Alreet,
Picture the scene. You’ve got up at 5am to make sure you’re at the hospital for 7am, you’ve had no breakfast (cos you’re not allowed to eat before surgery), you’ve not been able to have a coffee either (fucks sake...), you’ve been sat in the Surgical Admissions Lounge in the highly revealing ‘hey everybody look at the tattoo on my arse’ theatre gown watching the news that the Judas rat Alexander Isak finally got his way after disrespecting your city and club, you’re shitting yourself ‘cos you know what surgery entails (and you nearly fucking died once...not that long ago either!), in your first chat/consultation of the day there’s some confusion about which of your kidneys they’re actually going to butcher which doesn’t help your mental state at all, you then endure the long walk to the operating theatre with every fibre of your body screaming at you to fucking run, you’re then sat outside the anaesthetic room for forty-five (that’s forty fucking five like!) minutes trying to hold down the panic while the staff scratch their arses and catch up over each others weekends and then...the consultant and his two surgeon mates come to see you holding their massive and lovely smelling coffees and they notice the Newcastle tattoo on your chest (revealing gown remember) before laughingly revealing that they’re ‘all Liverpool fans’ and ‘don’t worry, we’ll take care of him...’
Fuck. This. Just give me the bastard drugs and knock me out!
*****
I’ve got a thing I do now when I’m being put to sleep for surgery (no I haven’t asked for a loyalty card...) I ensure I’m thinking of the nice things in my life, you know like good times I’ve had, places I‘ve been etc - my theory is that if I don’t wake up I’ll enter whatever’s next with a smile on my face and positivity in my soul. So as I came round this time (still here - result!) I was surprised to realise that my overriding memory was that I’d been chasing two mackems around Scarborough - fucked if I know what that meant! If any of you could enlighten me I’d be happy to listen.
Anyway, as predicted I felt fucking brilliant for a good minute then realised everything hurt and I now felt shit...hey ho.
Actually, not everything hurt. In the anaesthetic room I’d been given a spinal injection and had been instructed by the little knock-out merchant what a big deal this was and how he had to get it right...yadda yadda yadda. I’d had one before when I’d had my bowel re-section a few years back and didn’t recall it being a big deal so I wasn’t arsed. He put two very deep cannula’s into my hands (they fucking hurt like!) and pumped three vials of something or other into each hand which had an immediate effect - it was fucking mint, like a combination of being both pissed and high at the same time! Then two of them put me into position for this injection, ‘I’ll be asleep in a minute,’ I thought, ‘then I’ll wake up a second later and it’ll all be done - this years Cancer fuckabout sorted...’
My happy little scenario was jolted out of me a second later when with a brief ‘Ready Andy?’ the fucker basically hammered a nail into my back so hard I bounced on the trolley! Then, while I pondered that it hadn’t hurt like that the last time, he announced it hadn’t worked and he was going again and could I try to keep still...Bang!
After the fifth time (I know...Jesus!) he announced it was done and stuck a gas mask on me so I started to tell everyone how last time I’d put one of these on I’d woken up with two black eyes and fat lip...fuck knows what I actually said ‘cos then I woke up looking for his hammer to use on them mackems.
By the time I’d realised I wasn’t on a mission in Scarborough and was in fact in hospital I was being wheeled down to my ward and taking stock of my situation. As I was pushed into my bed space a nurse appeared and started prodding my legs and feet.
‘Can you feel that?’
‘Nope’
Then she disappeared so, with the whole confusion over which kidney was getting sliced at the forefront of my mind, I lifted the blanket and had a peek just to check I still actually had legs. The good news was that I did indeed still have all my limbs, the bad news was that the catheter coming out of my nether regions looked rather fucking large which meant that when the anaesthetic wore off I‘d know all about it!
My stomach looked interesting as well, five areas that had been dressed and obviously had stitches underneath - the good thing about this was that it’s the opposite side to my stoma reversal scar so now it’ll look like I was shot on one side, survived that and then had a knife fight with a bloke on my left...and won that as well.
Maybe that’s why I was chasing them mackems? š
Nurse again.
‘Can you feel that?’
And I could. It was wearing off.
‘Aye’
‘Good, can you lift your legs’
‘Aye’
‘That’s good. How’d you feel?’
‘Worried’
‘Why’
‘Cos I can feel my legs and feet again but the area in-between...absolutely nothing. You didn’t break it did you?’
Laughs.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon be able to feel that...’
‘I’m not looking forward to that if I’m honest...’
More laughs.
Looking around I caught the eye of the elderly looking bloke across the room - this was John - and we had a chat. He’d previously had a bowel problem and had a stoma, he’d also had Kidney cancer and had a kidney removed and was now in with bladder cancer. Originally from Leeds but living on the coast for the last thirty or so years, he was in his eighties and a right good bloke, his daughter and pregnant grandaughter came in to visit him and he introduced us and told stories about them. We had loads of banter for the time I was there.
The lovely nurse appeared again with a sandwich, crisps and a club biscuit for me.
‘Thought you might be hungry Andy’
‘It’s like you’ve known me all my life Deborah’
More laughs.
My first night passed in a haze of zoning in and out of consciousness. Unable to roll onto my side (very sore down left side, rather large catheter that I really didn’t want to aggravate or knock poking out the middle!) I had to lay on my back and as my stomach muscles were fucked I couldn’t really move so I couldn’t reach my book or charge my phone.
Early the next morning one of the surgeons appeared and checked everything then told me I’d be getting discharged that day. This was obviously ‘cos I’m a medical marvel and my body simply heals itself like Deadpool and not because they needed the bed...probably. A different nurse then appeared to remove my catheter, she definitely wasn’t as friendly as Deborah from last night.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this but also dreading it...’
‘Yeah I’m just going to yank it out...’
Jesus.
She deflated it (there’s a sort of balloon at the end of it next to your bladder to stop it being pulled out accidentally - yes lads, it goes in at the top of your todger and all the way to your fucking bladder!) and said ‘ready’
I held my breath and....YANK!
Fucking aiyah!
‘That was definitely invented by a feminist like...’
‘I do hope so.’
And she was off.
The upside to this was I could now move about a bit and got myself to the shower so instantly felt better. My day passed nicely after that, I helped with some third year students as they got timed in asking questions about my symptoms and had to make a diagnosis. Unfortunately for them the doctor in charge of them knew that I hadn’t had any symptoms so they all struggled...hey ho.
I had more crack with John across the ward and then prepared to be discharged around 6pm as promised. Then at 6.30 they told me they were still waiting for my blood results and meds from the pharmacy so couldn’t let me go yet.
Lisa came to get me around 7 but still no dice. At around 8 they told me I’d had to stay for the night again so lisa went home. Then the nightshift came on and told me at 21.30 they were discharging me as they’d got the results but someone would have to come back tomorrow for my meds. Bearing in mind I live around 45 minutes away this was a proper fuck about and given that I’d received excellent care up until that point was a bit disappointing.
As you know I’ve been in and out of hospital over the last few years and every time I’ve been discharged from every different hospital it’s been fucking farcical - it’s like the various departments just say ‘well I’ve done my bit, that’s not my job’ and no-one takes responsibility to see it through. I love the NHS (mainly ‘cos they’ve kept me alive to inflict this shit on all of you ) but they really ought to do better with this.
I said goodby to John and wished him and his family well before waiting for my lift to come back. I was most worried about him as before I’d left he’d showed me the urine bag from his catheter and it looked very much like blood. When Lisa got my meds the next day she went to see him and left him my phone number so he could give me a ring if he fancied a chat, she came home a bit upset as he was having a very bad day and he hasn’t rung yet so I hope he’s ok.
Anyway I’m home now and am once again king of the settee. I’m expecting an appointment to talk about the analysis results and any next steps soon but that’s for another day.
My scars are healing nicely (I’ll look proper gangster on the beach next summer...), I’m getting out for a shuffle along the seafront most days and, most importantly (to me anyway!), I’m still here!
See you later
Rivs
#fuckcancer
#sometimesdownneverout
Comments
Post a Comment