Operation Leg

pre-op leg

I've been hinting on Facebook about having had an operation on my leg, and after a chat with my sister (Bill, what's happened?) I decided I might as well write it down properly. If you want the short version, follow this link (not for the squeamish). For the longer version, read on.

Around November of last year (2012) I started having problems with a pain in my knee. Over the previous months my leg had swollen a bit (see pic) but I didn't think much of it .. I thought it was a side effect of gym and a habit of being right handed and favouring that leg for doing the hard work.

So I turn up to the doctor's surgery and the doctor takes one look at my thigh and says "Oh that's not natural". "Damn", I think, "there goes all those hours in a gym". They arrange for me to go and see a consultant.

So around January I'm off to see a consultant, who recommends an ultrasound. About a month later I attend the hospital where someone rubs some cold goo over my leg (why can't they warm it up?) and then proceeds to investigate my baby (weird place for an alien to set up shop, but there it is). Eventually he says "Well, you've probably got a fatty lump (thanks mate, you're not so trim yourself) but it's so big I can't capture it all" (Insults AND compliments in the same sentence!). So they arrange for an MRI.

Another month or so passes and I'm booked in for an MRI. I turn up and am given a backless gown to get into (very attractive) before being taken into the MRI room. The MRI is a big machine with a tunnel in it .. they strap you in, give you some headphones and a panic button, then push you into the tunnel and leave. I wonder what the headphones are for and they start the machine up, which proceeds to shake itself to bits. Well, at least, that's what it sounds like. So, you're stuck in a VERY narrow tunnel with the machine buzzing loudly around you and I'm just waiting for Dr Frankenstein to come in and shout "It's alive" before they switch the noise off. Phew!! Then they start it again. After about 30 minutes of trying to destroy the machine with me in it they finish and let me go, saying they'll be in touch.

Another month or two passes (we're in June now)  and I'm called in to see a consultant who finally tells me (and shows me) what I've got .. technically a lipoma (fancy word for fatty lump), probably non malignant, that stretches the length of my thigh (about 28 cms).  He shows me the MRI scan (see pic) .. those of you with a discerning disposition can tell which one of those prime pork steaks is the one with the lipoma.

It's one of the biggest he's seen (I blush), I've probably had it for several years for it to get that big and why hadn't I been in earlier? I discovered I was going to get that question a lot.

Although it's probably non malignant he says it should be removed before it goes bad, and that there was a darker patch he wanted checked out. So he takes a sample of my leg (local anaesthetic and then a tube punch to withdraw a couple of slivers of fat) and packs me off, saying that if it's non malignant they'd operate in about 6-8 weeks time.

It turns out the sample is OK so I wait. The original cause of me going in (the kneecap) has actually fixed itself by now. At about the 8 week mark I ring up and they say that if I want it there is a slot on the Friday. So I'm booked in for August 30th, with dire warnings about not eating or drinking on the day of the operation.

Come the day and Warren takes me to the Royal Orthopedic Hospital at the crack of dawn (OK 7:30). We saunter into the ward, get told which bed I'm in and wander down there to sit and wait. The ward is small .. 4 beds, two of which are occupied. We then get a succession of nurses, all asking me how much I drink, smoke, how many drugs I'm taking and what I'm allergic to? (Answer, being asked the same question three times). I sign a form allowing then to give away any odd body parts they find in the operation (who wants a lump of fat?) and then the doctor and surgeon turn up. The doctor asks me why I left it so late and the surgeon, who is a cheerful American lady says "that's a big one" and proceeds to draw all over my leg. At least they get the right one. She says I'm number three that morning (or maybe number two) and they'll call me when I'm ready. In the meantime I can sit on my bed and wait. Warren, having checked that they're not going to kill me, departs.

I get to know the others on the ward .. Clive is in his 80's and is in for a tumour that's growing in his shin (it sounds like he's been in and out of hospital for several years as the tumour travels around his body). Paul is in because of a large growth in his back that's pressing his lung.. worse than mine because it's a true cellular growth fed by blood vessels. He said he's had it for several years and had only gone to the doctor when he started looking like a hunchback .. looks like I'm not the only one to leave it late.

Come lunchtime I'm still waiting. They waft the food by me (bastards) refusing me anything to drink (no eating or drinking on the day of operation). About 1 pm they get me into my support stockings, paper pants and backless gown (sexy!) and tell me to wait.

Finally at 1:30 they come and get me .. this sort of hospital takes you, bed and all, to the surgery. I get wheeled in, the anaethetist asks me why I left it so long to get the lipoma out, I ask the surgeon if she could remove some of the fat around my belly as well (no), they stick an oxygen mask over my face and inject me in my left hand telling me that it will make me sleepy. (No it won't, I'm still wide awake, when is it going to take h....).

Three hours later and I wake up. My throat is sore ("that's because we rammed a tube down it") and it feels like someone has run a sharp knife the length of my thigh (Oh, they have). I'm wheeled back up to the ward and connected up to a drip and a drain. I ask about the drain and I'm told that I have a big cavity (OK that's insulting), and they expect me to drain quite a bit of blood which they'll feed back into me (Yes, this does sound like a vampire movie). They hand me a cardboard bottle ("you can't get up so you'll have to pee into that") and then bring me supper, Hooray!!. The food is surprisingly good (maybe because I haven't eaten all day .. lamb hotpot plus rice pudding). Aware that I'm not able to get to the toilet for at 24 hours and have to store it somewhere I resolve not to eat TOO much.

The rest of the day is a succession of pills (mmm morphine!!), food, lots of water, blood pressure readings and the occasional injection of antibiotics (oh, and a few cardboard bottles). Warren visits with essential supplies (box of melon slices) and takes a photo of me in my sartorial elegance. At night everyone in the ward snores .. not loudly but none of us can sleep on our sides (connected as we are to various tubes). The snoring is occasionally interrupted by a nurse coming in to inject antibiotics (or suck blood ... that may have been a dream).

Saturday is bed bath (self administered) and I'm allowed to change out of my gown into normal shorts and T shirt. They inspect my drain ("You're not bleeding as much as we expected") and allow me out of bed and into a chair (the drip has disappeared but the drain remains). The physiotherapist turns up and gently strokes my thigh. "How does that feel?", he asks. I suppress the obvious answer and we explore the level of numbness I've been left with after surgery. The surgeon had warned that the size of the lipoma meant that they'd have to cut through some nerves and true enough most of the area around the thigh is numb. The Physio instructs me in the art of using crutches and going down stairs in a controlled manner and then leaves with a parting shot "Off work for 2 weeks, limited exercise for 6 weeks". So much for "Back at work on Wednesday".

In spite of being told I would be out Saturday my drain is still sucking fluid slowly, so I'm kept in until Sunday. I've finished my book but manage to avoid watching TV and losing my brains as well (Paul has control of the remote and seems to favour Judge Judy and the X factor). I manfully avoid having seconds of the evening meal (chicken curry ... THAT'S going to make the night air interesting) and Warren again visits with more essential supplies (shaving stuff and cleaning stuff).

Sunday the drain is removed (oooowwwwww!!!), my dressings are changed and I take a photo of the 33 staples in a nice piece of rolled pork (warning - not for the squeamish). I'm out by lunchtime.

Post Op. 
A week follows of morning TV and channel hopping. I'm not really mobile until Wednesday and have to sit with my foot up. I escape the house on Wednesday to try the crutches out but realise that getting back to work is going to take longer than I expected. A discussion with my boss reveals that if I have a sick note that says I am off sick for two weeks then I am off sick for two weeks... all sorts of legal reasons I can't go in to work. So it's daytime TV and gradually getting back the use of my leg.

After two weeks the staples come out ... all 33 of them (or "Ouch, Ouch" 33 times). New bandage applied which I left on until it started peeling off on its own accord.

3 1/2 weeks on the scar is healing although I have 66 pin prick scars to pick where the staples were. There is still a dead area to the right of the scar .. maybe a party piece will be to stub cigarettes out on my leg, although that does mean I'll have to take up smoking.