Hurricane Debbie. That’s what they should call me today. I’ve just sat down to take a breather between hoovering, dusting, cleaning bathrooms.
I’ll never get it all done before I go in hospital tomorrow. Why do us women nest like this? I’m the same at Christmas, before I go on holiday, if I go on a writing course, and now before I go in for my surgery.
There are a million things to do but I am compelled to make sure the house is clean, the washing is up to date, the boys all have shirts, school uniform, Chef whites lined up for the next few days.
I know they’ll be fine. It’s not as if they’re babies. They’re all quite self sufficient (they’ve had to be with my health.) And my hubby is a gem at times like these. Even with his mountain of work, he’ll cope wonderfully as he always does.
'You don’t need to do all this, we can do it,’ he chastises me.
I know they can. But making sure everything is in order is my way of having a little control. It makes me feel better; gives me peace of mind, knowing that while I’m away, they will all be okay. And lets be honest, being busy distracts me.
The pre-op on Thursday made it all feel real. Pulling up on the car park of the Priory, Birmingham my stomach collapsed inwardly, my legs turned to Bambi and my heart banged against my chest, attempting to escape.
I can’t escape. It has to be done. I know it will all go well. I have the best surgeon in the country for this complex surgery.
Because of my health complications the Anaesthetist wanted to see me at the pre-op to check a few things. He’ll come to see me tomorrow too beforehand. It helps that he is completely gorgeous. His bright green eyes are intense but kind, his presence is reassuring. He anticipates my surgery lasting at least seven hours and I have to be catheterised (which I've never had before) but the good news is I won't be on a ventilator - they need me to be alert, to keep my airwaves clear and get me mobile as soon as possible afterwards. Being on a ventilator was one of my fears so that’s good.
So, the plan is, I go into hospital tomorrow (Wednesday) at 1pm and in view of the length of surgery, should go down first (about 3.30pm) to theatre. All being well, I should be finished by about 10-11 pm and straight into intensive care. It depends how I get on the first day whether I'll stay in intensive care another night or go to my own room. Do you want to place your bets now as to how long you think I’ll be in there? You bet. I’m hoping to be home for Sunday or Monday.
Don’t worry. I'm a good patient so I won’t rush things. I’ve had enough operations to know it’s best to do as I'm told. And at least at the other side of all of this, I will be able to be proactive at helping myself recover. For the last year and a half I’ve been helpless and at times, terribly depressed, overwhelmed by pain and the misery of my whole predicament.
At last, this is what I’ve been waiting for.
I have never been more frightened about any operation than this. I wish Woozle was still with us. I miss her. But I know she’s with me in spirit and wishing me a speedy recover. I will get that cup of tea and huge slice of cake at De Grays very soon.
One day. One precious day. One drop of time.
I’ll see you when I see you.
Bye for now
This Week in Essays
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