Cúchulainn
05-27-2009, 05:52 AM
I fucked up my knee. Prior to this event, I was taking about 4 grams (that's 4,000 miligrams) of Tylenol and 4 grams of Naproxen a day. That did very little for my pain.
So anyway, I went in for knee surgery on the 18th. I can point to the ligaments they fixed, but I can't spell them. I know one was the medial cruciate ligament. They did something with that, cut another ligament, repositioned my kneecap (patella) and then fixed that ligament. Fun times.
Not really.
Like I said, I went in on the 18th. On the 19th, they pulled my drainage, which hurt like hell on wheels. Doc started tugging on it, I asked for anesthetic. He looked at me, totally straight-faced, and said, "No anesthetic. You a soldat!" He paused for a moment, then smiled - not just any smile, but a combination of Hannibal Lecter and a "Heeeere's Johnny!" smile portrayed so well by Jack Nicholson in The Shining. The kind of smile that, under ordinary circumstances, would have any sane individual reaching for their shotgun just to make that person stay the fuck away.
Then he yanked. Something was obviously wrong to begin with, as the drainage bag was completely (500 mL) full. And that drainage yank hurt like hell.
So he poked and prodded my knee (that hurt, too) and shook his head and yelled at the nurses in German and stuff, then tells me that something's wrong and they had to go back in there and operate again.
So they did that on the 20th. I woke up this time with two vacuum-pump drainage bottles sticking out of my leg. And this (now, creepily glowing doctor) was telling me all about the vacuum-pump bottles and lauding this state-of-the-art technology. The previous drainage thing had been a simple plastic packet.
I checked this out with my mother (she's an RN) and she was horrified. Apparently, vacuum pump drainage bottles have been around for like 40 years. They're not new. They're not special.
Fortunately, the Oxycontin and codeine kept things mostly under control. My knee hurt, yeah, but it wasn't too bad.
Until the 24th, when they finally cut me loose. That morning, they gave me my usual dose of Oxycontin and codeine, so things weren't horrific. Until about 1530 that afternoon.
Then it started feeling like they had replaced the ligament whose name I can't remember with a razor blade and filled the rest of my knee with broken glass.
The hospital had cut me loose with three (3) Voltaren capsules - about half a step up from Naproxen.
And it was a 4-day weekend. So the aid station wasn't open until Tuesday the 26th.
I spent the 25th seriously considering self-amputation with my trusty Swiss Army Knife just to make the pain in my knee go away.
So I went in on the 26th and caught an earful from this Captain bitch. She chewed my ass out for not going to sick call (that was my squad leader's call) and then had one of the medics poke and prod my knee to ask me where it hurt and how bad.
Then they kicked me out of the aid station and told me to come back at 1300.
When I came back at 1300, there was a shitload of Soldiers there needing Sniper and Ranger physicals.
Here's a triage question for you medically-minded types here. You look into your waiting room and see one Soldier in obvious pain and a knee the size of a soccer ball, and 20 other Soldiers needing routine physical examinations. Who do you see first?
If you said the 20 Soldiers needing routine exams, well, apparently you passed the Army's class on triage. But I still fucking hate you. And that's how it all went down.
The dumb Captain bitch finally saw me at about 1430. And proceeded to poke and prod my knee forcefully, asking me where it hurt and how bad until I was in tears.
Yeah, I cried. Sue me.
Then she told me that this far out from surgery, all I needed was Tylenol and Naproxen. Yeah. Tylenol and Naproxen. Which, if you recall, I was taking by the handful before surgery.
Oh, and I got a week off. According to her, I return to duty on the 1st.
In the parking lot, as I was preparing to crutch my way back to company, I heard someone yelling at the guy on crutches. I looked around, and low and behold, I was the only guy on crutches. So I looked back and there's this Soldier leaning out of his BMW, pointing at me. Initially, I figured it was gonna be some jumped-up, newly promoted NCO who thinks he's better than he is and has to make an on-the-spot correction about everything. Including the fucking cripple on crutches.
Turns out, he wanted to know if I wanted a ride. Hell, yeah, I'll take a ride, thank you for being a kind and decent individual. In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't spout off the first thing that came to mind. It wasn't kind, but I was expecting the worst-case scenario.
So I crutched on over to this guy's car and there's a pair of crutches in his backseat. I guess us temporary cripples have to stick together, right?
So we get to talking about what the surgeons did to our knees, and he was sounding like a very, very informed individual on the topic. He asked me what the PA had prescribed to help me deal with my pain. I told him, and he stopped the car. He then proceeded to pull out a pad and a pen of paper, asked to see my ID, and then questioned me all about the Captain I had seen, the circumstances surrounding the situation, the surgery I had done and her attitude, which was pretty shitty. And for me to say that someone's got an attitude problem, that's pretty harsh. I'm usually all for being an asshole to people.
So he closes the notepad, nods to himself and says, "Well. We're gonna have a little chat, her and I. In the meantime..." and he reaches into his glove compartment and pulls out a prescription pad. I got a good look at his uniform for the first time - god damn if its not a Lieutenant Colonel. Not just any Lt. Colonel - its the Regimental surgeon. He made sure I wasn't in trouble with my chain of command or anything, and wrote me out a script for Percocet. So he dropped me off at company, I thanked him repeatedly and profusely (for this much pain and that kind of a favor, I am NOT going to be an ungrateful shit), and went up to the platoon office. My PSG, the same clown who made the decision that resulted in my knee injury to begin with, looked at my profile and shook his head. A week for knee surgery? Fuck that. He gave me two and wrote out my leave form for me.
So now, here I sit, not a thing to do until the 8th except heal, with my bottle of Percocet. My knee still hurts, but not nearly as much (I'm only taking 1 tablet at a time when it starts to really hurt again - I'm not trying to abuse it and do something dumb here), but not nearly as much as it did.
TL;DR, my knee got filleted, I wouldn't send my dog to that hospital (and I don't even like my dog), the PA was a stupid cunt, but the Regimental Surgeon is awesome.
So anyway, I went in for knee surgery on the 18th. I can point to the ligaments they fixed, but I can't spell them. I know one was the medial cruciate ligament. They did something with that, cut another ligament, repositioned my kneecap (patella) and then fixed that ligament. Fun times.
Not really.
Like I said, I went in on the 18th. On the 19th, they pulled my drainage, which hurt like hell on wheels. Doc started tugging on it, I asked for anesthetic. He looked at me, totally straight-faced, and said, "No anesthetic. You a soldat!" He paused for a moment, then smiled - not just any smile, but a combination of Hannibal Lecter and a "Heeeere's Johnny!" smile portrayed so well by Jack Nicholson in The Shining. The kind of smile that, under ordinary circumstances, would have any sane individual reaching for their shotgun just to make that person stay the fuck away.
Then he yanked. Something was obviously wrong to begin with, as the drainage bag was completely (500 mL) full. And that drainage yank hurt like hell.
So he poked and prodded my knee (that hurt, too) and shook his head and yelled at the nurses in German and stuff, then tells me that something's wrong and they had to go back in there and operate again.
So they did that on the 20th. I woke up this time with two vacuum-pump drainage bottles sticking out of my leg. And this (now, creepily glowing doctor) was telling me all about the vacuum-pump bottles and lauding this state-of-the-art technology. The previous drainage thing had been a simple plastic packet.
I checked this out with my mother (she's an RN) and she was horrified. Apparently, vacuum pump drainage bottles have been around for like 40 years. They're not new. They're not special.
Fortunately, the Oxycontin and codeine kept things mostly under control. My knee hurt, yeah, but it wasn't too bad.
Until the 24th, when they finally cut me loose. That morning, they gave me my usual dose of Oxycontin and codeine, so things weren't horrific. Until about 1530 that afternoon.
Then it started feeling like they had replaced the ligament whose name I can't remember with a razor blade and filled the rest of my knee with broken glass.
The hospital had cut me loose with three (3) Voltaren capsules - about half a step up from Naproxen.
And it was a 4-day weekend. So the aid station wasn't open until Tuesday the 26th.
I spent the 25th seriously considering self-amputation with my trusty Swiss Army Knife just to make the pain in my knee go away.
So I went in on the 26th and caught an earful from this Captain bitch. She chewed my ass out for not going to sick call (that was my squad leader's call) and then had one of the medics poke and prod my knee to ask me where it hurt and how bad.
Then they kicked me out of the aid station and told me to come back at 1300.
When I came back at 1300, there was a shitload of Soldiers there needing Sniper and Ranger physicals.
Here's a triage question for you medically-minded types here. You look into your waiting room and see one Soldier in obvious pain and a knee the size of a soccer ball, and 20 other Soldiers needing routine physical examinations. Who do you see first?
If you said the 20 Soldiers needing routine exams, well, apparently you passed the Army's class on triage. But I still fucking hate you. And that's how it all went down.
The dumb Captain bitch finally saw me at about 1430. And proceeded to poke and prod my knee forcefully, asking me where it hurt and how bad until I was in tears.
Yeah, I cried. Sue me.
Then she told me that this far out from surgery, all I needed was Tylenol and Naproxen. Yeah. Tylenol and Naproxen. Which, if you recall, I was taking by the handful before surgery.
Oh, and I got a week off. According to her, I return to duty on the 1st.
In the parking lot, as I was preparing to crutch my way back to company, I heard someone yelling at the guy on crutches. I looked around, and low and behold, I was the only guy on crutches. So I looked back and there's this Soldier leaning out of his BMW, pointing at me. Initially, I figured it was gonna be some jumped-up, newly promoted NCO who thinks he's better than he is and has to make an on-the-spot correction about everything. Including the fucking cripple on crutches.
Turns out, he wanted to know if I wanted a ride. Hell, yeah, I'll take a ride, thank you for being a kind and decent individual. In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't spout off the first thing that came to mind. It wasn't kind, but I was expecting the worst-case scenario.
So I crutched on over to this guy's car and there's a pair of crutches in his backseat. I guess us temporary cripples have to stick together, right?
So we get to talking about what the surgeons did to our knees, and he was sounding like a very, very informed individual on the topic. He asked me what the PA had prescribed to help me deal with my pain. I told him, and he stopped the car. He then proceeded to pull out a pad and a pen of paper, asked to see my ID, and then questioned me all about the Captain I had seen, the circumstances surrounding the situation, the surgery I had done and her attitude, which was pretty shitty. And for me to say that someone's got an attitude problem, that's pretty harsh. I'm usually all for being an asshole to people.
So he closes the notepad, nods to himself and says, "Well. We're gonna have a little chat, her and I. In the meantime..." and he reaches into his glove compartment and pulls out a prescription pad. I got a good look at his uniform for the first time - god damn if its not a Lieutenant Colonel. Not just any Lt. Colonel - its the Regimental surgeon. He made sure I wasn't in trouble with my chain of command or anything, and wrote me out a script for Percocet. So he dropped me off at company, I thanked him repeatedly and profusely (for this much pain and that kind of a favor, I am NOT going to be an ungrateful shit), and went up to the platoon office. My PSG, the same clown who made the decision that resulted in my knee injury to begin with, looked at my profile and shook his head. A week for knee surgery? Fuck that. He gave me two and wrote out my leave form for me.
So now, here I sit, not a thing to do until the 8th except heal, with my bottle of Percocet. My knee still hurts, but not nearly as much (I'm only taking 1 tablet at a time when it starts to really hurt again - I'm not trying to abuse it and do something dumb here), but not nearly as much as it did.
TL;DR, my knee got filleted, I wouldn't send my dog to that hospital (and I don't even like my dog), the PA was a stupid cunt, but the Regimental Surgeon is awesome.