This story starts on Monday, after I got back from Prague. I went to the doctor, who opened my bandages after my second surgery to find my finger just as red, swollen, and pus-filled, if not more so, than it was on Friday, despite half of my fingernail removed. It was painful to touch. The doctor changed the bandage and then explained to me that I needed to come back again on Tuesday to get it looked at again. I was telling him when I was available to come back and not really paying attention when he dumped a bunch of alcohol on my open wound. I whimpered and teared up in pain. Then the he said, "Oh, maybe I should have told you I was going to do that."
Tuesday: I went back again and the first thing the doctor said when he opened up my bandage was "putain, c'est pas possible." (translation: fuck, this is not possible.) My finger was getting worse. I hadn't been on antibiotics for a few days but he prescribed me some more and dumped more alcohol on my finger (after warning me this time). The doctor shared the culture test results with me: I had a really bad staph infection in my finger.
Wednesday: the surgeon who did my first two surgeries saw me instead of my regular doctor. He was also concerned with the state of my finger because he said that he knew that he cleaned it all out and removed all of the infection. He didn't want to take any further action yet since I hadn't yet been on antibiotics for 24 hours.
Thursday: I went back and my finger was worse yet, except I shared with the surgeon that on Wednesday night, I had a fever, my arm hurt up to my shoulder, I felt weak and almost passed out, and I had no appetite. The surgeon was concerned and went to get the head doctor. She came in and looked at my finger and said that we needed to do emergency surgery that same day, but first, I needed to get x rays of my finger to see if the infection had gotten into the bone. So I was sent to the other side of the hospital to get x rays. (Meanwhile, I was missing the second chance to make up the test that I missed on the day I had my second surgery). The x rays proved to be hopeful: my bones were OK. However, this third surgery was going to be extensive in one of those scary operating rooms that's too bright, so I needed to come back in the evening when they were prepared. I needed to come back at 8 but I couldn't eat anything after 3. My host mom picked me up from the hospital and took me home where I ate and tried to sleep. Astrid came over and hung out for a while; I was glad she kept me company since I was dreading getting a third operation.
At 8 PM, my host mom brought me back to the hospital. A nurse came and got me and told me to change into a hospital gown. This made me nervous since the first two surgeries they just pushed up my sleeve and cut away at my hand. Why did I need to put on a hospital gown, those weird feet things and a cap if they were working on my hand? Either way, I put on the gown and accessories and then the nurse took me into the anesthesia room and told me to get under the covers of the hospital bed. I laid there for about 10 minutes before the anesthesiologist came in. He introduced himself and asked me about my finger while he prepped my injections. He said that he was going to numb my entire left arm. In order to do this, he had to stick several needles into my armpit and let the Novocaine in gradually through this tube-type thing. Although I was relieved that I wouldn't have to endure the agony of getting needles stuck into my hand and finger, I dreaded getting shots in my armpit. First, he put this jelly-type thing on my upper arm/armpit to look, I guess to find the veins. Then he stuck me with the needles. It was unpleasant. I forgot how many times he stuck me. I could feel the liquid going into my arm; it was so gross.
The anesthesiologist would leave the needle in for a few seconds and talk to me. At one point, he looked at my folder and read out my name. He asked me if I was American or English. When I told him, he asked,"Are you a real American or fake American?" When I asked him what that meant, he asked me if my parent(s) were American or French and if I had lived in France my whole life/a long time. I told him that both of my parents were American and I was just spending the semester in France but he didn't believe me at first. He was like, "I swore you were French, etc etc etc" This is always a huge compliment when French people think that I'm French and it made me smile and laugh. We talked while he tortured me with needles for another 10-15 minutes. He told me about how he had trouble understanding American accents, how he wasn't good at English (he had trouble pronouncing Rs) and was asking me all sorts of questions about myself and my life in the states. Then he started flirting with me. I thought, dude, you are sticking my armpit with needles. This is neither the time nor place. I was not amused and did not play along.
After he finished injecting me with Novocaine, he left but kept coming back every few minutes to talk to me and check on my arm. He did the cold test and put a cold bottle on my shoulder and moved it down my arm. The first few times, I still felt it, but the third time, when he had the bottle near my wrist, I actually had to ask him if he was even touching my arm. That was it, my arm was numb. He asked if I could still fold my arm. I started to lift my arm towards me but it was dead and started to fall on my face. He caught my arm and was like, "okay, I think you're ready." I had to wait until the two guys who needed surgery before me went through. Thirty minutes later, I couldn't even move my arm when I tried to lift it and move my fingers. It was so funny. Finally my turn, I was the last patient of that evening.
The surgeon (a different one from my first two operations) and nurse wheeled me into the big, white, too bright operation room with a bunch of machines. The nurse prepped my arm with iodine and cut off my circulation with the compression thing again. This all seemed like the same process as before, I didn't see what the big deal was or why my whole arm needed to be numb. Then they pulled out the screen. They put my arm through a green hole and then attached it to the screen. I wasn't going to be able to see what they were doing. :( Then the surgeon asked if they could start. The nurse turned on music and people went in and out of the operating room and they all talked to each other. Bob Marley was playing during most of my operation so that put me at ease. The anesthesiologist even came in to see what was going on and talk to me. DUDE. Don't joke with me about how they're cutting off my finger when I can neither see nor feel what they're doing. Not funny or cute. After 20ish minutes, they cut away the screen and laid my dead arm back on top of me. It was wrapped into a huge ball with just my thumb sticking out. They moved me to the recovery room where I had to wait unnecessarily until I was allowed to walk back to the changing room to get dressed. With a dead arm and the other arm needing to hold the dead arm, I was unable to dress myself. One of the assistants who led me to the changing room said with a wink that if I didn't want him to help me get dressed he could call in my host mom. Ew, creep. My host mom came in and helped me get dressed and then after we met with the surgeon briefly, we were able to leave the hospital. It was midnight. We got back to the apartment and she made me something to eat since I hadn't eaten since 2 PM.
I had a terrible night's sleep but feeling finally came back into my arm around 5 or 6 AM. Then I couldn't sleep at all because of the pain and of course they gave me crappy pain killers, even though the anesthesiologist slipped a prescription into my folder for a strong-ish (not as strong as vicodin but strong enough to actually do something). The surgeon wrote me a different prescription (crappy) and that was the paper he gave me instead of the better one.
When I went back to the doctor on Friday morning before the American program's excursion, the surgeon (from my first two surgeries) saw me and removed my bandages. The bandages were soaked with blood and stuck to my finger. It hurt so much as he peeled them off of my raw wound. I was semi-screaming from the doctor's office and Jill, who was waiting for me in the waiting room, heard me and later said that she was very concerned.
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| This is what my hand looked like on Friday morning after I regained feeling and was able to lift my arm |
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