Nov 27 Post op

 I woke up in the recovery room.

Well shit. I am still here.

I have to admit to being disappointed. Not this shit again. I don't like this goddamn game.

But here we are.

I got to the hospital early. The taxi was a good 15 minutes early which meant I was a good 35 minutes early. I was the first one in. And here's the ironic chops for you. I was the penultimate one out. For maximum weighting around goodness. It took them 5 hours before I was even close to surgery. And by the time I got out. A whopping 8 hours+ had passed.

On the slightly better side however, I was only left waiting in the shittastic waiting room for 35 minutes. The other multitude of hours spent was in the ward, which, at least you get a lot of space. Room to spread out a bit. And a nurse or three that keep an eye on you and look after you better than sitting out front.

I nearly bailed on the surgery.

The taxi ride in made me turn green. Awful. I was desperate for the ride to end so I could get out and breathe air and maybe stabilise. Which I did, very slightly, from, about to pass out, to, thinking about passing out soon.

I shuffled awfully to reception and super low energy kill me now got myself registered and sitting. Where I then engaged in a battle for whether I was just going to hit the floor and vomit. Time ground to a halt. I broke out into a pain sweat. The old familiar pain just above my pancreas turned up and dug a spur into me. I. Felt. Terrible. I wobbled in real time from too much to just about coping.

Twice I nearly got up and marched over to the desk to announce I was going home, too ill. But I didn't. It was so close.

I tried stretching out my legs to give the knife in my left side a little room to breathe. It helped a little. The nausea came down to just surly.

35 minutes passed somehow. I have no clue how. I know I sipped a lot of water trying to calm the nausea. The nurse came and picked me up. How are you doing she said eyeing me up. Ok I very unethusiastically said. About as well as can be expected today she then said. Uh huh. She figured I was nervous. I was not. I was trying not to pass out.

In the ward I got to stretch out properly, slump down, go into a bit of a daze, and slowly, oh so slowly, I stabilised. From utter shit. To mostly shit. To shit I can deal with. To minor shit I can definitely deal with. This took about 2 hours. The knife in my side slowly disappeared. I then went on something of a low and slow cycle between feeling able to cope with feeling shit, and teetering into, fuck me I need to lie down.

All of this was no doubt helped by the fact I was exhausted. Tired. I didn't sleep. A killer blow. If I don't sleep, then all my insidious bullshit ramps up to 11, and plays havoc. You also get to randomly deal in a hand of killer migraines as well. Flip the next card. See what you get. Excitement.

No migraines today however. Not even a sniff.

Eventually we went through the shenanigans. Repeated my info. Told one outright lie - have you had chest pains or shortness of breath. No. Bzzt. Lie. Eh. Fuck it. Whilst on the one hand I feel bad for the poor anaesthetist whos job I am directly fucking with by not revealing that, on the other hand, I am playing a My Only Card scenario of, I kinda need the surgery regardless, and if it does fuck up, then I managed to finagle euthanasia of the NHS.

The surgeon(s) were straight with me. This wasn't a one and done. They were going to go in, rummage, fix, possibly do extra things, and then, absolutely, I would need to come back in six months and do it all over again. And possibly again. Repeat ad nauseum until you get some progress.

Ok.

To be fair, when I first had surgery for this, the chief surgeon at the time was very clear about this. Sometimes they could get away with a one and done. Sometimes they could not. And you got a series of surgeries. A literal pain in the ass.

So at this point we are in option 2. At least three surgeries.

The surgery went as general anaesthetic surgeries do. It didn't. I wasn't there. Roughly the same thing played out as last time. The center of attention of at least half a dozen people all within very close proximity standing over you, all pushing, prodding, pricking at the same time, firing off quick fire questions and getting you sorted. With ekg wires. And pulse monitors. And clips. And bp cuffs. And cannulas. And masks. And "head cleasning" ( so they can tape the intubation tube to your head ). I listened to the bleeping of the heart rate monitor. Slow. No panic. Running at around 70bpm I reckon. It flickered. Weirdly. Bip... Bip.... Bip..... bipbipbip........ Bip................................................................ Bip... Bip... Bip. Mmm k. No one seemed terribly phased however.

Then the trickle of anaesthetic started running through the cannula in the back of my hand, and the front of my brain fogged. It is exactly the same kind of brain fog you get with my bullshit. Or waking up from the deeps. No difference. Everything fogs. Everything becomes hard to think about, and it starts to be like wading through concrete.

Cannula, cannula, does whatever a cannula does.
Drugs and fluids mostly. Mainlining into your veins.

 

This time, I made sure to oh so carefully document it.

As it kicked in harder the most wonderfully weird phenomenon. My eyes started shifting of their own accord. Like an old school TV with the vertical balance off, the picture kept rolling up. My eyes would roll upwards. I couldn't control it. Ha ha. Weird ! I corrected it. Come back down. They scroll up immediately. Keep repeating. Up. Down. Up. Down. Marvellous. I was somewhat delighted with this. The world kept bobbing back and forth like a manic ship.

Somewhere in between half a dozen and a dozen of these everything switched off.

You're done. No more conscious control.

Off to the black. Goodbye world. I'm more than ok going out this way. It was a blast.

The world shifted back into focus. Different room. Different people. Two of them watching me closely.

You are aware there is light and a room. But thoughts seem way wayyy behind somewhere. Not yet fired up. Just a vegetable looking at a picture. And fog. That concrete molasses fog of thought. The brain fires. Realises where it is. Ok. Faster. Faster. I had a ghost of a dream I was coming out of. I can't remember what. I was somewhere else. Doing something else. A different life. A different time. With arrows. And swords. The random meandering of the fucky brain. Either that or jumping back from another reality into this shitty one. Oh no. Not this one again. Go back to the fucking arrows.

I coughed my lungs up. Continually.

It felt like my lungs had flooded with shit. Which they had. This was different to last time. It also tracked with what I've been experiencing when I sleep lately.

What do you usually do with your asthma they asked ? Use a pump ?

Yes. And sit up if it's this bad.

Would you like to trying sitting up ?

YES.

Hows that ? More ?

MORE.

They got my inhalers, I dumped some gasps, sat up, and coughed my lungs up until they started to clear.

No bueno.

I am very not convinced this is asthma tbh. Not only were my lungs full of shit. My hands were also freezing. No circulation. Uh huh.

And then the throat scrape took over. Not sure what they did with the intubation tube this time - the old oxygen pipe they shove down your throat, but holy shit, it felt like half the lining in my throat was gone. Raw. Fiery tickly. Like a really bad sore throat.

I recovered fast. I get the deal. Move. Flex your limbs. Flex your fist. Fire the muscles. Get the blood running. It clears it faster.

He's doing very well one of them said. I think we can move him. Take the fluid bag off its hook. Dump it on my lap, still slurping into the cannula in the back of my hand. And off we went for a joy ride on the gurney. Back to the ward.

A succession of nurses hovered. You're back ! Are you ok ? Do you want tea ? Toast ? You need to pee.

Mmm k.

This is a thing. They are keen on a) getting you drinking something, both water and something warm and b) feeding you something. Toast. With something on it. And then. Making sure you can pee.

It's nice to be honest. You feel very cared for and they step up their watchfullness to full on, rarely left alone for 2 minutes.

And then as fast as possible, yes, I feel like I want to get up. And then I stand. And flex. And move. And get all the muscle working. Like some lame ass fat boy half naked excercise horror. The worst kind of pear shaped flesh glob shaking his booty. Nice.

Despite my hideous shapeage.

I like to think the nursing staff takes a shine to me. Because I am nice. And listen. And make things easy. Don't make a fuss.

Perhaps this is just my ego fuelled delusions.

Then again. The other recoveries wheeling in did not get the same attention. Fuck those guys. But then you listen to them. And you wince. They overbear in places. They are a pain in the ass in others.

A younger dude was wheeled in 5 minutes behind me. Would you like a tea, a coffee they asked ?

What's your coffee like he said.

I grimaced.

What's your fucking coffee like you ingrate. Just say yes please or no thanks. Don't fucking ask what blend they have.

The nurses, nice to fault, explained it was pretty good. Nescafe.

Oh he said.

In that case. I'll have two scoops he said. And lots of sugar.

I felt like getting up and slapping him.

It's not fucking Costa you dufus. Next you'll be asking if they do oatmilk. Just have a cup of coffee. Stop being a pretentious demanding twat.

But perhaps it's me. Perhaps he is normal. And I am weird for not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth. Just. Accept the kindness as it's intended. Don't be a twat about it.

The toast similarly made me shake my head.

Can you put lots of butter on it he said. And lots of marmite.

Sigh.

Bend over, I'll stick it up your ass.

He went on.

I feel like I could do with some gas he said, for the pain.

The nurse, good for her, had - nicely - hit the end of the road with his bullshit. Gas ? She said incredulously. We don't do gas ? The pain can't be that bad if you're asking for marmite toast.

Ha ha.

To finish his demands off. He asked if they had an iphone charger. He had left his at home.

Again. Fuck me. The balls on this dude. Here's an idea. Live without your fucking phone for 30 minutes dude. Just. Don't fucking make the nurses your personal errand boys, and live without your fuckslab for a second.

Rude.

To my mind. It's just bad manners. Entitled. Shitty. Taking advantage of those that will try to help.

Twat. The even more galling thing is that he doesn't even realise he's being a twat. He think's he's being characterful. Sophisticated. A master of the Rizz. See me, and wonder at my taste in toast and coffee.

On my end.

I did no such bullshit. Good manners. Thank you. That's lovely. Whatever is easiest. I am easy. A black tea is just fine. Simple toast is just fine. ( You got to have butter at least ). Ok that would be nice thanks.

That's it.

If I'm not mistaken, this might, perhaps, maybe, endear you a little bit to the nurses, particularly when arrayed against fuckface mcgee and his double "scoop" of coffee.

Double scoop.

It's going to be a teaspoon out of a jar you pretentious fuck nugget. We get it. You're a coffee twat. Which is nothing wrong in and of itself. Until you start parading it around in front of people. Virtue signalling your coffee-ness. Look at how superiour I am. Scoops. SCOOPS. From the hospital ward.

Sigh.

The other patients varied in the colour of their bad manners. Here and there.

Perhaps it really is me. A martyr to being the least trouble I can possibly be. As one of my friends says, you have a knack of making yourself as small as possible. Perhaps I am fucky like that. And should demand scoops. And i phone chargers.

Anywho. Made it home. Andy stayed with me for half an hour and chatted. Didn't complain. Didn't moan. I apologised to him. Too long a wait. Very sorry. Too much. He was good about it. Good lad. I said I was very grateful to him.

Good manners.

I shared my story with Andy. He agreed it was bad behaviour and a sign of the times of the kids of today. Entitled.

I shared the story with my brother and a friend. All older. They said the same.

I can't help think they are being a bit off handed judgemental on the youngers. Yeah. The dude was a younger. Late 20's. But. Last time I was in for surgery I saw an older dude do similar.

Still. Apparently I associate with people of a like mind on Not Being A Twat.

So home and resting.

I am being naughty.

I am supposed to have someone stay with me for 24 hours. In case I go tits up. Very important. Here is a number to call should it happen. It bypasses everything says you are on surgery care.

You have someone to stay with you right ?

Yeah. Sure.

She's fluffy and not great with telephones.

Except I don't relate the second bit.

If I go tits up, I go tits up.

Dying aint so scary.

My throat feels like its been ravaged. And the exhaustion and bullshit is dogging my heels. We shall see how I do this evening when I sleep. Tomorrow when I sleep. Roll of the dice. Could be rough.

I have fistfuls of powerful pain killers.

Which I will not need. I had no pain last time. I have no pain this time. Which the hospital staff seem incredulous about. What can I tell you ? Maybe there are no nerves down there ? Maybe compared to the rest of it, it doesn't even fucking rate a 1. Welcome to my continual world of misery, where a sliced ass doesn't even get a look in on the general fuckery scale. I think it's maybe a bit of both. Honestly. The cannula bruise feels worse than my ass.

The funny moment again.

Do you need a sick note they asked ?

Ha ha.

No.

What is this "take time off for surgery" that you speak of ?

Time to chill. And wait for the next bout of surgery. Or my ailments to smother me before we even hit that date. Either or. Good times.