00:08 – One of the most physically brutal nights of my life begins.
My roommate snores like a broken-down Mercedes engine. First whistling, then stuttering – as if it can’t decide whether to start or not. The pressure in the cast rises. Bandage, sweat, nerves – everything worsens. I wonder: do I have to just endure this?
Was this punishment for having my MJ-milk pump removed?
I consider: if I press the bell now, am I creating “unnecessary” work for someone?
Screw that. SUVA pays.
The first nurse arrives, offers me pain medication – I gratefully accept.
It doesn’t help.
The on-call doctor is summoned. Verdict: the cast stays, but they’ll loosen the fixation a bit. Thirty minutes rest.
After that: more pain. I press again.
Two doctors come in: take everything off to rule out compartment syndrome.
Fortunately: negative. Re-bandaged, this time a bit looser.
Then she returns: the “milk.” No fentanyl, but liquid Palexia.
In it goes. Ten minutes later: breathing shallower, body shutting down. I don’t care – I’m just relieved. In the end it pressed at my toes laterally, but I was back in Frankfurt red-light-district mode, so I could bear it fairly well.
And as a little highlight, the nurse brings me earplugs – finally some peace.
06:30.
I wake up. Maybe three to four hours of sleep.
The guy next door? Now he snores not rhythmically but with stutters. I listen to his pauses instead of sleeping.
At rounds the doctor is really proud of my dry wound. I celebrate his celebration.
He unwraps my leg, lays it in the VacoPad fabric – and everyone leaves. I lie there with my foot in the cloth, not in the splint. Two to three hours pass: nothing happens.
I seriously wonder: will anyone ever finish this?
Luckily the nurse brings more Palexia, this time another slow-release tablet. At 10:41: I’m okay again. I even showered – what a feeling. The physios are coming soon.
Morning: uneventful. The physios explain crutch handling, take first steps with me.
Then the assistant doctor brings my discharge papers – for tomorrow.
And I start to ponder:
What if I go and the slow-release wonder tablet stops working later?
The pain would be unbearable.
But: no more cast. I can open the shoe to release pressure.
In any case, I don’t want another night with that soundscape – I’ll lose it.
I grab my crutches, take the wheelchair, roll a few laps through the hospital. Thinking phase. Clear my head.
Noon: the decision is made.
Full risk – I’m going home.
The ward doctor adjusts my discharge date.
The nurses give me another thrombosis injection – in the leg.
(Quote from a doctor friend: “Only rookies inject it in the leg.”)
My brother picks me up.
At home: initially nervous, but then –
fell asleep pain-free.
Thank God.