On Sunday Sarah complained of a hard and swollen patch on her leg. On feeling the area my first thought was hmmm, deep haematoma. I’d had a couple over the years and that’s what it looked and felt like. Monday morning it was worse and spread from lower calf to upper thigh. I phoned the dressings clinic for advice and they said get her in straight away.
Straight away in my language means panic, urgent and BE QUICK ABOUT IT. We raced in.
In NHS language it apparently means we’ll see you when we get a chance. Nearly two hours later she was prodded and poked and a parade of surgeons cooed over her wounds with fascination and pronounced she needed more surgery – but after a scan.
We waited for seven hours for a scan before they admitted her. Without actually getting the scan.
Yesterday morning she had it and it involved having a huge injection into the vein in the top of her foot. Sarah’s so funny because she HATES injections and she was describing the Polish doctors frustration and mimicking her accent to a T. ‘Sarah! I am losing patience now’, after twenty minutes of trying to get the needle into Sarah’s squirming foot. It took three nurses to hold her down.
The scan for DVT came up clean and then it was hurry up and wait for surgery. (It WAS a haematoma after all that!)
So we wait. And wait. And wait. Five hours later they come and wheel her off. ‘We’ll be gone an hour’ so I wait, and wait, and wait some more. Two and a half hours later, having convinced myself she’d had a heart attack on the table/had the leg amputated/they operated on the wrong leg etc they trundle her back on the ward. She’s groaning and I lean over, the concerned, anxious mother and all and she whimpers, ‘I’m soooo hungry.’ Lol Whereupon I get chased off the ward because it’s not visiting hours so I wait and wait another hour and a half then head back to the ward where Sarah and I stare at each other in sheer exhaustion, without a word left to say. Eventually she heaves a giant sigh and points at her empty plate and complains they only gave her a cheese sandwich for dinner, which I agree isn’t very much having been nil by mouth for the last 24 hours and ferret out some hula hoops which she munches lugubriously, staring at nothing.
I get home and find my brain, despite having done nothing ALL day is as useful as over-cooked cauliflower. No Christmas cards, no Christmas shopping, no work achieved – again!