You know, I actually haven't any idea what the 'D' in D-Day stands for. Isn't that shameful? I assume I must've been told, at some point in the past fiftyveryodd years, but it's gone. Gone with the wind. (Even more shamefully, I could tell you the plot of that.)
Anyway, I think that E-Day would be more apposite: 'e' for 'evisceration', given how airily the consultant was rattling off his list of things that might have to come out. You can have my ovaries, matey, but you take my small intestine from my cold, dead hands!
Which is, just remotely, possible, as there is a 2% chance of the operation being fatal. However, I prefer to take this as a 98% probability that it won't. Man, am I just PollyfuckingAnna, or what?
So: the operation date is 25 April, probably a couple of days in intensive care afterward, and then an estimated 10 days on the ward after that. So far, so quite nasty enough. The official letter came through this morning, though, which tells me to report to the ward at 10.00 am on the 24th. That's a whole extra day of my life you're stealing there, Churchill! What they want to do with me that day, I do not know. Probably nothing: just leave me bored to death and on nil by mouth. Eh, well. Could be worse. At least we do still have a bit of an NHS, at least for the moment.
On the upside, I'm reporting to the Jane Ashleigh Centre - everyone calls it Jane Asher, that's inevitable - which is quite new and modern and pleasant, insofar as a hospital ward can be. I don't know whether I'll get to recover there, too. The oncology ward is not actually as bad as I'd been told, but Jane Ashleigh is nicer.
It's funny how one's mind works ...
Yes, yes, okay. Get it out of your systems, and don't forget to tip your waitresses.
Everyone quietened down now? Then I shall continue.
Anyway: it's funny how one's mind works. With a major operation hanging over me, not to mention that 2% chance of not coming out the other side, all I can think of is "How am I going to put my toenail varnish back on?" and "I won't be able to shave my legs!" (Our friend Penny points out that women's legs are supposed to have hair - she got a bit cross with the JLo ad for lady razors last night - but I have to admit, I do prefer mine without; that was about the only good side-effect of chemo.) When I consider how hard I always am on people who make a fuss about losing their hair during chemo, I should undoubtedly be ashamed of myself. I'm not, of course. I figure this is just displacement activity, and if I were a cat I would probably be washing my bum.
Are you not glad I'm not a cat?
