Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Toronto Life: Super-Bugged

I went in for minor surgery and came out with a vicious infection. A story about contaminated hospitals, dirty doctors and the bacteria that are killing 8,000 Canadians a year 

by Stéphanie Verge

Hospitals terrify me. So at 30 years old, I considered myself lucky that I'd never had to stay in one. I'd never broken a bone, still had my appendix, my tonsils were present and accounted for.

My luck ran out last year. I needed to undergo a minor gynecological procedure—in and out the same day—and was booked into Sunnybrook for January 9. In a last-ditch effort to avoid surgery, I'd called the hospital and asked if the operation should be postponed because I'd had a cold over Christmas. I didn't want to risk infecting some poor creature with a compromised immune system. "You know, a sick person," I practically whispered through the receiver to the nurse on the other end of the line. I was assured there was no cause for concern.

I had kept the number of people who knew about my operation to a minimum: the necessary co-workers, a few friends and my two sisters. I didn't tell my parents, because I knew they'd worry and insist on being involved. As simple as the surgery was, I was anxious enough. I took only ID, keys, my cellphone and cab fare to get home. When I stepped off the bus in front of the hospital, I was filled with a low-grade panic.

The operating room was frigid. When I made a comment about the temperature, someone explained that it was to keep the staff cool under the bright lights. I was covered with a thin blanket, which in my apprehensive state felt more like 100 pounds of lead. The last thing I can remember is a mask being placed over my face and my mild disappointment that no one asked me to count back from 10, like they do on TV. An hour or so later, I came to in a recovery room and for one disjointed moment had no idea where I was or what I was doing there, until a searing pain bloomed in my crotch and spread through me, as if to serve up a reminder.

I spotted my surgeon—a dour 60-something man with a gentle touch—heading my way. He said the operation was a success and handed me a sheet of paper outlining outpatient procedures. I couldn't have sex (without a doubt, the furthest thing from my mind), would need to take frequent sitz baths and could dull the pain with Tylenol 3s.

What he didn't know was that my minor procedure would soon become a major nightmare. At some point during my brief stay, I contracted a superbug. I was one of the estimated 250,000 people a year in Canada who leave the hospital with a new infection—acquired, more often than not, because of unsanitary conditions. Patients check in to hospitals making a silent pact with those who work there that they will leave healthier than when they arrived. Showing up for a routine surgery and exiting with a potentially deadly infection is not part of the agreement.

More ...

http://www.torontolife.com/features/super-bugged/