Thursday 18th October
If you're going on holiday or having a special day, it's always good to start with a beautiful sunrise. I woke with at start at 6.15am and went in search of Graham, who was already up and about. He very helpfully offered to make me a cup of tea, which was a little upsetting as he obviously hadn't read any of the blue leaflets dotted about the house warning against any fluid intake after 5.00am on the day of an operation.
The sunrise crept over the nearby fields, brightening the world by degrees until everything it seemed was awake and ready to go. It was a very beautiful morning, all frosty and bright - very depressing knowing that there was no way I would be able to take photographic advantage of it.
We arrived at the hospital car park early (7.15am), but with lots of spaces already taken up. Our trek along the green floored corridor seemed endless, then took a short ride up to the third floor which for some unknown reason was labelled '5'. At the 'pre-operative assessment clinic, there was already two 'old' gentlemen, discussing their previous night out together including how much beer had been consumed... The friend then had to leave to go to work. The next group to arrive included a lady carrying a very large and heavy holdall, accompanied by husband and female friend. Graham and I both commented later on how her 'supporters' made no attempt to help her carry her bag. We sat with our backs to the window feeling the room fill with light as the sun rose steadily up the wall while the hands on the clock very slowly reached 8 o'clock.
Then a foreign gentleman bustled his way passed and into a small room and I was called in and the door shut behind me. He was my surgeon's registrar and this 'interview' was to talk me through signing the consent form. He mumbled his way through the pages almost skipping over the part which warned that hernia operations can fail: "this rarely happens" he interjected. "But that's the reason I'm here" I pointed out, he just shrugged and handed me the pen... My noted were duly shuffled and made to look tidy again and left with me while I awaited the next visitation. With a change of air, the anaesthetist breezed in and sat down, in an assertive manner, the complete opposite of the registrar. She was young, tall, attractive, immaculately dressed and exuded confidence. I asked for maximum pain relief as I'd experienced so much last time and that I was not left to shake uncontrollably unable to catch my breath. I said that I'd read that it was because I'd been hypothermic. She dismissed this as the reason straight away, but assured me that if I was to shake ("and no one knows why it happens") I would be given a shot of pethadone, which "always clears it up". As she left, in came my surgeon. He beamed a huge a grin at me that illuminated his face and a thought came into my head that if ever he should grow tired of being Derby's leading hernia specialist, he could easily make it as a top male model. (in the tailored suit I'd previously helped him to buy) He was very courteous towards me and as on our previous meeting, left brushing his hand against my arm in a " we'll get it sorted for you this time" sort of way.
Next it was time for the nurse to collect everyone up and whisk us away to our prospective wards. It was now 8.30am and I was hoping that at number two on the list, the wait would not be too long. We (Graham and I) were led to an empty bed on a small ward containing 5 bays. Expecting to see people similar to myself, I was in for a big shock. The lady next to me looked as though she had been starved and had her leg wrapped covering an ulcer. The lady opposite her looked fine except for a huge dressing also covering a (diabetic) ulcer, next to her was a very small old lady (I won't go into details, but she looked as though she needed a clean nighty) and a girl (she was 32) in the corner appeared to be 10 months pregnant (it turned out she was suffering a blockage) and obviously in a great deal of discomfort. Coupled with the fact that in a side room, not too far away, there was a lady with dementia who wailed at regular intervals, it was not pleasant.
A long wait followed. Eventually, at quarter past 11, a call was received and a porter came up to escort me to the waiting room next to the operating theatre. By this time, the wait and the experience was just too much and I had need of the box of tissues discreetly positioned on the table next to where we were sitting. First one nurse came up and checked my wrist bands (one would be removed in theatre) and then another. Then it was time to lay down the pillow that I'd been handed on the trolley which I would be occupying for the duration. Once in the anteroom, the anaesthetist greeted me and introduced two other chaps standing in the small space. One was a trainee and "would I mind if he put the needle in my hand". Recalling the trauma of having another trainee 'practice' the same procedure four times, I politely declined the proposition, only to have the proper anaesthetist have two goes: "small scratch coming up" "Ouch!!" I remember the pre-med and then feeling pain as the anaesthetic crawled very slowly up my arm - then a male voice calling my name to wake me up. As soon as I became conscious, I began to shake and this prompted the people around me to whip off what was covering me and replace it with a pink 'sheet' into which was blown luxurious hot air which brought my shakes down to a minimum. Thankfully too, I didn't experience any visual disturbance (like the vertical holding going on an old television) of the previous two times. It wasn't long before I was on my way back to the ward and being asked to shuffle across to the awaiting bed - no chance!
It was now 1.40pm and although not visiting time the nurses let Graham come in and say hello and then he was allowed back at 2.00pm until 4.00pm. Then it was time to talk to the others and be furnished with the finer details of their ailments. I couldn't help feeling that I was far better off than them, even though I'd just had an operation. Throughout all this time I tried to remain focused on going home. All I had to do was go to for a 'wee' on my own and eat some food - simple. The surgeon managed to time his arrival, just as I'd left my bed, but he did return and gave his blessing for an evening departure. It seemed such a long wait, but we were expecting it and any time spent sitting still was a bonus. At twenty past eight, after a bit of a bumpy ride down to the car, care of a very helpful porter (who also looked like he could do with a square meal), I was tipped into the car. Hugging my pillows on the way home to soak up any bumps, we were soon back within the confines of familiar surroundings. The day had lasted a lifetime, but I was home...
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