NO MORE SURGERY, For Now, Just Waiting

OneGoodArm Swear Scale: Hectic

Do you recall i said in my last blog that i should expect the unexpected? That I should have learned by now that what I think will happen n e v e r happens. Well CLEARLY I did not heed my own advice because low and behold, once again, just as I predicted, life strayed woefully from the path and jumped up and bit me unexpectedly on the rear end.

Of course this time, quite unexpectedly despite the passage above, the deviation was a good one. Now that really never happens.

This time my surgeon prepared me for the worst.

And the opposite happened.


I find myself indifferent to such good news, perhaps emotionally fatigued from the mighty ups and downs that have foreshadowed this wonderful outcome – I should be spinning like a top – but I am, not.

So the basic situation is this:

• My arm is ruined (I think everyone is with me here)
• I had major surgery on it doing all kinds of repairs in December 2017 because I showed no recovery in 100+ days
• Surgery went well, except for them needing to cut off C5 at the spinal cord, but they then grafted the stump so onward and upward – or downward in this case
• Everything was grafted or repaired and my legs are now carrying some pretty cool battle scars and street cred from being ‘donor’ legs
• After said massive December surgery my neurosurgeon was not sleeping due to worry about my suprascapular nerve which could not be seen for love nor money
• Enter stage left multiple MRI’s and review of said magnetism
• No one including Waldo could locate my suprascapular nerve on imaging
• Enter shoulder surgeon who is to chop me in half to find said nerve and allow neurosurgeon to sew its ass to its face

But then…..

• Shoulder surgeon consults every shoulder | neuro | plexus | radiographer specialist in Gotham city and decides HANG THE FUCK ON A MINUTE before we chop said person in half lets stick a camera up her tailpipe and put out a search party for the nerve.
• Shoulder surgeon then explains this to me, AFTER i have fulled prepped for the big ‘chop in half’ surgery and accepted this fate and subsequently a FULL SPAZ was the encountered.
• After a full hour of shoulder surgeon talking me around the tailpipe investigation is approved by me.
• Tailpipe investigation is commenced.

Then low and behold

THEY FIND THE FUCKING NERVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! End to end, in complete totality, without separation, or any part absent, the stupid spaghetti resembling shoulder driver appears in all its glory. No one can tell if it’s working or not, but thar she blows all the same.

What the actual fuck. Or WTAF for my mum.

The tailpipe investigation was Thursday, it was supposed to take 60-90 minutes, it took almost 200 – minutes (that is over 3 hours in old money). That is a long time for some basic camera work. Apparently navigating around all the scar tissue, earlier body work and panel beating | repairs was quite challenging.

Then when said shoulder surgeon found the nerve, to his amazement, he had to call out to his mate the neuro to ‘come and check it the fuck out’ or words to that effect.

“You know that nerve we were all positive was severed??!! Well it ain’t, there is the dickhead right there”.

I picture a fair amount of tap dancing and high fiving then occurred over my drugged carcass. Or they all shrugged and went “huh”.

Let’s go with high fives.

So I wake up in recovery as groggy as an old drunk and take an eternity to come around. The recovery nurse actually said to me “we are taking you to the ward ready or not” like I was deliberately being slow out coming out of the drug fog.

I suspect I was particularly DF’d because the gave me enough midazolam to put an elephant to sleep. Midaz is the pre-med they give you to ‘calm the fuck down’ before the proper anaesthetic. It is like the best stuff on earth. Like swallowing warm and fuzzy. They gave me the normal amount and I remember saying to the theatre staff “I normally don’t remember anything about the theatre, why am I still awake?” At which point I saw the aneasthetist coming at me with more Midaz like a a hunter holding a tranquilizer gun and off to sleep i then went.

So when i was taken to the ward I then groggily laid in my bed like a space cadet all afternoon until i spoke to Husband who told me something that sounded like good news but made NO sense. I cursed him – naturally. Then our friends arrived (C&R) and I generously tried to spew like right on them, a code was then called after the then nurse found me sobbing and spewing on the bathroom floor and by all accounts everything was very exciting.

The surgeon then spoke to my face (instead of Husbands ear) the next morning when he inconsideratelty showed up at 7am and I looked like a bashed in shit tin – and he did not. You see my blood pressure was up to its usual tricks dropping to 81/45 overnight and any systolic under 90 requires a visit from the RRT and ICU Registrar. So the good nurses woke me up every 20 minutes ALL NIGHT and wondered why after a long surgery and no sleep I was a little ‘tetchy’.

Anyhoo the surgeon rubbed my back, told me I needed a shower (yes thanks for that I know) and that my drip should be removed immediately (the ICU Registrar made me do it) and that I should go the hell home, stat. Oh and that he had found my nerve. ALL OF MY NERVE, from the front all the way to the back.

So that means, no more surgery! Not until Christmas anyway. Now we are back to December 20 when my nerve repair surgery was over and the waiting game commenced. My nerves have all been grafted, including C5 which feeds this naughty one they just went on an expedition to find, and we now have to wait and hope all those repairs take.

So now we wait. 2 months down, 10 to go.

I am not going to bother wondering what will happen as I am always, always wrong.

OGA Out.

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.