Warning: Not to be read by those of a nervous disposition or those who can't stand the sight of blood!
Tuesday 15th May
How to start this epic journey? The day dawned dismally with heavy skies and intermittent showers. First hour spent on the website, then when my brain could no longer be 'occupied' I slowly got all my things together. I'd asked Graham the night before: "Do you know where the Nuffield is?" and realised as the reply came: "Of course!" that I'd mentioned one too many things about the 'big day'. So when he steered the car to a premature exit in the direction of Stoke I had to take a deep breath and ask gently if he knew a way there that I was previously unaware of. We did manage to turn up on time eventually and with my bell boy in tow, were directed down a corridor towards Room 20. The 'hotel' room was comfortable enough, carpeted, ensuite with a view onto open grassland. There was a constant stream of people coming in and out as soon as we arrived . One of the first visitors was the surgeon (funny how you greet all these people as long term friends, unaware that they are to become the enemy in a very short time, slicing knives into you ) He threw his ample briefcase on the bed, got out a white board marker and began drawing vague arrows, dashes and dots on parts of my anatomy in the hope that at a later date he would remember how to join up and locate the area to be operated on. Then came nurse after nurse, to note weight, height, blood pressure, leg measurement (true, as I was handed a pair of very fetching 'impossible to get on' socks to combat DVT) and complete files and files of forms, which basically said who I was and why I was there. I'd rung up the day before to check the time of the operation and been told 4.45pm. I was now slightly fazed to find that I was 'down' for 3.00pm. This meant that I had little chance of finishing reading 'Why I Married My Uncle's Niece' in the magazine I'd brought (what a relief!) By 2.00pm, I was ready and waiting in my hospital gown, refusing to exchange my nice (lucky?) M&S pink briefs for the 'modesty knickers' supplied by the hospital. 10 to 3 came and in burst my captors ready to 'frog march' me down to theatre. ( I was told we'd walk down and ride back - how considerate!) I hastily swapped my undergarment on my last trip to the loo and got into step...
I was surprised that I was then led into yet another tiny room just big enough to hold the three occupants (time for one last confession, perhaps?) Here we all sat down and double double checked my two wrist bands for spelling and punctuation...Now a chap took over proceedings, inviting me to remove my 'fluffy pink dressing gown' and hop onto the 'chariot' outside the theatre. Even in his theatre make-up, it was clear why all nurses who came within a three mile radius had swooned, giggled and said:" Oh, have I forgotten to put something on the form?" in a casting couch sort of manner. Even his blue wrap around hat perching on a shaved head appeared as this year's must have fashion statement and he had tatooes down his arms to rival Robby Williams. Luckily, I was not over come by his charms, especially when he began attaching even stranger fashion statements to my lower legs. Eventually, out popped the anaestist from the theatre like the fair weather man of a weather station, stuck a large needle in my hand, and as I felt the anaesthetic pump into my arm I knew war had been declared...
Waking up in unfamiliar surroundings has never been my forte. I can remember as a child coming to in a strange bed on holiday, to find that everyone had got up and disappeared and dissolving into tears. Well imagine that kind of feeling, but worse. Having experienced a laparoscopy last September, I knew that I would indeed wake up again, but also that I would go into what felt like shock, only this time with ten times as much anaesthetic in my system, it was ten times worse. I 'surfaced about 10 to 5 (I couldn't focus, but knew from the position on the hands on a clock that that was the time.) I spent the next half an hour trying (a) to stop shaking violently and (b) to catch my breath...it was a really frightening experience and after half an hour one which I thought I would never recover from. Nobody seemed in the slightest bit bothered, they covered me with more and more blankets, until even I felt smothered and still nothing made it better. It's strange how acutely aware you are of your surroundings when your senses are impaired. I couldn't see anything properly, but could hear every snippet of conversation which seemed to consist of someone called Sheena on the phone arranging an appointment for her son to be seen by the surgeon. Was I witnessing some queue jumping? I jolly well hope not!!
At half past 5 they wheeled me back to the room. Poor Graham, who was getting a little concerned when I was an hour later than expected, took one look at me and said: "Well, I don't think you'll be going home tonight..." Thanks for the reassurance mate! Apparently I resembled an alien with an odd purple hue, but after another half an hour some colour had returned to my cheeks. What didn't come back though was my ability for speech...I say speech, I developed a curious affliction of only being able to say swear words and thought I'd developed Tourette's Syndrome, it b*o**y well hurt!. The surgeon chose unwisely to come back in the next half an hour: "How do you feel?" he asked (was he expecting me to congratulate him on his handiwork?) Mustering all my strength I replied "Oh absolutely ****ing wonderful!!!" . OK, so I didn't actually swear at him, but I can't help wondering why I was discharged without him coming to see me the next morning, was it something I said...?
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