Sunday, March 19, 2006
Bob's Clot
It felt like a cramp: I got out of bed and stood on my instep, finding enough relief to get back to sleep for the last few hours of darkness that morning. But my calf was still sore the next day. "Perhaps I'd torn something trying to relieve the cramp?" By Thursday the oedematic swelling in my shin and ankle was ummistakable and the dull pain had not abated.
"Might as well go straight to the hospital!", my surgeon mate told me, "That's where the GP will send you anyway." So, off to St V's it was, where Cas was not the experience A Current Affair would have us believe. The triage nurse was friendly and instantly concerned. The wait was fair but not extended. A quick history for the registrar and around for an untrasound. Oh dear! Mum had consistently warned me about the need for clean undies, but I think had never really come upon even the concept of "going commando". The technician was gracious and passed me a towel before smearing gel from groin to ankle. (They even think to warm it beforehand!)
No dallying pubis to patella, but the pause behing the knee was the giveaway, and the black texta mark a few inches above the ankle. Of course he couldn't tell me that it was a thrombus - that was the doctor's job, but "No" I couldn't walk back to Cas: "Wait for the orderly, he'll take you on the trolley".
"Have you had surgery lately?"
"Been on any long plane trips?" (And I thought they were bunyip specialists at St V's!)
"Gained weight recently?" "Not really, I've lost 10kg."
"Had your leg in a cast or been in bed for a prolonged time?"
"9 times out of 10 we don't know what causes them anyway!"
Several vials of blood, a couple of jabs of clexane in the belly, a warfarin tablet and some advice later, I was discharged to the care of Hospital in the Home for daily injections and bloods. Proud I was (forgive the Yodaism) of my bravery in learning self-injection and gradually the warfarin pushed my INR above the therapeutic and mystical number 2, so the need for daily nursing visits is gone.
And now I wait like some sixteenth century monk for the looming dissolution!
"Might as well go straight to the hospital!", my surgeon mate told me, "That's where the GP will send you anyway." So, off to St V's it was, where Cas was not the experience A Current Affair would have us believe. The triage nurse was friendly and instantly concerned. The wait was fair but not extended. A quick history for the registrar and around for an untrasound. Oh dear! Mum had consistently warned me about the need for clean undies, but I think had never really come upon even the concept of "going commando". The technician was gracious and passed me a towel before smearing gel from groin to ankle. (They even think to warm it beforehand!)
No dallying pubis to patella, but the pause behing the knee was the giveaway, and the black texta mark a few inches above the ankle. Of course he couldn't tell me that it was a thrombus - that was the doctor's job, but "No" I couldn't walk back to Cas: "Wait for the orderly, he'll take you on the trolley".
"Have you had surgery lately?"
"Been on any long plane trips?" (And I thought they were bunyip specialists at St V's!)
"Gained weight recently?" "Not really, I've lost 10kg."
"Had your leg in a cast or been in bed for a prolonged time?"
"9 times out of 10 we don't know what causes them anyway!"
Several vials of blood, a couple of jabs of clexane in the belly, a warfarin tablet and some advice later, I was discharged to the care of Hospital in the Home for daily injections and bloods. Proud I was (forgive the Yodaism) of my bravery in learning self-injection and gradually the warfarin pushed my INR above the therapeutic and mystical number 2, so the need for daily nursing visits is gone.
And now I wait like some sixteenth century monk for the looming dissolution!
