Just over four weeks ago I happily trotted into elective surgery. I agreed to Maxillo Mandibular Advancement (MMA) as the best chance of preventing my appalling sleep apnoea. Success will mean my wife can sleep in peace. Success will mean I can benefit from a night asleep and rise without exhaustion. I say “I agreed” because I had to sign several permissions including the use of bone material from other locations and photography of the operation, some of which I have seen: good focus and plenty of clear detail. I heard a full explanation of the procedure and the recovery expectations from the highly experienced and tremendously qualified surgeon: a leading Maxillo-Facial specialist.
A full explanation of the procedure and the recovery process which I understood perfectly. I understood intellectually exactly what would happen: my jaws would be broken and pulled forward approximately 10mm. My face would change somewhat but the benefit would be the increased airflow into my pharynx. Metal plates would be fitted into my jaws to set them in their new locations and scaffolding would be placed into my mouth as a set of splints and wires while healing progresses. There will be pain as a result of this surgery. Obviously there will be pain and discomfort. I understood nothing.
I understood exactly what would happen but had no idea how much pain and discomfort might be involved. The surgeon told me, hours after the operation, that all had gone as planned, no problems occurred, I would recover in the ensuing four weeks and the benefits are immediate: I should be sleeping perfectly already. The X-rays taken a week later confirmed the increased pharyngeal space: I am cured. Maybe.
I am happy to say I agreed to this procedure, I was and I still am, grateful to the surgeon for adding me into his programme which has helped many people. He definitely explained fully the process and the results expected. I must also say I had no understanding of the reality. I have been unable to write coherently since the surgery because I have been unable to think coherently or to concentrate for any time on anything. I have never previously suffered such constant torture, not for hours let alone weeks. If I had a choice now, I doubt I would agree. I kept a journal as frequently as I could in an effort to displace my discomfort, to occupy my mind away from the aching, itching, burning, stabbing pains which I am still feeling almost five weeks later. My next posts will be that journal: the procedure might be worth the pain, I have yet to discover the benefits but anyone considering MMA might want to read the slightly negative report before committing themselves to the irreversible procedure.
I go now for the next dose of painkillers: every few hours, day after day. The nerve functions will take months to return, I am told, while those nerves do not work, much of my face being numb, random pains plague my lips and nose.
My last comments in this site were a whine about losing all my typing and lo! I return this evening and find some kind soul has retrieved it, many thanks and much love be upon you, whoever you are.
And I shall return to whine some more: perhaps about the two clowns who pulled across my bow today. One saw me in time and apologised & straightened into his own lane. The first one this morning switched from lane two onto lane three without a signal and without checking mirrors so if I had not braked we would have been even closer than six inches. I am sure he had no idea I was there, even afterward.
Sunday. Sunday! Sunday!! Didn’t I once love Sundays? How does everyone else cope with such a let down day? I work my way through each week and fulfil my housekeeping promises on Saturday so Sunday can be a day of rest but it is not. Sunday is the home-improvement day from hell. Sunday is the “paint the bathroom” day: the “fit the curtains in the nursery” day; “Are we having lunch today?” day. Sunday is the day that begins with all the promises of Spring and ends with the gloom of deepest winter simply because I spend the daylight hours painting, building, cleaning, cooking and rushing to that wonderful point when I can relax for the weekend but that’s Sunday evening which means it’s as good as Monday morning.
There’s no time, no time between now and all the stuff I promised to do Monday morning. I’ve taken time from a busy afternoon just to complain here about that time I don’t have. The moment the baby wakes I must return to curtain hanging but for now the drill is too loud and I can rest, perhaps a short snooze . . . . I can always write this later when I can say what I wanted to say about the lunatics driving on the roads, sorry I mean the lunatics trying to kill me every day on the roads. I can describe the week I had which seems so long ago now because I’m already turning into next week. And I see last week fading already just the way it always does, what happened last week?
Last week was filled with rushing. I rushed each day to my BM’s so I could help her do some things. I rushed back each day to collect my undoubtedly better half from her office (because I was using her car) and I rushed to hospital appointments on two of those days. A big chunk of a hundred miles each way means the little fella has to sleep his way around the 25 twice a day. Of course, having slept so much gives him the energy to scream the hours away while I attempt to do stuff.
The funny part is: I learned a few years ago how precious is our time and I refuse to rush my way through life. I am now a stroll carefree through life guy and I’m determined to apply the brakes but it is too late because the weekend is almost gone and I had no time to rest. Oh well, maybe next week . . .
I should surely have written a blog by now, I fell deeply into the IT pool before Windows had windows and my love of the printed word began when I was still learning to walk and computers read punched cards.
And it’s not like I tend to keep my opinions locked away (much as my friends could hope) I just never stopped long enough to check with the rest of the world and ask if anyone agrees with me. Now I have so much to share that’s good: take the perfect day pictured above as a starting point.
So, just like that first Basic command line in evening classes, I greet the world outside and once again hope there is somebody there to hear me. I will split this into two obvious columns whenever possible keeping the life reports on the right and the screaming rant on the left.
Bear in mind this is my first post on this software too so there is plenty of room for error . . .