Clavicle Repair

After a relatively thorough investigation conducted primarily by pestering a handful of doctors, I opted to have my fractured clavicle surgically repaired. I based this decision on two factors. The first being due to the fact that the broken bones were meshing at an angle of approximately 45 degrees as opposed to flush and causing a protrusion of about an inch and a half from my chest. Cosmetically, this would produce a rather odd effect particularly at the beach or other places where one may find me sans shirt. The other factor stems more from health consciousness realizing that the shortening of my clavicle would cause a slight deformity in the way my shoulder presented itself to the rest of the body and would have an increasing likelihood of causing severe shoulder problems later in life when I'd be less prepared physically to repair and heal from them.

The surgery scheduler, Lisa called me on day prior and arranged for me to arrive at 7:00 AM at Gulf Coast Hospital . I found it difficult to partake of no food or drink, particularly coffee, as I had been instructed. In fact, I did sneak a small pot of Jamaica Blue Mountain blend while my friend, who was driving me to the hospital prepared herself for the trip.

I arrived promptly on time, signed some papers, realized the deficiencies of my health insurance which forced me to pay a huge deductible. Fortunately the hospital allowed me a payment plan because I was unable to pay the entire amount at once.

An attendant called my name and walked me to a surgical prep room. The attendant instructed me to change into the typical stylish backless gown with the non-slip socks and to place everything else into a plastic bag. My nurse, Jenna, a very personable preacher's daughter from Joplin, Missouri hooked up the five wire heart monitor, blood pressure cuff, inserted an IV catheter in the back of my right hand, and ensured that I felt as comfortable as possible considering the circumstances.

I waited for approximately an hour and a half before another transporter showed up to wheel me into the operating room. I remember speaking briefly with the anesthesiologist and he inserted something into my wrist catheter and paced an oxygen mask over my face.

The next thing I remember is waking as my gurney is rambling down the hallways toward post-op. The two nurses spoke with me briefly, allowed me some privacy to dress and walked me outside where my friend sat in her car waiting to drive me home.