Post op

Well, I guess the fact I'm typing this is proof that I'm ok, live and kicking and apart from being pretty sore and extremely pissed off I can't give my boyfriend the welcome home he deserves, I'm fine.

Here's what I learnt today:

1) The smell of burning flesh is the most disgusting, wretch inducing smell I've ever experienced. I'm not sure if the fact it was my own flesh made it even worse, or a little better. All I know is Steve's crunched up nose said it all.

2) All you need for a calm and drama free 'procedure' is for your Doctor to be kind, gentle and inject a little humour as well as a little local anaesthetic. My doctor told me that I was about to lose all my dignity (something I'm pretty natural at without being in hospital). He then unveiled my stirruped legs and promptly said, 'oh, haven't you got pretty pink nails' to which Steve replied that I'd done them especially. I hadn't. Honestly.

3) Be prepared! It's a bloody good motto, so next time you see a do-gooder scout or cub give them a high five. If you know to expect a burning sensation, a large cold speculum, or a painful needle then you don't feel half as violated when it happens. Doesn't stop it hurting though.

4) Don't be startled when someone sticks a large patch on your arm, you ask what it's for and you get told it's to earth you so you don't get electrocuted. Just feel pleased that someone has thought of this on your behalf.

5) Take someone with a strong stomach who loves you unconditionally. This way no matter what happens they won't really bat an eye lid. This time I was a 'brave soldier' which made me feel proud and 12 years old all at the same time. As a result I also got lovely perfume, some hot pink Havianas and some uber cool boardies for my next diving trip.....knarly dude!

And finally,

6) Be thankful for all the people you love who took the time to send you texts and give you hugs and say all the right things, even if when you tell them it went fine they reply with:

'Damn. I was hoping for a bit more drama'.

Pre op.

Okay, so we all know (because I've been so bloody self indulgent about it) that I'm going into hospital this morning for my operation. I say operation, when minor procedure might be more apt, but it sounds far too American for my liking. So operation it is.

Think drama, think men in masks rushing around shouting 'clear', think techy looking machines making ominous bleeps and whirring noises. And then forget all that, because the only think you really need to know about my operation when it comes to quite how degrading it is, is.....stirrups.
Men will be picturing a porn film with some kind of riding theme set in a hospital together with tightly fitting jodpers and black boots and nurses with pert breasts, tight dresses and sparkly white teeth.

Girls will be shaking their heads in recognition of the humilation and vulnerability that goes hand in hand with this monstrous creation which much surely have been devised by some sadistic man by the name of Clause Von Torturestein.

In essence this really isn't a very pleasant experience. Of course us women know our damage limitation off by heart so to avoid making a bad situation really bloody awful, we wear a dress or skirt (which- for the boys- means you can at least cover your cellulite and stretch marks whilst your lady garden is on display and on a wide screen TV close up to boot). Marvellous.

So onto how I'm feeling about this morning. The only way I can describe it is that I feel as nervous as I did the morning I sat my maths GCSE. My hands are shaking, my heart is beating so fast it feels like it might dislodge and pop out of my mouth and I can't type for toffee, or spell (but you knew that anyway). So all in the all, the mental preparation for calm and measured reasoning in order to banish anxiety.....no hope.

Liklihood of massive drama queen attack- 'fair to good' (who am I trying to kid, if I were racing in a the grand national I'd be odds on favourite), so best make that 'certain to absolutely inevitable'.

The good thing is that Steve has landed and is on a train on his way to face up to his boyfriendly duties, the bad thing is that I'm so nervous I'm not going to be able to show him how pleased I am to see him without the use of tears.

I know it'll be fine. A million people face much worse things all the time. The thing is, when it's you facing something, no matter how small, and no matter how often you put it into perspective, it's still yours to face.

God I wish I had a stunt body double.

Ali in ER shocker.

Things have been a little slack around these parts, and I for one, am the first to admit it. Take it on the chin as it were, well, it's only me who's to blame. I do, however have a fairly good excuse which at least covers me for the weekend, if not a little longer.

What? My hospital drama! Which you all know about anyway as of course, I took the opportunity to over dramatise and milk it for all it was worth (not that I wasn't VERY close to death as I can assure you, I was- about 5 more minutes of not breathing I'd have been a gonner.

Anyway, so it goes a little something like this...(why do I now feel like singing Run DMC).

9.40am

Friday morning Steve and I head to the Sussex County in good spirits. I'm not really nervous and am feeling very together about the impending procedure.

9.50am

Am sitting with a doctor who is drawing little pictures of the procedure and talking about cancer and the number of people who would develop it if left untreated. 1 in 5 over 10 years apparently (with the 'mild' changes they think I have- so next to nothing. I start to feel a little bit anxious and my tummy starts jingling and dancing with butterflies.

10.00am.

Flat on my back, legs a kimbo in stirrups. This position is rarely so distressing (minus the stirrups of course) Steve is strongly advised to sit by my head. Apparently, it's prettier. I guess that's debatable.

10.05am

Steve gets the giggles at the close up on the TV screen. I ask the nurse to turn it off NOW. NO I don't want to see thanks very much.

10.10am.

Excruciating pain, mutters of 'hi-grade' and 'mosaic' and other words which make me realise that perhaps this is a little more serious than they had anticipated. But still not that bad. Start to feel seriously queasy, start to cry and start to squeeze Steve's hand hard and look at him with pathetic big tearful eyes. This isn't in the park and why had I not realised- I HAD been told afterall.

10.15am

End of treatment. Topped off nicely by me screaming in a warbling manner. Nurse tells me perhaps I ought to not consider having children as I'm clearly not cut out for all this. The pain is getting worse and it's all finished..

10.20

La la land. I am having a lovely dream about my friends, they are all out at a party and they are shouting me to come over and have a drink. All of a sudden I'm sucked back to reality where I'm hooked up to oxygen and my legs are in the air and a team of 5 Doctors are peering at me, asking questions like 'do you suffer from epilepsy?' 'have you ever had a fit before?' I had passed out...5 minutes.

Tearful and shaken I look at Steve who looks pretty much the same....tearful and shaken. I realise that I've created the biggest scene ever and am humiliated.

10.50

I am wheeled out through reception and many aghast faces see me looking green and horrendous and very shifty. Bet they are all REALLY looking forward to their appointments now. I pray my room was soundproofed. I am taken to the recovery room and given a lecture about how I hadn't mentally prepared and force fed ginger nuts (for a change) and sweet tea. Told I will need more treatment but because I'm a total nancy I'll be given general anaesthetic next time so as not to create such a fuss.

11.45

Allowed to leave and do so gingerly.

13.00

Arse hits sofa and doesn't leave until I go to work on Monday am...

So there we have it. High drama and proof that I'd never be cut out to be a doctor, or a surrogate mother, or a parent of any kind.