One Flew Pretty Close...Part 5

I have never really been sick. No broken bones, never been seriously ill and I can count lifetime visits to casualty on one hand. The worst accident I have had was falling through the garage roof when I was about 6 years old, everyone thought I had broken my back, I was just sitting on the floor waiting to be rescued with not a scratch on me. The lack of drama was almost disappointing.

I didn't think I was particularly lucky, I was just never ill and as a result of being stupidly healthy I had very little time or patience with those who were ill, especially vegetarians. I was especially impatient with them... I just couldn't understand how those who followed a super nutritious diet of almost exclusively vegetables had continuously pallid unhealthy complexions and suffered cold / fever / infections almost constantly. My muttered advice to 'eat a bacon sandwich' was not welcomed, and it was clear that nursing would never be a career option.

Hoisted by my own petard? Maybe. Certainly the irony of what is happening now is not lost on me.

This week I'm thinking about renting a room at the hospital I'm in and out of there more often than I'm at home and I am familiar with the different parts; I know what a nightmare the car park can be in the morning, as drivers of all ages ignore or feign ignorance of any and all road signs to brazenly inch their way into the few spaces which offer a short walking distance to the hospital. I know where the best coffee is, naturally, and when not to bring something to read because they already have good magazines. For someone who has barely been inside a hospital most of her life I could offer walking tours in this one.

One day to go before the operation and one last appointment, this time with  nuclear medicine which wasn't as dangerous as it sounds, more mapping out to be done for the operation so they could see exactly where the lymph nodes are positioned, this was the bit where they injected me with radioactive stuff and tried to distract me from the pain as it whooshed into my veins, by screening a soothing video of Swiss mountains and waterfalls. I really think they need to change their idea of what constitutes distraction, old Top of The Pops footage would have been better and then at Christmas time how about excerpts from Elf to cheer people up?  I have a feeling they don't have a suggestion box...

I'm rubbish at packing, I never know what to take. For this hospital visit I was told to bring a dressing gown and slippers, I bought a slip of a nightie and chunky socks. Told you I was bad. We were only allowed one person in with us and I brought two, this last thing went down very badly with the person checking me in. She was not happy, in fact she summed up the expression 'po faced' perfectly. Next time I need to remember not to bring in one gorgeous Irish friend and one good looking concerned Italian boyfriend, Ms Po Faced was not impressed by my colourful guests and skillfully managed to tell all of us off in various different ways without ever bothering to look in our direction. That is quite an achievement and scary to be at the non receiving end of it. If you see what I mean.

The thing with being in hospital makes someone like me turn into a major people pleaser,  they are amazing these nurses and doctors, in fact the whole NHS is wonderful, so you want to be on your best behaviour for them, or at least I do, smiling, cracking jokes, anything to show them that I am indeed the model patient. Perhaps in the back of my mind I hoped I'd be pushed to the front of the queue and the surgeon, all fresh from a decent nights sleep would be on fine form and all ready for his star patient to be the first up on the trolley. Happy and willing and ready to cut me up beautifully as he knew I would be nervous and hungry from all that nil by mouth beeswax.  First up? In my dreams.

When the sparkly eyed anaesthetist came in to tell me the news that I would be the last of the day I figured that Ms. Po Faced had far reaching powers or friends in high places, I was looking at 19 hours total with no food, no more liquids and still about six hours till the operation, she was good I'll give her that, I sent my guests home, unwilling to cause any other problems. In the meantime I answered all the questions on the anaesthetist's form as he lounged on the bed I'd been told to get off of.

"You aren't allowed on there" I said in a low voice.

"Oh" he replied smiling at me "Really?"

"I've already been told off" I said.

"I'm sorry to hear that, I'm going to risk it" he said, carrying on ticking boxes on his form.

You're a braver man than me I thought, thankful the curtains on my little cubicle were closed and she was unable to see this flagrant breaching of the rules.

I had several visitors in the run up to the operation, not chosen by me but entertaining nonetheless. My wonderful cancer nurse came to see me, I can't believe I am writing that I have my own cancer nurse, but I do and fortunately she has the patience of a saint, she understands my need for straight talking and isn't offended by my sometimes slightly gallows style sense of humour. She also has great skin, my Irish friend pointed that out, she does indeed, it sort of glows. In fact she glows, she's calm and articulate and every time I see her I want to hug her, there is something about her which makes me feel everything will be alright. I have her number if it isn't.

Hospitals are strange places, reassuring and scary at the same time. A bit like the people who work there... Waiting to be called I felt as if I was hiding, trapped in a cubicle on an uncomfortable chair wishing the time to pass by while at the same time hoping it would stand still. I did go on a brief sojourn to have a blood test, oh yes even on this big day they weren't letting me off at least one extra puncture wound. It helped pass the time and on my way there a fleeting thought that I could make a break for it did cross my mind but I wasn't sure where to go, and then what? Back again to face the wrath of Po Faced? No thanks. I was accompanied for this trip out by a he/she person I say this because quite honestly it could have happily been either.  Sitting waiting for the test the very ambiguous being next to me asked (in a squeaky voice) what I did for a living, I felt as if I was back in a hair salon, 'Going anywhere nice for yer holidays?' Fortunately I was saved from having to respond by the call of the needle.

Next up was my stylist...kidding, just kidding, it was a hospital nurse? Orderly? I'm really not sure but the comedy circuit is missing a trick with this lot, I have a feeling that under their uniforms they are wearing t.shirts and badges with various sayings about needing to be mad to work here or 'I'm Crazeee me'. Indeed they are. I was given paper gowns to wear, two on account of me not having brought a dressing gown and a bottle green pair of surgical  socks with the toes out, I wasn't looking my best but the main aim was not to pull, I kept telling myself.

Interestingly patients are now walked into theatre instead of being knocked out on a bed and then rolled in, apparently, psychologically it helps patients recover quicker, although I am not yet convinced, I'm still hoping I will be sent a feedback form...

Friendly check in upon arrival = Nil point
Walking into theatre = Nil point
Theatre Fashion = Nil Point

Being walked into a pristine large operating room, looking like Steptoe's aunt in my odd looking get up and faced with several groups of very professional looking people who all pause, smile at you benignly (how ironic) say hello and then go back to their tasks, was frankly terrifying in a way that only Jack Nicholson would understand when faced with Nurse Ratched and her team. Helped up onto the bed, worried that my bits would fall out and trying to arrange myself in a dignified manner was tough, soothing talk from the various nurses as they 'arranged' me on the bed about impending weddings was difficult to concentrate on. There was no gentle drift off as the anaesthetic took hold, one moment I was panicking as the needle in my back of my hand drip fed in the medication far too slowly for everyone's liking, the next I was out cold.

Coming round from the operation, any operation in fact, I am always slightly bewildered as to why they choose that particular moment to tell you what has been done to you. It's hard to take instruction or listen to information when you are a dribbling paranoid mess. I also had the dubious honour of extra morphine being syringed directly into my mouth as soon as I woke up. Not as pleasurable as you may think.

"Have your cup of tea and eat some toast and go to the toilet, then we can call your lift" said the definitely male nurse with bobbed hair after administering the drug.

Yeah, right.

I have a theory about this. I think they have us on camera somewhere, scoring points over the 'drunkest' looking patient, seeing how they walk and where they walk, how long in the toilet, how long to get dressed. Remember that game you'd play as kids when you would turn someone around until they were dizzy then give them a push and start them walking? Hysterical until it was your turn. Well I think that is what this lot are up to, and to be fair I'd do the same given half the chance.

The consultant came round, full of good cheer, and great news. It looked like the cancer hadn't spread through my lymph nodes, so that is good, it was all removed, more good news, but they did have to make two incisions, not so good. I am learning though, they always follow the good news with a bit of bad.

Like the opposite of the icing on the cake.