Surgery, I Need More

OneGoodArm Swear Scale: SweetFA

Even though I said my money was on more surgery, and that statement appeared to indicate that I had come to terms, at least in part, with that outcome, when the surgeon said “you need more surgery” the news was like a punch – right in the face. Thanks for coming.

I guess I should go back a few steps.

I arrived at the crack of dawn, or sparrow fart as I grew up saying, at the hospital for my MRI. The sun was barely out of bed. I walked into the reception area of the imaging rooms and there were two other patients sitting down and two receptionists. I stood waiting for one of them to look up and ask me over.

They didn’t. I was not impressed. After a few more minutes of them chatting to each other, making quiet jokes, not working, and me giving them the stink eye I loudly asked why they were ignoring me. “WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME!!!” One young poppet told me they were busy attending to other patients and I should take a number and be seated.

“Are you friggen kidding, there ARE no other patients, take a number!!!”.

No response. I was, by all accounts, turning feral.

“I did not arrive at 7am, after leaving home at 5.30am and driving for an hour and a half in traffic to be made to stand here waiting until you two are finished chatting about your Snapchat filter and updating Facebook, check. me .the. hell. in”.

I was then checked in and immediately taken back by a lovely radiographer for my MRI. My day, was not off to a good start.

Once out the back I was told to remove all of my clothes except my nickers.

I protested….

“But I have worn a seamless bra and cotton shirt, which I wore for the last MRI, specifically so I don’t have to take off my shirt as it’s difficult and painful” still annoyed from tweedle dumb and tweedle fucking dee out the front.

“I need everything off”


So off everything came. In doing so I got makeup all over my shirt and was very fucking annoyed. But as I do these days, I got over it quickly.

So into the giant donut hole I went for the next 90 minutes. In case you are wondering that is a very long time for an MRI. The machine binged and bonged it’s way through its images. The special voodoo radiographer sat at the monitors (I could see them via the mirror in the cage over my face) with a furrowed brow, as did the technician. Then there were three, then four.

All of them studied the images, spoke to each other, changed positions and talked some more. They would move me around in the donut hole, change the image contrast, make the machine make different noises, tell me to wait, and then repeat.

I knew then things were not going well.

At one point a new lady came into the room and rearranged me in the donut hole and I asked her what was going on. “Oh we are just trying to get a different view of your shoulder”

“Well Dr boghole only needs that one suprascapular nerve, have you been able to see it?”

“Well that is far more difficult than it sounds, for many reasons including technical and medical reasons that are very difficult to explain” (and that you would not understand you dipshit) she condescendingly explained.


After 90 minutes or so I was released from the donut hole, took off my paper gown, covered my cans with my stained shirt and went to wait for my surgeon. He went straight around to talk to the voodoo radiographer and look at the images, I told him as he went I didn’t think the news was good.

I was right.

He came back and said calm as a mill pond “we think the nerve is severed”.


Double fuck.

Triple fuck even.

He then showed me the scan were the nerve stops dead in the middle of the shoulder like it has been hit with an axe. Looks pretty obvious to me. If you look at the picture where the mouse is, that white thing is the nerve stopping dead in it’s tracks.

Going straight into pragmatic mode I asked what the surgery would entail, expecting something along the line of “We just need to go into the back of your shoulder, find the nerve and graft it from nerves in your legs”.

But of course that is not what came back.

Apparently my brain surgeon needs a shoulder surgeon to open me up, peel the muscle off the bone in my back, remove bone in the shoulder and go mining for that nerve (well both ends of it anyway), when they have excavated enough bone to find said severed nerve ends, my brain surgeon will extricate my sural nerve (legs) and sew my suprascapular nerve’s ass to its face.

Unfortunately if they don’t do it all that earlier surgery won’t work. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

This news upset me a reasonable amount yesterday. I cried. Twice. More anaesthetic, more time off, more hospital time away from kids, more money. Lot’s more money.

Anyhoo, one must go forward and accept the consequences of one’s actions. Or the consequences of someone else’s actions. That makes it somewhat more difficult.

So surgery is in 13 days. I know right. Fuck.

Better get to the bank.

OGA Out.