3 years

On Monday this week it was 3 years since I came home from hospital after spinal fusion surgery for traumatic spondylolisthesis. I had spent 3 nights in intensive care followed by 5 more nights in the hospital. I remember a few things about that time which I have been thinking about a lot lately.

I arrived at the hospital on the morning of the surgery with a new short haircut because I thought it would make it easier in the recovery period. I don’t remember much else about it apart from getting in to my gown, going down to the operating theatre with lots of people in there, feeling extremely nervous and scared that I wouldn’t wake up, and going under before I had counted to 5.

I woke up after the surgery firstly in the recovery room, and having never been under anaesthetic before, completely spaced out but in a lot of pain. The only way I can describe it is that it was as though some giant had held me by the ankles and neck and snapped my back in half over their knee. It was horrible. My surgeon was stood next to me and I remember thinking “what have you done?” He asked me if I could move my toes and I could. I knew that was a good sign, and then I went back to sleep.

The next thing I knew, I was being wheeled into the room I would be in and my parents and Dan were allowed to give me a kiss and cuddle as I lay on the bed. They had been waiting the 8 hours that the surgery took and then the recovery hours. I don’t remember much here but they said afterwards that it was awful to see as all the sheets and the gown were still covered in blood. The nurses with me told them to leave and come back in an hour, by which point they had cleaned me up. They came back to say goodnight and then left for the evening. My surgeon and anaesthetist came at separate points during the night to check on me. I held both of their hands and dramatically thanked them for not killing me.

The most important thing for me to do at this point was to sleep. My surgeon preferred not to catheterise patients based on the added risk of infection in an already risky surgery. I had a carer sat with me all through the night for those first 3 nights, who, as well as monitoring my vital stats, got to hold a bed pan under me whilst I peed (pretty much every hour and probably a years’ worth in one night #overshare).

One of my first visitors the day after the operation was the physio. The only thing I needed to do on day 1 was to sit up at the end of the bed, put my feet on the floor and stand. I did this with her assistance, holding her hands, with her taking most of the weight. My back felt very weird (as if it had been bolted together…) My legs felt stretched. I felt incredibly vulnerable, and in that moment I realised how serious the surgery had been and how difficult recovery was going to be. At the same time, I was really happy that I could stand. I sat back down, got rolled gently back into position in bed, and slept for around 5 hours because the exercise had been so exhausting.

The next few days I can’t really remember which was which. I know I didn’t eat, go to the loo, or shower for 3 or so days, and that my time was mainly spent sleeping. The physio came every morning and showed me some exercises. I was amazed that the sciatic pain that had plagued me for a long time had gone. I was also seriously drugged up so I wasn’t that aware of where or if there was much surgical pain, because I was always topped up.

 

After that stint, I started eating which was great. My appetite was back and chewing was nice, although I couldn’t manage much. I went for my first “walk” with the physio – I had asked my surgeon if I would grow as a result of the operation because the disc between the vertebrae had been compressed so much, and he’d said he thought so, so my big aim was to get to the height rod in the corridor nearby where I had measured myself on the morning of the operation. You can imagine how excited I was to discover I’d grown an inch – little victories.

Now that I was on the move (wild overstatement), I was allowed to go to the bathroom by myself which was nice. Unfortunately, on one of the nights after my nighttime watcher had been relieved of duties, I got a bit cocky and thought that the same rules for daytime applied for nighttime and that, if I needed the loo in the night I could shuffle off and go alone. Big mistake. I made it to the bathroom, went to the loo, but as I was sat there I though “I don’t feel right“. I stood up, felt wobbly, and my vision had gone blurry. I was washing my hands and looked at myself in the mirror and I even looked weird (and there were also 5 of me) so I pulled the emergency alarm. I knew I was going to pass out and was scared I would do some (more) serious damage by falling so I went into the corridor as it was night and I didn’t know if anyone would get to me, and shouted for help. I could hear people rushing towards me and (my favourite) nurse saying “oh my god, oh my god” but I couldn’t see them as everything had gone black. They caught me as I fell and scooped me back inside and into my bed and I honestly have never felt more looked after. Two people were suddenly taking care of everything – putting on my breathing apparatus, plugging me into (something?!), wiping me down with a cold flannel from head to toe, sorting out my painkillers. The nurse wrapped me up, tucked me in, stroked my head, and told me not to go to the loo by myself in the night again. I agreed and went to sleep.

I know this was day 5 because this was when my friends came to visit and so on this day I had my first shower. I was walking a little bit more each day (by a little bit, the most I did was down the corridor a bit and back – that felt like a marathon and I recovered like it was afterwards) but I was desperate to get washed and not feel so grimy. I had huge waterproof cling-film type plasters covering the bandages over the surgery sites, 1 across my stomach and 1 on my back (as the operation was from both directions), which had to be avoided as they weren’t allowed to get wet until the stitches came out some time later. I wasn’t allowed to shower alone so my Mum washed me. I remember I felt very helpless then, but resigned myself to it and was grateful that at least it was my Mum, and that my lid was getting de-greased.

When it was time to go home, the back brace I got fitted during the week went on and my Dad came to get me and drive me from London back to our family home. I wasn’t allowed to sit up at this point so I went home in full recline in the front passenger seat for an hour and a half. I was glad to be at home, and spent most of the next 4 months laid horizontal on the sofa or in bed, with Oscar the cat sat as close as he could guarding me. It took a while, but eventually I was able to wash and dress myself (FREEDOM!). I had exercises and movements to do each day and when I did start moving, it was little things – sitting in the dining room to eat (followed by a lie down). Walking down the road (followed by a lie down). When real progress started, going into town for a coffee (followed by a super lie down). And when I was standing up more than I was lying down, I moved back to London.

It took a really long time to get back to normal. Simple jobs and simple things were suddenly a lot more difficult. Whereas before I would have cycled to work (in my own time), I was now relying on taxis to begin with and then the tube (which had become very scary especially after someone had pushed me despite the brace and crutches). Emptying the dishwasher/washing clothes/cleaning the house – everything was harder, because everything involved lifting and moving and (the absolute worst) bending down. I still couldn’t put my socks on myself but luckily it was coming into Summer by then. We lived in a top floor flat at the time so even getting in felt like a workout after taking 10 minutes to get up 3 flights of stairs. I hated not being able to do everything for myself and by myself, in my own time. I was nervous about some things for a long time afterwards; wet floors, public transport, dogs, low chairs, falling, getting in and out the bath, hugs from people who didn’t know, just some I can remember off the top of my head and I’d say that lasted for about 18 months.

My work were amazing with me. They let me come back to work on a staggered return – 2 hour days for 2 weeks, then 3 hour days, then 4 hour days etc. They got me a stand-up desk as recommended by the surgeon (an absolute dream for anyone with back problems, I would recommend to anyone), and taxis to and from work to start off with. This went on for a few months until I was ready to go back to full time and I am incredibly grateful for that.

Going back to work full time, being able to put my socks on myself, not being scared of getting on the tube anymore and walking up a flight of stairs without having to have a rest break, I’ve come to realise was only part 1 of the recovery. Part 2 has only started since I have been beginning to see the whole period as a memory, rather than my current state, and working on getting back to being as fit as I physically can be despite it.