Almost there.....

Well, I might not be a regular poster at the moment (although I do have All Bran for breakfast every morning), but I would like to share the start of the end of my cancer with you. Monday is Pre-Op day – a trip to Salisbury for all the form-filling, prodding and poking that, I’m told, is vital for the safe completion of my operation. I’ve got to be there by 09:00 – do you think I’ll be able to swing a whole day off work? I’ve started to read through the booklets and fill in the questionnaires – and I would like to share just a few of the wackier thoughts spinning around in my poor, underused brain. Before anyone complains – I know I’ve taken them all out of context. I just think they are fun. Firstly – my scales are wrong! I cannot possibly weigh that much! Perhaps it’s all the dust that seems to have accumulated on them since I last ventured their way. Bugger – no! I’ve given the scales a dusting with a wallpaper stripper (I said it had been a while) and changed the batteries – but I’m still £$% stones and *& pounds. Can’t be right, can they? Next – on to the booklet, from the hospital, which takes 12 A5 pages to explain the anaesthetic and the effects on my poor old body thereafter (perhaps not too much of the ‘old’, please) . I know we all have the right to know everything that’s going to happen to us – and we all have the right to make informed choices – but I just want to sleep. If a complete stranger is ferreting around in my lower abdomen, hooking out my prostate and making me – I hope – much better, I really do not want to know about the finer detail. I’ve seen the video – and wished I had changed channel! Dreamland for me, please, and the sooner the better. Next, a lovely little pamphlet about the day of admission. Salisbury Hospital has this glorious place called the Surgical Admissions Lounge (it’s on the second level of Heathrow Terminal 5, just past the Duty Free area and the KFC stand) It is where all the frightened people gather to find out when they will be taken to theatre. I’m not taking the mickey, it’s a good idea. Better than sitting by your bed in a ward full of people who have already had their operation and really don’t feel like talking to a bloody newcomer who still has the chance to escape. The list of things I need to take with me includes a nightie and something to entertain myself whilst I wait. Now, at this point, I had all sorts of ideas – most of them far too rude to share here – but I thought about taking a copy of Playboy and making the most of it – because I sure as hell won’t be able to enjoy myself that way AFTER the operation! At least, not for a while……! Something I hadn’t appreciated was that, although I will not be able to eat for six hours before my admission time, I can drink clear fluids, like tea or coffee, up to two hours before the op. Clear fluids? Now then, where did I put that bottle of vodka? Apparently, if I arrive early for my appointment, I do not go into the Surgical Admissions Lounge. I have to go into the Discharge Lounge. This brought several pictures into my tormented mind:- 1) Someone walking around the lounge, letting off a shotgun 2) Hundreds of tired travellers waiting for their baggage to appear on carousel 3 Or 3) A room full of people with various orifices oozing mucus and pus (I said my mind was tormented) Could it, perhaps, mean that the Nurse will come up to me and usher me out of the door, telling me I’m all better and that they would be sending a letter to my doctor? Can’t you see it – an endless circle of admission and discharge – a relentless tide of patients, head down and shoulders slumped, shuffling round and round and round and………. Another amusing bit of guidance is halfway down page 7. To fully appreciate this gem, I need to explain that my operation will involve a perineal incision (you girlies who have had babies will probably know about this – blokes will need to use Google) The advice I have in front of me is that – for 48 hours after the operation – I should not ride a bike! The last page carries an absolute diamond. Not in what it says – but what it doesn’t say. I quote “If you have a wound, you will be told how to look after it.” What it doesn’t tell me is how many times I should feed it, whether it will need house-training, if it wants to go out alone – or with a group of friends –am I being unreasonable in insisting it’s back home by 10pm and – most important – will it scare the burglars away? Answers on a fifty pound note, please. That’s it for now – I’m off to polish my saddle. Much love Steve