Well, what an eventful couple of days I have had, reader. You may recall in my last post, I was shuffling across Lidl's car park with all the sophisticated allure of a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest. Well, there was a very valid reason for this.
I have been in hospital, on an overnight stay for the first time in my (nearly) 38 years. I confess that it wasn't too bad, although breakfast was the work of Beelzebub. More on that later.
I arrived at work at my usual time (7.45 in the am) on Monday morning. As I walked through the door of the HR office, I was greeted by the annoying nasal ramblings of a colleague who had just returned from honeymoon (yawn). He was wittering on about how he had found Borneo (what kind of a romantic, sex-fuelled honeymoon destination is that - surely the sort of place that only people with way too much disposable income go??). I glazed over, focusing more upon the pain radiating from my hip than how Mr Metrosexual had enjoyed his nuptials. My manager could sense that I was in pain and she ordered me to go to casualty. I did so, only to be told that I needed a referral from my doctor (you know the one, I described him in a previous blog entry - all teeth, eyes and Farah pants).
Anyway, to cut a long story short (going forward, I am going to try and get the title of a seminal 80's song woven into the text of all of my blog entries - gosh, the things I do to keep/get your interest, eh?) I was referred to hospital. Was seen by the doctor who said that I needed to have my carbuncle removed. I asked him if I could just have a couple of Junior Disprin and have it lanced. He said not, that I would need a general anaesthetic and would have to (glug)....stay overnight. Shit. I had never had an overnight stay in hospital, not an operation. I called my good friend, Madam Verte - she came to my rescue as soon as she was able.
I may have been shitting my pants at the thought of being sliced with a knife, but Madam Noir can still have an eye for a pretty lay-dee. The rather lovely Sarah was a student nurse who tended to my needs. My gaydar was off the scale - everything about her said that she was a friend of Dorothy's. However, she did mention that she had three children. Ah, must be straight then. But, it ain't neccessarily so (do you see what I did there? Promised you one 80's song title....you, dear reader get
two....now
that is value for money).
Madam Verte showed me how to play cards (well, kind of....I'm a shit pupil you see), and we indulged in a couple of 'Take a Break' crosswords - preferring the 'television' version as opposed to the harder standard version. I changed into my sexy anti-embolisation tights and regulation backless hospital gown at 2pm, after being told that my op would be at around 3pm.
Fast forward to 9pm. 7 hours in anti-embolisation tights, nil by mouth, no visitors can be a tedious place to be. I received countless texts from well-wishers hoping that it had gone well and that I got a good night's sleep.
Then, my trolley arrived. I hopped on and was taken to theatre. I had been asking people all day on the ward 'what is it like to be put to sleep' ( I realise that makes me sound like a rather ageing, arthritic Labrador...but you get my gist?). I arrived at theatre and had to sign a consent form. I removed my knickers at the nurse's request (oi, oi...nowt like that...dirty buggers) and she injected my canula with two forms of painkillers. And then asked me to put a mask on and 'take deep breaths'. She said it was oxygen...I have my doubts. It had a slight odour of Febreze about it - but it seemed to do the trick. They must have then taken me into theatre and 'done the deed'.
I awoke feeling actually quite canny. Had a bit craic with the staff and was wheeled back to the ward. I slithered off the trolley into my bed. The nurse was offering me all-sorts of drugs, all of which I took. Codeine, paracetamol, anti-sickness. Just because I could. That seems to be the thing about hospitals - they are forever force-feeding you drugs. So, you go in as pure as the driven snow (ok, so maybe not in my case), and come out with a narcotics habit to rival that of Jimmy Corkhill in Brookside.
I couldn't sleep, tossed and turned all night. Was oozing with sweat from those fucking plastic cover things that they put on the mattresses. Surgeons were still coming to see patients to talk about their treatment at 1 o-fucking-clock-in-the-sodding-morning. It was like frigging Piccadilly Circus.
Woke at 6.15am - my alarm went off, and it's set for this time for work. I had breakfast - toast, the most vile bacon ever (2 rashers of...I left one) and a cuppa. Then washed my hair and had a 'gypsy-wash'. Even put on a bit of make-up. I didn't have my hair straighteners, so was forced to look as if I had just been for a 'demi-wave' in the hospital salon, with the rest of the 'cauliflower heads' (OAP's to those of you that are unfamiliar with my vocabulary).
Surgeon came around at 9.15ish to tell me that I could go home, I just needed my wound 're-packing' (bleeurgghh). So, my nurses, Jason (so, so gay) and Sarah (could be, could be) took me into a room and told me to 'lie on my tummy'. I yanked down my Mavis Riley's (velour lei-sure pants) and they removed my old dressing and picked out all of the old packing. Sarah cleaned the hole (oo-er, missus) very gently. Jason said that he had known grown men cry (I assume his mind hadn't wandered and that he was talking about patients that had this procedure done in the past...). Said wound was then repacked and I was back on the ward. I ran to the small cup that had been given to me earlier that morning with some codeine and paracetamol - I necked the lot - the pain was excrutiating. And I have to have that done every day for the next 2 weeks. Tomorrow, I am going to get the nurse to take a photo of my hole. Just to see how big it is.
So, there you go. Madam Noir's first op. Not too bad, as it happens. Lost a pair of pants. And a big cyst. Lusted after a nurse. Pretty damn good.
