I had been worried about the second laxative. The first had been disgusting. Pentolax this time, which was different. Why they had not given that to me first time only the NHS know. It was like drinking water. So easy. It had the same result, though less ferocious, and by Thursday evening I was all cleared out and ready to go.
I went to bed reasonably early ready for a 5 am start. I had a fruit smoothie to drink but did not bother as I did not want anything other than sips of water.
My dear mother, who is 82 years young with an attitude of a 52-year-old, drove me to hospital and came in with me. Up two flights of stairs and along a corridor to the ward and booked myself in. We were shown to a side room and left to wait. I just burst into tears. I am not sure why and not embarrassed to admit it. I guess I was a little frightened by the prospect of what would happen. I guess I had also been holding on very tightly and had been too confident without being blasé. Now I was facing a huge operation, and the emotions took over. I hugged my mother for a long time before sitting down partially recovered.
I was brought a gown to dress in. I had a lovely smart anthracite dressing gown my wife had bought for me, and a pair of plastic sliders as slippers. A nurse brought high compressions socks, with small holes cut out under the balls of the feet to allow for a bit of fresh air. I started crying again.
The assistant surgeon came in and asked if I had signed papers. I looked at him blankly. ‘They maybe at home,’ I replied, ‘but I guessed they were copies for me’. He left and came back five minutes later with requisite papers to sign.
The senior surgeon came in and seeing me crying, he asked if I wanted to go through with it. ‘You can pull out if you wish to’ he said. ‘Hell no.’ I retorted stiffly, my eyes red. ‘We are going through with it. I want Gary gone.’
‘That’s the right attitude that will make you recover quickly.’ And he was off.
Papers signed. Everything ready I nervously sipped water.
A stoma nurse came in to see about putting a mark on my stomach where the bag could go if needed. She decided on a spot above my waist band to the right of my belly button. ‘We may need to shave you here if that is alright?’ she asked before she left.
‘Would you like to come with me?’ enquired a different nurse. I hugged my mother once more and followed her down corridors and down a lift and along more corridors to a pre-surgery room, full of the type of equipment you only see in medical dramas or films. There were three male nurses awaiting me and inviting me to lie down they asked my name and date of birth and one or two other questions. ‘I was born a male, and I am not pregnant’ I offered. ‘I have no tattoos or metal inside me.’
Someone then strapped name tags to my right wrist and left ankle.
‘Are you cutting me apart completely?’ I asked. They continued to simply prepare me, removing glasses and lifting a gas mask up to place over my head.
‘Good night’ I said. ‘Not quite yet’ one replied as the mask was tentatively placed over my mouth and nose. I tried breathing through my nose but immediately felt as though I was suffocating. And blurted out no, wait, I can’t breathe. I then breathed through my mouth and was asleep in no time.
