Chapter 2

Wednesday 26/2 : The Day After (Don’t Go To Pieces)

 I had a fairly bad night, predictably. Pain and the day ahead to plan. Not sure how much I did in the morning. Did I manage to shower? No I think I dispensed until Thursday evening after all, when it proved technically tricky but doable after another far too busy day.

So I guess that, apart from trying to navigate a shave, breakfast, toothbrushing (thankfully, previous experiences had convinced me that now was the time to not give in to self-pity, do routine healthy stuff and not let the mess grow), the first significant thing was to get into my taxi, booked for about 1.15pm, to the hospital (it is less than a 10min ride away when there is no traffic). I had no idea how things would go or were meant to go for the appointment but thought it better not to be too late.

Getting out of my building was the first task. The building door still felt far too heavy, but at least I had to push it this way, and could use a crutch to stop it from locking. The outside gate was more the problem this time, with the push button to open it some distance away from the door itself. So a little stress, but I managed to prise it open in time. A pull there, but again with a crutch and with bars to take a grip on that one, not too hard to get out. The taxi was on time and very helpful. The odd thing with this hospital is that the entrance is not at all designed for the dropping off of passengers or for accessibility for people with reduced mobility. Taxi has to stop on a pedestrian crossing between fences(told me he actually got fined once for dropping people at the hospital, wtf?), and you have to go down a couple of steps to get in. There is in fact a sort of ramp around meaning you can go a little further out to avoid steps, but it doesn’t even seem to be wide enough for a wheelchair. The taxi driver on the way back (different one) explained to me that the in-the-know people ask to have the taxi drop and pick up on the other side. Theoretically ambulance-only access though, so not even sure it’s official and the G7 app only gives this front address for the hospital.

Anyway, I ask at reception where I must go, and the lady there happens to be the one who checked me in at A&E the previous day, so she recognises me (‘oh, vous étiez aux urgences hier, n’est-ce pas?’) and points me towards secrétariat H. There is one guy already waiting (in a boot that I would soon find out is not quite the same size as the one I would be wearing, different pathologies!) despite the secrétariat only opening at 2pm. Confusingly (but not too much, as the first name was clearly specified on the piece of paper from A&E), there are two orthopedic surgeons with the same last name (no doubt related), and while the times and day displayed on the door suggests they are not always on at simultaneously, today both seem to be working here. As 2pm nears, the number of people waiting is growing so I am starting to wonder how many people have a 2pm appointment and whether you get called in. Other assistants get out of the room one by one as this office seems to be the place to be for a lunch break at least today, and shortly after two, the door is officially open. No name called, but as each assistant specifies which Sigonney she is working for and the other lad is going for not-François, I get in as the first on the spot. So despite the wait, I am glad I was that early after all. As it turns out, the secrétaire wasn’t expecting me but a woman at 2pm, so I guess appointments organised on the phone from A&E are not totally officially entered. Never mind. Formalities done, some papers to sign etc, until I get to the actual waiting area and wait not too long to be seen by the surgeon. He takes off whatever of the bandage can be taken off (only the resin remains I guess), and again a very quick check confirms the obvious diagnosis. He explains some details about the operation (or other choices not involving surgery, but hardly a choice to make when he presents it, he knows I am a sportsman, so, having been briefed by Yannick also about the options if given a choice, I didn’t have to insist). Risks and procedures are presented. Although, knowing what I know now, I wish I’d asked a few more questions about the post-op recommendations. He does mention some of what’s on the prescription, like starting physio after 21 days already as well as being able to put your foot on the floor gently with the boot after the operation which pleasantly surprises me, but practical details are a bit sketchy and I can’t and don’t want to think ahead too much before the operation has been performed.

Bandage redone, protections installed and I am off back to the secrétariat. Post-op appointment is made. Normally it is six weeks after, or even 45 days as the operation report says, but as they are on holidays then, the assistant puts me at 5 weeks , just 33 days after the operation in fact. Whether it is a good or bad thing I don’t know. Financial logic makes me wonder (a few days later, i.e. as I write, I was just surprised by the logic, especially as it means sick leave is only until then for now, despite obviously no idea whether I may be a slow or quick healer) if it means I will simply require another one after 7 weeks then (or more), or if it will be just ‘shoo, next one!’’, just extending the leave and keeping the boot for another week for safety. Anyway, I came equipped with the same plastic bag as yesterday (found the better/lighter solution in the evening, more on that later), but mostly around my neck, so I can cart around the tons of documents I am given to fill or read. The secrétaire said the anaesthesists are super busy but she will try to get me an immediate appointment so I can be sorted, then do the pre-admission straight after. That proved to be an absolute blessing, saving me from having to go back the next day (which turned out to be so busy I would have struggled for time) or before the op. So she accompanies me to the anaesthesists’ secrétariat [sometimes I lazily use French words, also because I am not certain of the best English equivalent] and makes sure I am sorted on the waiting list. A kind old lady helps me find a seat to settle down too. The anaesthesist, when he sees me, is a little surprised when I tell him I don’t have anyone to get me home from the hospital, saying this wouldn’t be allowed, but in fact it is because he didn’t realise that I would get operated on only on the Friday, not today. Once this is clear, no surprise, and it doesn’t last too long to answer the questions and for him to recommend ‘anesthésie loco-régionale’ rather than general. He takes my blood pressure through the clothes, I’d never seen that before but he explains it works with sounds so doesn’t matter. Back for a short wait before going to pay a first sum and get the invoice for the rest (which looked more than what he had told me and in fact proved wrong as told after the operation). The entrance to that bit is oddly dangerous on crutches (noticed on exiting too), but once more I do not end up on the floor. The secrétaire here is the only truly robotic-not-a-nice-word-not-a-joke-not-a-smile person I encounter all day (or on the Friday when not everyone was great great (only one though, and not that bad), but they were all definitely human).

Pré-admission next. Short wait, until the woman tells me she can’t do it as the date of my operation is oddly still set not to today but in fact yesterday. That’s probably what the anaesthesist also had in his file then, I had assumed today because yesterday didn’t make sense. A leftover from A&E perhaps? Either way, the surgeon’s assistant can’t be reached on the phone but I tell the girl it’s not far and I have to go back there anyway to hand back the signed consentment form so it costs me no extra effort. When I get there, she is indeed busy. A couple of lads are waiting outside (bonding about origins, as one recognises directly the other as being from Slovenia from his accent). One of the guys’ girlfriend who accompanies him is sitting in a chair, but kindly offers me it. I explain that I should only be a minute, and they prove very understanding. We chat briefly about injuries, and when I finally step in, I made a point of just ‘standing’ to not use up time and make it brief. I hand back the paper and the assistant explains she had been so busy she hadn’t yet had time to enter my operation date in the system. She does so quickly and signifies all is Ok, so I can go back to pre-admission swiftly (after a quick thank you to the waiting folks again who offer more good luck wishes too) to finish the formalities. Both secretaries amuse themselves on hearing the guys chat outside their door as if they were long-term pals, one remarking ‘they’ll be chatting in the stretchers’. Well, in French, something like ‘ils vont discuter dans les brancards’ (though I don’t remember the exact verb she used), which leads me to remark, using another French phrase ‘c’est mieux que de ruer dans les brancards’ (I don’t even know the English equivalent phrase if it exists), to their amused approbation.

The secretary says she will email me the precise operation time in the evening and later the pre-admission lady tells me they will send a sms with a code the day before the op. And bonus, no new piece of paper from Pré-admission. I sit down at reception to book my taxi and decide after all that it would be best to be dropped down at mine rather than go via the pharmacy again. That could wait the next day, I needed a rest after what felt like another exhausting few hours of activity, as nothing was urgent, just a few easy chores to do in the evening. I also decided that, having seen the nurse do it on Tuesday and read the notice, I could probably do at least those two pre-op anticoagulant injections myself rather than look for/bother a nurse.

The taxi driver on the way back remarked I wasn’t far so it wouldn’t quite make his day, but he was actually nice and chatty, giving advice on drop-off and pick-up at the hospital, and relating his own physio experience following an injury. Crucially, he mentioned balneo-physiotherapy as being more adapted for the rehab, which if nothing else (at this stage I don’t know if I will do any actual balneotherapy) helped me identify a few days later which physio cabinet to use through a doctolib search about kinesitherapie/balneotherapie. I do like these impromptu connections through random meetings that create new pathways/ help with decisions. It’s all that makes humanity better and richer: not just trusting your own experiences but benefitting from other people’s who are sharing theirs.

Once home, I still had a few calls to make or people to inform, also consider all the tasks to do the next day, essentially go to the pharmacy, do a lot of admin (sick leave, mutuelle, check all paperwork), get the logistics ready for the hospitalisation (thankfully a day thing, no overnight stay), and do a fair amount of tidying up/cleaning so that I wouldn’t struggle after the operation (didn’t know how bad I would feel on top of the practical and physical restrictions) and that space was ready and acceptable for the nurse (another admin thing to organise).

It was actually an afternoon of Isabel(le)s. After I sent her a message with an update, our own work assistant named Isabelle called me, which was a good and also helpful conversation in many ways, as among other things, she recommended I called the pharmacy straight away to check on the boot even if I didn’t go that evening as it may not be available. At the same time, on my way back on Tuesday, I had spotted this medical equipment shop not too far, so I looked at their website, but their catalogue was not yet downloadable. Still, I thought it may be an option. So when I called the nearest pharmacy and they said they could get it only on order, which didn’t suit me, they in fact recommended I checked with that shop, and it was easy for me to do with that webpage still open. I called, and after a brief look up, yes they had it and in the right size so I said I’d pick it up the next day. I didn’t think of the logistics straight away, but that will be for ‘tomorrow’s’ narration. That was sorted at least. Shortly after, I received an e-mail from the surgeon’s secretary (called Isabel) defining my admission time for Friday: 10.30am, with a few instructions and saying I could go home straight from the ward after the operation once given the all clear by hospital staff (the e-mail date was ‘wrongly’ titled ‘bloc opératoire 26/2’ instead of 28/2, but thankfully the e-mail itself mentioned ‘Friday’ though not 28/2 – probably today’s date was in the subject as an automatic reflex on a tired brain on a busy day, but if I am being a bit harsh in light of other elements that appeared later, it was also a little sign of lack of focus if not professionalism on the admin side).

And then I called one of my sisters, Isabelle, to tell her about the injury and operation. Now yeah I realise it is weird I hadn’t told anyone from my family at all, but it barely occurred to me, I didn’t really want the worry or attention, and in fact it is only because I had given her name and number as ‘person to contact in case of problems’ (not that any was expected for a probably not so dangerous operation) that I thought I’d better tell her in case she got a call. I didn’t tell her to tell anyone, neither did I tell her not to tell anyone, so she quite naturally spread the news and I got a few message from brothers and sisters not long after. Well only one brother, but I don’t know where the other one is, essentially. So I thought yeah I might have been silly and will need to give them all news after the operation.

Yannick also called to check on the latest news and planned operation, and with a few more recommendations.

Anything else? Not really, I watched a truly unremarkable Nottingham Forest vs Arsenal match, but managed to not fall asleep in front of it….