“My personality had changed so drastically that I didn’t want anyone to see this version of myself.”
Today was the fifth time I have left the house since 2017. That’s five times in five years. If you think that’s extreme, that’s because it is. I suffer from agoraphobia, social anxiety, depression, body dysmorphia and suspected PTSD from medical trauma, and leaving the house is extremely difficult and stressful for me.
It’s actually very easy for me to pinpoint when this started. This fear began in 2017 following a procedure on my foot. Even before the operation I had a mistrust of doctors, having previously been misdiagnosed with different conditions and I’d always found hospital visits traumatic.
But this was a routine operation- a toe-straightening procedure. I was told the worst thing that could happen was crooked toes. They were already bent- hence the operation- so this seemed a non-issue and I proceeded to go ahead with it despite the massive amount of anxiety and apprehension I felt about having to go into hospital again after previous bad experiences.
Unknown to me, during the procedure, the surgeon cut of the blood supply to three of my toes. I was told to expect pain, bruising and pus after surgery. Everything seemed normal- through the gap in the bandages I could see bruising over the following days and I experienced severe pain, although I assumed this was normal based on the fact I’d been told to expect it.
My partner was checking my bandages regularly but the one day he wasn’t home, my neighbour came to look at my toe. She was shocked- she said the toe wasn’t bruised, it was black. Panicking, I asked my partner to look when he came home. The colour drained from his face and he confirmed it was black. He immediately called the hospital and explained. They told us to come in straight away.
When we arrived we were seen by a rude and abrupt nurse who announced, “There’s no saving that, it’s dead. You should have come in sooner.” I was in so much pain I couldn’t argue. They made me walk from one side of the hospital to another to unwrap the bandages and remove the pins.
Whilst I was panicking and hyperventilating, trying to explain how upset and distressed I was, the nurse was barking questions at me asking if I smoked. When I said I vaped, she became accusatory and put the failure of the procedure down to this. This upset me even more.
She refused to call an ambulance to take me to A&E so my partner carried me through the hospital as I was unable to walk. As soon as they got the bandages off, a piece of paper was thrust into my face with the demand, “Sign here!” I was hyperventilating so badly I couldn’t give my date of birth. The doctor announced they were going to amputate.
I couldn’t even bear to look at my foot. Three of my toes had completely rotted away and the flesh was dropping off the bone. I was in no fit state to consent to anything and my partner was pleading with the doctor to wait until I could understand what was going on before any rash decisions were made. His response was to rip up the consent form in front of us.
After this I was left on a ward for a week on high strength antibiotics. I didn’t want to delay the amputation- I was worried that sepsis would set in. But the hospital said there was a ring of healthy skin underneath the bone and they wanted to see if it would grow under observation. This was around the time of my birthday and a kind nurse suggested I be sent home to enjoy it. I decided to put in a complaint to the hospital.
In 66 days I got no aftercare except from a locum surgeon who said my choice came down to two things- waiting or amputation. I was adamant I wanted to amputate. The surgeon kept asking me when to amputate. I said it wasn’t my decision to make, but please just do it. I kept being sent home to think about it. After going through this cycle several times, at my final appointment I ended up on the floor begging for the operation to go ahead to stop the pain I was in. The response was to put me onto a waiting list. Ten days later my amputation went ahead.
The morning of the operation I was completely paranoid. I was convinced that because I had complained, the surgeon would try to kill me during surgery. I gave consent for two toes to be amputated, but as it turned out, one could be salvaged.
Following the surgery I received no aftercare. I had to call the district nurse myself to change my bandages. This was such a chore that I got the nurse to show me how to do it so I could do it myself, which I did- the whole process took about two hours given my limited mobility and the level of pain I was in. I had to return to the hospital four times to get stitches removed and was told I could go back to day to day duties even though I could barely walk. I was left to sort my own physiotherapy.
If the whole debacle with the hospital hadn’t been traumatic enough, the aftermath was no better. For the first few weeks I was consigned to the house as I was unable to walk and reliant on other people to do things for me which dented my confidence. I couldn’t even wash or shower without help.
Yet over time as my foot healed, I found that I couldn’t face going outside. It felt too frightening and overwhelming, and if I did go out, it was never on my own. I was afraid of falling and people laughing at me, so I stopped going out on walks like I had enjoyed doing before. I also used a walking stick and as I’m quite young, I was paranoid that people were staring at me.
I spent all day in the house. I didn’t move from the sofa for almost a year following the operation. Most of the time, I just sat there with the lights off all day. I used to love reading but I didn’t pick up a book the whole time. I also suffered with hallucinations- I could often see small weasel or ferret-like animals out of the corner of my eye.
One evening my partner went out and left me money for a takeaway. I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house- I cried on the doorstep for three hours. I just couldn’t do it. I was so scared of seeing someone I knew. My personality had changed so drastically that I didn’t want anyone to see this version of myself.
Probably the hardest thing of all to accept was that my career looked like it was over on all fronts. Prior to the surgery I had been a TV actress with a steady flow of work. The amputation put paid to me being able to secure much work. Not only because I walked with a limp and couldn’t wear open-toed shoes if I needed to for a character, but also because my confidence had become so eroded that I had no resilience left to face auditions. I could no longer express myself because I was a shadow of who I once was.
The effects also took a huge toll on my body image. For months afterwards I had to wear a boot, which made walking awkward and painful. I was left unable to exercise, gained weight and one leg became larger than the other. This led to none of my clothes fitting properly and I felt like I didn’t look nice in anything.
Image is obviously extremely important for an actress and I felt my identity had completely disappeared. Nothing anyone could say reassured me. I felt like my body was not my own anymore, and it certainly wasn’t one I wanted. I didn’t recognise myself at all. I couldn’t even look at myself.
Eventually I was given sleeping tablets to cope with insomnia and mood stabilisers to help ease the depression I had fallen into. But I didn’t get proper help until two years later when I fell pregnant with my son. Before this point I felt like nobody was listening to me or taking me seriously.
Earlier this year I was awarded a significant financial payout for the distress I had suffered as a result of the botched surgery. Although I was pleased that the whole thing had been brought to a conclusion and my suffering had been recognised, it felt like a hollow victory.
I hadn’t been able to work in five years and my mobility even now is so restricted that I can’t do any form of work involving manual handling or standing for any period of time. In those five years I have lived off benefits- something that, as a successful actress, I never imagined I would need to do. That in itself has been a battle. I’ve had claims turned down and had to go through the stressful process of appealing decisions just to get enough money to survive.
It’s put pressure on my relationship. My partner has had to be the breadwinner, as I was unable to contribute financially. When my son arrived, I couldn’t do the things most mums take for granted because of my injuries and physically caring for him was a challenge. There was no money for us to give him the things and experiences we wanted to because our finances were so stretched. It’s been difficult and no amount of compensation will be able to put that right.
I am still plagued by body image issues. Although I’ve lost some of the weight, I’m nowhere near where I want to be. Maybe as a result of the trauma I’ve been through, I can’t see myself the way other people do. I don’t know what it would take for me to feel ‘normal’.
Now I have the financial means, I would love to have laser eye surgery and a tummy tuck to address some of my body issues and set me back on track to being confident again. But my phobia of surgery and surgeons would never allow that to happen. Having to go to hospital triggers flashbacks and intense emotions. When my son was ill and had to be taken to hospital, I had three panic attacks in one day. My fear of hospitals is now a full-blown phobia.
The whole experience has scarred me not just physically but also mentally. I still rarely go out. I would love to go back to acting full time but for now it is- pun not intended- just a case of trying to put one foot in front of the other.
