The TMJ operation dawns

It took me a few days before I could tell my husband that the operation date had arrived. Remember; not only had it taken so long due to COVID (which I totally understand and hold the NHS in immense esteem) but I had a strong, long held belief that I would die by the age of 40. I was now 42.

From that moment on things moved rapidly. I had to tie up loose ends at work, ensure childcare was arranged for during and after the operation, transport to and from the hospital and so on. In the mean time, I badly hurt my shoulder and was awaiting an MRI as the physio believed I had a problem with my neck (protrusion C6 &7), the Police puppy which we were due to collect for fostering fell through due to the breeder and days later my wonderful Nan died. We had been incredibly close and although I had known it was coming it was still more than I could bear at that time. So, binding my feelings about my imminent death, leaving my family, loss of my Nan, worrying about my Mum, worrying about finances - due to years without a regular income because of the jaw etc and inability to work for a prolonged time let alone secure a new job for once I had recovered - trying to rearrange a Police puppy (my family had their hearts set on it and with me off of work for a year it was perfect timing (ish)) and of course writing reports etc, I carried on. I didn't let myself cry I wouldn't talk about my feelings. I played `Not Afraid' by Eminem on repeat almost as a mantra. I spent my time organising and trying to support and reassure others whilst all the time I was see-sawing between certainty of death and fear that I wouldn't die but instead would have to go through the pain of yet another jaw operation.

One week before the operation I received a phone call from the QE hospital. Two thoughts rushed through my head: relief; it had been cancelled, fear; it had been cancelled. Hesitantly I listened as I was told that Mr Green, the best TMJ surgeon in the UK (according to google etc) and the one who had successfully operated and bought me back the last 2 operations was poorly. Was I happy to have a different surgeon? How was I supposed to react to this? Say `no' he has to come in no matter how ill he is? Say` yeah whatever who cares'? All my hopes had been pinned on this man as I found him reassuring and the last 6 years had taught me to respect and trust him The fact that before my second operation he had come to me and asked if he could try a new method of removing a small amount of fat from my tummy and putting it in the space to replace my disk - something exciting and not used widely yet but my surgeon - had further raised him in my esteem. So... my capable, reassuring, expert of a surgeon could not be there and to delay may make my prosthesis void (they have a shelf life). I had no choice. I told them to go ahead anyway. The following week the dread and terror increased exponentially.

By the end of June, my 15 year old son had finished his GCSE year and had begun working full time for the summer. The family was required to self isolate for 3 days prior to the operation so he went to stay with a friend (for which we are immensely grateful). Yet, my son and I are close and, concerned that I was that I would never see him again, loosing the last 3 days with him, but not being able to rationally explain why, was painful. Fortunately, I had my daughter with me and the 3 of us waited in trepidation for Thursday 1st July to arrive.

Th night before the operation, my daughter had gone to a friends house to sleep so she could be at school so it was just my husband and I in the car at 6am the day of my operation. By now I was feeling numb. My previous operation had seen me reluctantly forcing myself out of the car in the drop off bay with a last kiss and hug to my husband then making my way very tearfully to sit and wait. This time though I was too numb. I was in excruciating pain physically, emotionally and mentally. Putting on a mask and washing my hands I trudged drearily to the appropriate waiting room only to find that, due to COVID, we all had to wait in a line in the corridor to be called in one by one. I arrived as requested at 7am, I got into the room at 7.45am. 45 minutes of panicking that a) I had the wrong day b) wrong corridor c) had forgotten something d) would never see my family again.

From 7.45 to 9 passed swiftly in a sea of interviews with consultants, surgeons (a lovely man but not Mr Green), the Anaesthetist, a nurse... I was told that I was currently second on the morning list but there were currently no beds available. They would keep me updated.

10 o'clock - Bored

11 o'clock - Agitated and in pain as I was unable to drink and thus unable to take the steady selection of pain medication I needed to function with the pain at a manageable level.

12 o'clock - Worried. The nurse came up to me and explained that there were still no beds but there would be a meeting at 1pm where they would hopefully be able to arrange one, however that I may have to return another day.

1 o'clock - Another patient who had expected surgery that morning, who had gone through all of the meetings that I had, got sent home. Cancelled.

I began to panic.

Suddenly, at 1.45 everything changed. A new nurse appeared and gave me a gown, telling me I needed to get changed. 10 minutes later I was put on a trolley and wheeled to the operating theatre. Each time I met a new member of staff I reiterated my details, what I thought I was having operated on, where and, of course, paniced even more. I have naturally high blood pressure, despite being a vegetarian and gym bunny and had needed to make a record of my readings at regular intervals for a week before so they knew what to expect but with the storm of fear based emotions crashing through me in waves I worried even more that my blood pressure would mean I couldn't have the surgery.

Some time between 11am and 1pm I had stopped panicking that I would die. I had accepted that what would happen would happen. I had said my goodbyes, told my loved ones how I felt, updated legal documents I could do no more. There were now 3 possibilities: a) cancellation and thus having to go through this all over again b) death c) pain followed by the possibility of eventually having no pain. It was out of my hands.

Entering the operation theatre I could see all of these people in full PPE, busily zooming around me, preparing for the procedure. I couldn't help but giggle: all of these people were here for me. To cut me open, to try to keep me alive and ultimately, attempt to improve my quality of life, yet to them it was just another day. The staff were great, chatting to me, asking which nostril I would prefer to have the tube...

As with the last operations, I told the staff the names of my children, telling them that if they started to loose me hearing their names may help. They placed a mask on my face and syringe into my canula and asked me how my children were named.

I don't remember what happened next.