Sexy surgical socks
Just before Christmas, I accidentally clashed heads with somebody while doing sports so hard that I broke the orbital bone underneath my right eye. This is called a âblowout fractureâ. He effectively headbutted my eye. Yes, it hurt. A lot. And bled from my nose. I didnât know anything was broken at the time, I just thought Iâd had a bad knock. But more worrying was the instant double vision, which seemed to return back to normal(ish) very quickly. Even though it was getting better I still had it, so I phoned 111 the next day. Head injury with double vision? âStay there, weâre sending a paramedic overâ.
They took me to A&E since my symptoms were an indicator of bleeding on the brain, which is obviously a serious business. The doctor gave me an X-Ray, looked in my eyes and said I was fine. Go home. I had a bit of a black eye, but it didnât look particularly bad. After Christmas I got a call from the hospital saying they were going over the X-Rays and found something they missed. Could I come in for a CT scan straight away? This sounded serious so I did. The CT scan indicated a fracture under the eye. I was referred to the Maxillo Fascial Unit at the Bristol Eye Hospital. After waiting a bit I went for my appointment with a surgeon who started talking about volumes of liquid in a glass and how mine was now a bigger glass, but the only words I was really taking in were âover time your eye will recede into your headâ. So thereâs nothing you can do?, I managed to blurt out at one point. âOh yes, thereâs surgery to correct it. Weâll put a metal plate in your headâ.
Faced with that or my *eye receding into my head* I went with the latter option. I did the pre-op visit the same day and after a few days, I received an appointment at the BRI to have the operation done in a couple of weeks. That seemed a reasonable time to me as it was classed as a non-emergency but âneeded doingâ.
Hereâs what happens when you are admitted. First, you have to rearrange your life around the fact that you have to stay in hospital overnight. So youâve moved things around at work, cancelled things you were going to do, booked time off and generally written off the week for getting over the general anesthetic and pain. You canât eat or drink anything 7 hours before the op, which is inconvenient. Then you need to get to hospital at 7.15am. The BRI is right in the centre of Bristol so you get dropped off by a helpful friend (thank you, Jonathan).
So you do all that. From 6.30am onwards you and your little group of todayâs patents gather in the waiting room, with a sense of too early morning doom hanging over you all. Youâre all going through your own different personal hells as you wait. Then you are called in.
A nurse calls you to a room, does some blood pressure checks and makes sure you havenât got MRSA or any other major health problems. Once thatâs done the anesthetist rolls in. They are full of optimism and joy. They talk you through the anesthetic procedure and how itâs all good to go from their end and there wonât be any problems. Now your spirits are lifted and youâre feeling positive everything is going ahead. Then the surgeon comes in and tells you thereâs a 50% chance it wonât happen because thereâs no bed for you currently. And since you were last here (yes, this is your *second* attempt at an operation after the first was cancelled because there wasnât an anesthetist available), â50% of all patients have been sent home without their operationâ, so your chances really arenât good. But wait until the 11 oâclock bed meeting and hopefully one will free up, but it doesnât usually because you are a lower priority to people having a genuine medical emergency, and your procedure âdoesnât need to be done todayâ.
But after waiting 2 hours thereâs some good news! Thereâs a bed! After another wait, you see the surgeon again and he looks positively relieved âGood news!â, he says, but there are people due to be operated on before you so it wonât be until after 3.30. Thatâs ok, Iâve got a book and a comfy seat. I can wait.
To be fair, the constant state of anxiety about whether it will or wonât happen does take your mind off the fact that a surgeon is going to open up your face with a sharp knife and mess around with your eyeball before putting a metal plate underneath it and screwing it in.
You relax and settle down to read. 2 hours later a very nice woman you havenât seen before turns up and tells you that sheâs very sorry but your operation is canceled because theyâve ârun out of timeâ. Thatâs it. Go home, wait for another appointment in the post. âBut this is the second time this has happened!â, you say. âI know, sorryâŚâ, she says. Apparently, the woman due to go before me has only just gone in and hers is a long operation, meaning they wonât be finished before 5.
At this point you say FML and look into private health care, wishing you’d done that a month ago. At least they wiped the arrow they’d drawn on my head off this time before they sent me home, unlike last time.
Iâm lucky that my job comes with private health care (BUPA). Iâve never used it. My NHS surgeon was at great pains to say that if I went private then he couldnât recommend one hospital over another, but I got some options out of him. I eventually wrestled a âconsultation authorisation number’ out of BUPAâs corporate team (Thereâs a ÂŁ100 excess I need to pay, or something) over the phone and contact a private hospital. They gave me a consultation date of the next day at 9.30am in the morning. âWe have our own car park, which you can useâ. (Words you will never hear in the NHS.)
I still donât know if my insurance covers me for the op – I have to get a procedure code at the consultation, then phone up and find out if Iâm covered for that procedure, or something. I still might not actually be covered. Iâve yet to find out.
Iâve used NHS local doctors and dentists all my life. I hadnât felt the need to go through the hassle of enacting private health insurance because everything seemed to be going smoothly on the NHS. Until it wasnât. Twice, now. And with no guarantee it will be any different the third time.
I love the idea of the NHS. Iâve been paying for it all my working life. I tried to use it, but itâs broken. All the doctors and nurses I met were lovely, but if the system is broken how does that help?
If thereâs a motto then just donât get any sort of non-emergency injury in Britain in 2018. Or be rich. I guess thatâs the message.
Oh and if you live in Britain, then please vote anything other than Conservative at the next election. That would help, thanks.
