Saturday, April 04, 2009

And no George Clooney in sight!

How is it that after watching so many hospital dramas I have not been able to find one good looking, to die for (pardon my pun) doctor on all my trips and stays in hospital? (Answers on a postcard please)

The operating theatre was smaller than I had imagined, stark and white with a accent of silver. I imagined the operating table to be wider and the feel of the place to be less clinical.

The nurse was friendly and had warned me about the bright lights and all of the people who would be there. It seemed like the staff waiting room when there was nothing else going on they could come and hang out and watch. Definitely not for the feint hearted.

I couldn’t believe that I had actually consented. I knew that I had because they had twice checked my signature on the consent form but I was clearly under the influence why else would I have willingly done that. I had consented for them to cut my throat (okay my neck) whilst I was awake. That had to be utter madness, after all why would anybody in their right mind do that (which probably answers some of those other questions)

At least I wasn’t living in the days when there was sawdust of the floor and patients being instructed to bite down, but seriously cutting my neck whilst I’m awake. I don’t even like having blood taken and we know how often I have to do that. I was good, you would have been proud of me, although when the 10 minutes turned into 30 I was getting just a little agitated and any novel factor that existed had almost certainly worn off and I could swear that mr lupus was in the room laughing at my expense.

I had two surgeons, which they assured me it was because I was special (okay it might have been me who suggested that) and between the two of them they eventually managed to prise my lymph node from its depths.

This is where it all went pear shaped and I discovered just how insensitive doctors can be. I had focused so much on the operation that there had been little space in my mind for ‘the results’ and then one doctor casually said to another “it looks like *****” I didn’t hear the “*****” because I got stuck at the “it looks like...” and tears started to roll down my cheek. (Tears are amazing how do they know when to show up?)

I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to know but now as I wait for the results I’m not sure that was one of my better ideas.

Because of its size I was told I could give it a name, so Joey was introduced to me and the outside world before being sent off to explain himself to the experts.

Am I worried about the results, a little but then worry never got you anywhere did it?!


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