Sadism

Two weeks today since I had my knee reconstructed. It was scary how the time leading up to the op flew by, and the last two weeks has moved at a fairly reasonable pace as well.

I am signed on back for work on Friday (tad nervous about it, to be honest) and my next physio appointment isn't until the 23rd.

To mark the two week anniversary of the surgeon threading a new tendon into my knee joint, I celebrated in rather a unique way - by having the stitches out.

I think the word "celebrate" and the term "removal of stitches" are not compatible in any shape or form! Unless you are into sadomasochism, which, by the way, I'm not. No way, no how.

Everyone has different experiences of stitches. Some say they just tickled when they were removed, others purse their lips in that, mechanic under the bonnet of your old banger of a car "this is going to cost you", kind of way. Others offer to do it for you!

The NHS has a lot to answer for. They could, kindly providing delicate tools for the job of removing stitches of which Sweeney Todd would be proud, which wouldn't break the budget. Instead, blunt, heavy, clumsy tweezers and the stainless steel equivalent of Grandma's old crochet hook are standard issue and self evident that the NHS is scrimping in whichever way is possible.

If I could have taken the stitches out myself, I would have done, as the tolerance level for self-inflicted pain is higher than that inflicted by someone else. Indeed, I did quickly make the request (which was denied) after the nurse began to prod my knee with the crochet hook like you would poke a piece of half cooked beef, in an effort to locate the end of the first stitch.

She advised that the skin had started to heal over and around the stitches, which did lead me to wonder why on earth they had decided to wait the full two weeks in order to remove them.

My charitable side thought it might be because everyone's healing process is different. The not so charitable side of me being subjected to the exquisite sensation of having the stitches taken out, was inclined to believe that it's because they want to keep the number of outpatient appointments to an absolute minimum to cut on costs, even if it means torturing patients in any number of ways to achieve this.

Despite being of a sadistic nature, and obviously unaccustomed to using the garden shed tools, the nurse thankfully didn't prolong the wondrous process, so after a number of deep breaths and holding on to the couch with hands so tight my knuckles turned white (by me!) she succeeded in removing the stitches.

Having those removed hurt more than the anaesthetist installing the canula in my hand prior to surgery. And for someone who hates those gadgets with a passion, that is definitely saying something.

Continuing with my tradition of adding gross pictures, below is the last picture of my undressed knee before the stitches were removed. I will add another photo tomorrow when I change the dressing!




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