that night, the cold had fully taken hold. The following day it had turned to flu and I had to do the one thing which caused me the most pain as far as my sciatica went - I had to spend the full weekend in bed. The bigger question was would the op go ahead as planned?

A final visit to the neurosurgeon on the Monday, and him making a quick phone call to the anaesthetist, and the operation was given the green light. Two days of finalising everything, taking cough medicine every two hours (why must they all be liquorice flavoured???) and in I went to hospital. Final checks from the anaesthetist and neurosurgeon and finally at 9.30 am, I was off to theatre.

Pre-op, everything went fine. The drip went into my hand, the first shot of anaesthetic went in - and the next thing I remember, I was in the recovery room, surrounded by nurses, with one yelling for a nebuliser, and me coughing so violently that breathing was an impossibility. My oxygen levels in my blood dropped drastically  and I was put on supplementary oxygen. Eventually, after a few minutes on the nebuliser, the coughing eased enough for me to start breathing again.

When they were sure I was stabilised, I was sent back up to the High Care ward. The nurse that looked after me there did it with such genuine love and caring that I was truly moved to tears by her. Nothing was too much trouble at all.

Hospital with a view - where I had my back ops

The following day, I was moved to a general care room, all tubes removed, and the physio got me up onto my feet again. By the afternoon, I managed a lap of the nursing station, earning me a hug from the high care nurse who'd looked after me the previous day.

However, the chest cold was still present. I was still coughing, still being nebulised four times a day. But I was super-excited to tell the family all the good news on the Thursday evening of my "exercise", and how good it felt to walk without leg pain.

That all changed the following morning. I woke up, "barrel-rolled" onto my right side, pushed myself up into a sitting position, stood up - and immediately felt the shooting pain in my left leg. By the time the physio got there, I was battling to put any weight at all on my left side. She brought me a walking frame - not even that helped. My appetite completely disappeared as waves of nausea engulfed me. The physio told me to rather spend the day completely resting than even trying to walk. And that was the lowest point. I felt incredibly ill, I was in severe pain and I was sure I wasn't going to pull through - that I must be having a severe reaction to the anaesthetic or something, and that combined with the flu was going to kill me. When the neurosurgeon came in later, I was lying on my side, tears rolling down my cheeks, completely defeated. He said it sounded like more of the disc had popped out and that what they do in those cases is a "review" where they open up the wound, go in and check, then remove any more disc that had come out. He was quite flummoxed in that he'd never in his life had to do a review only three days after the initial op. He could only put it down to the violent coughing spells, persisting despite nebulisation.

So on the Saturday morning, there I was going back to theatre. I just remember feeling so down. so utterly helpless. This time, in the recovery room, I wasn't coughing, but I did have oxygen, and the first thing I heard was "Breathe! You have to breathe!" Apparently, I wasn't breathing deeply enough to get the required amount of oxygen into my blood, and again it took a little while to stabilise me.

This time, no high care ward. And a couple of difficult mealtimes (try cutting food when you are lying flat!) And the much-hated "popsocks" (air socks to help with circulation). But by lunchtime on Sunday, the nurses and physio once again had me back on my feet. This time, I lapped the nursing station with ease, and at the evening visiting, spent a good deal of time sitting up.

However, that night the cough, which had been easier since Saturday, came back with a vengeance. Cath still said to me that night, "Mom, stop it! That's how the trouble started the last time!" I laughed it off.

Next day was more physio, more exercise and a promise that I would go home the following day. That night, I started to feel a niggling pain in my left leg again, but I put it down to over-exertion and tiredness. However, when it was still there the following morning, I mentioned it to the neurosurgeon. He was also of the opinion that it was just the nerve settling down, and that it would start to ease up.

And so, six days after my first op, three days after my second, I was sent home to start three weeks of recovery.