I haven’t written my blog for a while and the reason for this, without sounding like I’m trying to get out of P.E. at school, is that I have had “women’s problems”!
I shall spare you any icky details, but it culminated in a bit of day surgery last Wednesday to deal with the ovary area… ok too much detail already, but I have to say without dissing the good old NHS, what an experience that was!
I was instructed to arrive bright and early, make-up and nail polish free, at 7am for my impending surgery. I was ushered into a waiting room by a very grumpy receptionist who didn’t seem to be appreciating her early shift and made to wait for the nurse to call my name. There were approximately 12 other women with very uncomfortable looking husband’s and boyfriend’s sitting next to them, all of us inspecting each other’s day bag and mentally trying to work out each other’s reason for being there. My hubby was at home dealing with the school run as I was feeling oh so independent refusing help and playing it down as usual. Now I’m the ONLY patient sans partner I’m regretting it a little, still I can read my intellectual magazine (Heat) uninterrupted while I’m waiting.
Finally, our names are called one by one and we’re led down a corridor into a circular room with 12 beds seperated by a thin curtain, a bit of a newly decorated M.A.S.H. army hospital feel about it. I am then renamed “Bed 6″ by the admitting nurse and told to find my pot to pee in and hospital gown. Oh the glamour. I had been told not to drink for 12 hours and now I have a cardboard funnel to fill, oh well passes the time as Bed 6 I am also number 6 on the surgery list. Bed 5 is currently in deep debate with the anaesthetist about needle phobia.
Bed 5: “You ain’t putting no needle in my hand without knocking me out!”
Anaesthetist: “I have to put a needle in your hand in order to put you under sedation, I have a cream that numbs the area.”
Bed 5: “I don’t care what cream you have, I ain’t having no needle in my hand. Don’t you have some gas or summat I can have first?”
I’m thinking someone please pin her down and get the needle in, I’m next in line and I can’t stomach anymore of Peter Andre’s interview about how he is learning to trust love again!
Once they have bound and gagged Bed 5 (not entirely sure that happened but they did wheel her off quite quietly) I am being wheeled along the corridor wincing at every doorway while the porter chats away to my nurse. Next thing I know I’m in the operating theatre, a different smiley nurse joins my right side, a now stressed looking anaesthetist (post Bed 5 saga) on my left. Smiley nurse asks me why I look so nervous? Erm… I’m in the operating theatre I thought you would have put me out before I got to see the big lamps and people scrubbing up for surgery.. where’s Hawkeye?
Meanwhile, anaesthetist is complaining about my rubbish veins and slapping my hand eyeing me suspiciously. Perhaps it’s due to my enforced day of fasting yesterday and not a possible heroin habit which the look in his eye is suggesting? He finally attaches the humongous needle contraption into my hand, am feeling where Bed 5 is coming from now and says “Now you sleep” in a Count Von Count from Sesame Street voice, I think I must have passed out before I heard the laugh!
Next thing I know I am forcing my heavy eyelids open and I am in a different room with a young male nurse seated next to me telling me to ‘come round in my own time’. I try to climatise to my surroundings, I can hear the male nurse talking to another male nurse about his upcoming holiday to Playa D’en Bossa in Ibiza, his words are drifting in and out of my subconscious as I desperately try and wake myself up; “I can’t wait, it’s gonna be mental” he says. I need to tell him I know loads about Ibiza, have been there about 7 times over the years, so I turn my head sharply in his direction, squint my eyes open as much as I can force them and say in a bit of a manic voice, “You have to go to Ibiza Town, my friend’s had a bar there, you have to go”, I didn’t bargain for the fact I have probably had a ventilator tube down my throat and haven’t consumed any liquid for nearly a day now so my voice is something out of The Exorcist. He shoots me a look as if my head is going to start spinning round and nervously nods his head. A little voice in my head is saying shut up shut up shut up but I can’t seem to, this boy obviously needs my advice, this young hip 20 something needs advice from the mental looking patient in the bed, so I continue, “I’m going in May, it’s so cool there.” He continues to nod at me slowly while inching his plastic chair back a little. Cool is not a word I deserve to use at this moment in time. “When are you going?” I ask him in my Madge from Neighbours voice. “June” he squeaks thanking his lucky stars it’s a month after me. Next thing I know, Count Von Anaesthetist pops up and injects more inebriating formula in my hand, I don’t try and protest so they wheel me back to Bed 6 where hubby is patientally waiting, bless him, I genuinely have never been so pleased to see him.
I’m doing well with my recovery. Daytime TV is hard work but thank the lord for my Kindle and Sky Plus. Am very blessed with very attentive friends and family and the operation was a success, promising no more problems in the future. Fingers crossed as I wouldn’t want to repeat that experience anytime soon!