It's probably not normal to be so excited at the prospect of a day in hospital and a spot of light surgery - I am obviously becoming a sycophant to the disease; the operation to have my ghastly fistula plicated has been set for this coming Wednesday. My lovely surgeon JT will cut out roughly a third of the hideous thing and sew it back together - the hope being that it is greatly reduced and still functioning when he has finished. There is a risk that the fistula will be damaged beyond repair during the surgery, in which case JT will have to create another one somewhere else and in the meantime I shall be forced to have another neckline - a Autumn/Winter '10 necessity for any sartorially forward renal patient. But any risk is far out weighed by being able to wear t-shirts again.
The surgery has been scheduled for 11 am which means hopefully it will be some time that day; even if I am wheeled down before the day is out, I shall still need a precise confluence of circumstances to see me through to the OR itself: on one memorable occasion, I was due to have an abdominal catheter placed and made it all the way to pre-op only to be turned away at the very last minute because my blood pressure was too high.
Ellie has very kindly booked the afternoon off work to be there when I come round and subsequently cart my woozy arse back home. She is under my strict instructions to arrive laden with books and magazines in order to stave off the dire boredom the hospital induces. I am still not convinced it is a good idea to have anyone attend to me because I am become so anxious about the inevitable waiting around my visitors are forced to endure and can never stop being conscious of what a toxic environment the hospital is for the uninitiated. However, the ward nurses will let me go home without a chaperone so in the interests of a quick get away, Ellie has drawn the short straw. I fear I myself will prove a scant source of entertainment, unless Ellie particularly enjoys the confused ramblings of the recently anaesthetised.
Mostly, I am not looking forward to being nil by mouth: the thought of not being able to eat for eight hours brings me out in a cold sweat. I shall have to gorge on M&S sandwiches on Thursday to make up for it. Added to this is the abject humiliation of having to wear a regulation NHS gown with its gaping back (note to self: wear good knickers) and, if the nurses really want a good chuckle, they will force me to don a pair of exceedingly tight-fitting over-the-knee DVT socks which are as uncomfortable as they are unflattering. Thank God I shall only be in for a day: any longer and I might end up having to eat the hospital food.
The surgery has been scheduled for 11 am which means hopefully it will be some time that day; even if I am wheeled down before the day is out, I shall still need a precise confluence of circumstances to see me through to the OR itself: on one memorable occasion, I was due to have an abdominal catheter placed and made it all the way to pre-op only to be turned away at the very last minute because my blood pressure was too high.
Ellie has very kindly booked the afternoon off work to be there when I come round and subsequently cart my woozy arse back home. She is under my strict instructions to arrive laden with books and magazines in order to stave off the dire boredom the hospital induces. I am still not convinced it is a good idea to have anyone attend to me because I am become so anxious about the inevitable waiting around my visitors are forced to endure and can never stop being conscious of what a toxic environment the hospital is for the uninitiated. However, the ward nurses will let me go home without a chaperone so in the interests of a quick get away, Ellie has drawn the short straw. I fear I myself will prove a scant source of entertainment, unless Ellie particularly enjoys the confused ramblings of the recently anaesthetised.
Mostly, I am not looking forward to being nil by mouth: the thought of not being able to eat for eight hours brings me out in a cold sweat. I shall have to gorge on M&S sandwiches on Thursday to make up for it. Added to this is the abject humiliation of having to wear a regulation NHS gown with its gaping back (note to self: wear good knickers) and, if the nurses really want a good chuckle, they will force me to don a pair of exceedingly tight-fitting over-the-knee DVT socks which are as uncomfortable as they are unflattering. Thank God I shall only be in for a day: any longer and I might end up having to eat the hospital food.
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