Scans & The Story So Far, Part 1
Dec. 3rd, 2009 03:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freddiefragglesToday I received a letter from the hospital with an appointment for a scan. At least, I think it's a scan. It says fluoro guided injection, which I'm assuming has something to do with fluoroscopy. I had an MRI scan as well, in the middle of October, during which I was so tired I actually managed to fall asleep. Good work!
Now, why on earth have I been going through all of this, you may very well ask. It's a long story. But if you have time, pull up a chair and let me tell you it.
Cast your mind back to the year 2000. I was 13 going on 14, it was a leap year, the world hadn't collapsed from computer viruses, Harold Shipman was found guilty of murder on 15 counts, George W. Bush became President of the USA, Vladimir Putin became President of Russia, 9 people died during a Pearl Jam set at the Roskilde festival, and Microsoft released Windows ME. The Easter of 2000 was when I started to think my ankle was hurting more than it should be. A visit to the GP ensued. The doc could find nothing out of the ordinary and, thinking it was a sprain, sent me on my way with some tubigrip, a note to get me off sport for a couple of weeks and instructions to rest it. Thing is, where I went to school, there's a lot of walking around involved between lessons, from one room to the next. They move the kids around instead of the teachers (sensible, really), which meant it wasn't really getting as much rest as was intended.
Anyway, a couple of months later, it still hurt. The doc re-assessed and said maybe tendons. He gave me another note, more tubigrip and more instructions to rest it. Come the start of the new school year, it was still hurting, and getting a bit worse. Having exhausted all other avenues, the doc sent me to the local general hospital for x-rays. That was my first recollection of ever having an x-ray, by the bye. When the pictures came back, there was clearly something Not Quite Right with the lower tibia. So a swift referral to the consultant at the local hospital and a couple of months later, I was booked in for an operation. Only had to wait about 6 weeks or so, which is why I have a lot of sympathy for people who have to wait a long time. Basically, they thought I had cancer so I got bumped to nearer the top of the queue. Not that anyone told me that. Don't want to worry the poor child, eh?
What it actually was, as we found out later, was an osteoclastoma, a benign bone tumour, roughly the size of a golf ball. I was lucky. The procedure was "remove tumour and fill with bone graft from patient's right hip and bone bank."
The Saturday before my operation in January 2001, George Bush was inaugurated for the first time. It's not something that's ingrained on my memory, Wikipedia has just told me that it occurred. It was a Monday, the operation, I was basically nil by mouth from midnight, though I had a sip of hot ribena when I got up in the morning. We were at the hospital for about half 6 and I chose to walk up to surgery in my gown rather than ride on the trolley. It was a sensible decision, that was the last time I walked without crutches for 15 months. I went under the anaesthetic at 9am and that was that until after 1pm when I came round. First thing I remember seeing was the clock on the wall and making a mental note of the time being after 1pm, and then I thought that I'd been under a long time. The nurse came over and was glad to see me awake, I think I might have smiled, at least I tried to, but it's hard to know. My leg felt heavy. It had a cast on it, not a full one though, so they could see how the scar was doing etc.
I was in hospital for 5 days. I had visitors, my singing teacher, people who worked for my Dad who I knew (one of them brought me an Ernie balloon thing. It's still alive, can't quite believe it's lasted nearly 10 years). I remember Dad coming, but not my brother or sister. Perhaps they were living abroad. I can't remember. Anyway, there you go. I came out of the children's ward and into what used to be my brother's room. I went back to the hospital every 6 weeks for a new cast and an x-ray. Sometime around June or July it became apparent that the bone graft had not taken. The giant cell tumour was regrowing. The consultant shook his head and shrugged his shoulders and referred me to the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital in Stanmore.
I'll tell you the rest of the story soon.
Now, why on earth have I been going through all of this, you may very well ask. It's a long story. But if you have time, pull up a chair and let me tell you it.
Cast your mind back to the year 2000. I was 13 going on 14, it was a leap year, the world hadn't collapsed from computer viruses, Harold Shipman was found guilty of murder on 15 counts, George W. Bush became President of the USA, Vladimir Putin became President of Russia, 9 people died during a Pearl Jam set at the Roskilde festival, and Microsoft released Windows ME. The Easter of 2000 was when I started to think my ankle was hurting more than it should be. A visit to the GP ensued. The doc could find nothing out of the ordinary and, thinking it was a sprain, sent me on my way with some tubigrip, a note to get me off sport for a couple of weeks and instructions to rest it. Thing is, where I went to school, there's a lot of walking around involved between lessons, from one room to the next. They move the kids around instead of the teachers (sensible, really), which meant it wasn't really getting as much rest as was intended.
Anyway, a couple of months later, it still hurt. The doc re-assessed and said maybe tendons. He gave me another note, more tubigrip and more instructions to rest it. Come the start of the new school year, it was still hurting, and getting a bit worse. Having exhausted all other avenues, the doc sent me to the local general hospital for x-rays. That was my first recollection of ever having an x-ray, by the bye. When the pictures came back, there was clearly something Not Quite Right with the lower tibia. So a swift referral to the consultant at the local hospital and a couple of months later, I was booked in for an operation. Only had to wait about 6 weeks or so, which is why I have a lot of sympathy for people who have to wait a long time. Basically, they thought I had cancer so I got bumped to nearer the top of the queue. Not that anyone told me that. Don't want to worry the poor child, eh?
What it actually was, as we found out later, was an osteoclastoma, a benign bone tumour, roughly the size of a golf ball. I was lucky. The procedure was "remove tumour and fill with bone graft from patient's right hip and bone bank."
The Saturday before my operation in January 2001, George Bush was inaugurated for the first time. It's not something that's ingrained on my memory, Wikipedia has just told me that it occurred. It was a Monday, the operation, I was basically nil by mouth from midnight, though I had a sip of hot ribena when I got up in the morning. We were at the hospital for about half 6 and I chose to walk up to surgery in my gown rather than ride on the trolley. It was a sensible decision, that was the last time I walked without crutches for 15 months. I went under the anaesthetic at 9am and that was that until after 1pm when I came round. First thing I remember seeing was the clock on the wall and making a mental note of the time being after 1pm, and then I thought that I'd been under a long time. The nurse came over and was glad to see me awake, I think I might have smiled, at least I tried to, but it's hard to know. My leg felt heavy. It had a cast on it, not a full one though, so they could see how the scar was doing etc.
I was in hospital for 5 days. I had visitors, my singing teacher, people who worked for my Dad who I knew (one of them brought me an Ernie balloon thing. It's still alive, can't quite believe it's lasted nearly 10 years). I remember Dad coming, but not my brother or sister. Perhaps they were living abroad. I can't remember. Anyway, there you go. I came out of the children's ward and into what used to be my brother's room. I went back to the hospital every 6 weeks for a new cast and an x-ray. Sometime around June or July it became apparent that the bone graft had not taken. The giant cell tumour was regrowing. The consultant shook his head and shrugged his shoulders and referred me to the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital in Stanmore.
I'll tell you the rest of the story soon.
