Fidget Cube Review

I am a finger fidget-err.  It does not feel right if my fingers are not doing something, and the majority of the time, that means picking.
Picking my fingers, picking my nails, picking the various patches of psoriasis around my body.  Its an obsession.
I was intrigued to find out that my Brother over Christmas had backed a kick starter for a “Fidget Cube”.  An intriguing little device that you could “play” with to keep yourself from doing harm to ones own body.
I decided to investigate, and being the tight arse that I am, I decided to purchase a cheep china knock off from eBay to see how it would be.

And this is the review (kind of).

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The next day, post surgery

The day after surgery, and I was still in hospital, but due to be discharged.  I was given some Physio, and checked to make sure I could stand and at least shuffle around a bit.

They removed my bandages, and changed my dressing, burgh, and gave me some instructions.  I was given a preliminary date for my follow up appointment (3 weeks later) where I would have my stitches out (apparently, the consultant wants to remove them himself as he has done something special with them ??).

And then I was discharged, with a bag full of pain killers for my recovery process.  We shall see how it goes.

The leg, without the waterproof dressings.

Recovery

I don’t quite remember waking up, but I think I remember opening my eyes and seeing a young female nurse looking at me.  She may have been asking me questions, but I am not sure.  I had an oxygen mask on for a bit, and just lay there.

From what I remember, I did not have the crazy effect I had heard so much about, the disorientation, the chatty ness.  It felt like I was okay, just chatting to the nurse.  She gave me some water out of a straw, and swapped my oxygen mask for a nasal tube.  I just lay there, looking at the clock, and listening to what was going on around me.  Ever now and then, I would be asked how I was, and I replied “fine”.  I certainly felt okay.

Looking at the clock, I had only been in surgery for about 35 minutes.  In and out, quick as a flash.

It wasn’t for another 30-45 minutes that I was then wheeled back up stairs.  I remember being reversed back in to my room, and thankfully, as I was turned, there was my Partner waiting for me.  I felt relieved.

My bandaged leg after surgery

Decompressive fasciotomy

Nothing really to write about the procedure itself as I was asleep at the time (thankfully), but this is what I remember about it.

I was escorted down to theatre by a nurse.  I was walking, and it felt like a hangman’s walk to the impending doom.  We went down in the lift, and then went through some smoked glass doors which I never even noticed before when we arrived in to the hospital.  Instantly, the feel of the hospital suddenly changed.  The smell of antiseptic was strong as we walked through a maze of corridors, and passed various doors marked Theatre and a number.  He showed me through a door marked Theatre One, and into a small “lobby” with a very narrow blue covered bed in the centre of the room.  He asked me to lie down, and so I got on to the bed, and shuffled my bum in to position. As if prompted, as soon as I stopped moving, two men in scrubs entered through a door at the opposite end of the room (which I assume was the actual operating theatre, and started busying themselves around me.

One of them, on my left side started messing with finger sensors, and the one on the right placed a blood pressure cuff on my arm (my nemesis).  As it was a very narrow bed, they put some L shaped metal place holders at each side to stop me rolling off.

A small scratch on my left hand signalled the cannula going in.  Ouch, that hurt quite a bit.  The popped the oxygen mask on me, and I just looked up to the ceiling.  One of them said they were going to give me the anaesthetic to put me to sleep and mentioned it may hurt a little bit.

Wow, they were not kidding, that was really painful.  I remember still looking up to the ceiling, and that’s all I remember.  Nothing else, I did not feel myself get drowsy, did not feel myself going off.  Just nothing.  That was it.

Day of surgery

Eventually, the day of my surgery came round.  I had to arrive at the hospital at 7:15 AM.  My partner came with me, and I was carrying my new PJ’s, Dressing Gown, eReader and medications as requested, via a pre booked taxi.

When we arrived, a smart lady in a suit came to greet us and took us to my private room and explained a few details to me.  I sat, trying to keep my mind off things, and we chatted for a while before I got stuck in to my book so as not to dwell on things too much.

Eventually a Nurse came in and explained what would happen next.  I was given a hospital gown, a pair of very flimsy surgical pants and asked to change in to them and put my dressing gown on. I changed, and sat, and waited a little longer.  A couple of further visits by the nurse to do some admin, and to catalog my medication I brought in.  I was very grateful for my partner being there as she helped ease my nerves.

Waiting for my surgery

After a little bit longer, the consultant swooped in.

Hello, can you confirm your name?

And what procedure are you having?

And which leg?

I assume these were just questions to make sure I was the correct patient, and I was aware of what I was in for.  I asked about both legs and he said under no circumstances would he ever do both at once.  I guess that’s due to recover and risk.  I explained that both legs were as bad as each other at the moment, and he asked which one I wanted doing.  I stuck with the left leg as in general that has been the worst.  He drew a little doodle on it, and explained the risks, such as numbness around the scar, the fact that it might recur if my genetic makeup meant I was an extreme healer ( a reference to the fact that my body may heal excessively and cause the fascia to scar and reform ).

He also said that if it does not work, then the only other option is to just shoot me 🙂

He mentioned that my leg may look different after the surgery, and that it may bulge somewhat when I walk on it, which was fine by me.  If it does work, then there is the option to have my other leg done at a later date.

 

Captive Birth

This is a short story I wrote ages ago, but still one of the best things I have done so far.

Captive Birth

A Short Story

By James Hall

Shannon was shaking as she stood, amniotic fluid slowly traversing the contours of her thighs. A spasm shot through her abdomen, and tears leaked from her blood shot eyes. She sniffed up some escaping mucus and let out another sob; if only she could see the state she was in, but in the darkness, she could see nothing. Her boney fingers, undernourished, wiped the tears from her cracked cheeks. The wetness was becoming uncomfortable, and it felt like she was burning between her legs. In the darkness, her arms reached to find a wall, or perhaps the door, but she could neither find or see anything. Her swollen belly gave another kick, she knew it was soon time, and that the one thing in the world she needed right now was a hospital. Don’t be stupid, her thoughts told her, you’re on your own, and no one is going to help. She would have this baby, here, in the dark, alone, with risk of infection or even death, to both of them. Shannon had still not decided if she wanted the baby to survive or not, her thoughts torn between love and hatred for the child, and despair of bringing a child into her current, hopeless situation. Many a time had she thought of punching her stomach, hurting herself and the baby, to prevent any further suffering, but could never carry it out. As she shuffled forwards, each movement causing discomfort, her skinny protrusions fingered the wall; mentally cursing the fact that it was night-time, and that the only window was devoid of light. Her hands followed the wall, as she moved closer, looking for something to latch on to. A shriek of pain engulfed her thoughts as her left toe collided with the stone latrine. Trying to compose herself, she cautiously bent down and carefully lowered herself onto the makeshift toilet.

“Help me, you bastard.” she cried.

“Where the fuck are you”.

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