My surgery was planned for 17th, but after the TWOC fiasco they decided to bring it forward.
So surgery actually happened on the 6th. The night before I wrote some notes on my broken phone, just in case things came out badly. Just a few little messages for my mum and girlfriend, and a final invitation for my brother to fuck off.
I’ve deleted them now. They were very sentimental, which isn’t like me at all.
The show started at 1pm, so in the morning I watched everyone else eat Weetabix, and then had a nap on the bed. If I was worried, it wasn’t preventing me from sleeping.
Am I a sociopath?
Brother arrived at 12:00 and told me he’d wave me off for the operation, and welcome me back afterwards. He must be concerned, he’s never been nice to me before. Mum isn’t coming because “she doesn’t want to get in the way”. We laugh about this. Typical: she worries about everything, and now she thinks that her presence in the hospital will somehow put off the surgeons? She’s an absolute nervous mess.
I read for a bit, and then the porters came in and wheeled me down. En route I was overtaken by my surgeon. He’s so confidently blasé about it all, the polar opposite of my hilariously terrible GP. An operation this big probably happens to 1 in 10,000 people, and is an incredibly big deal for me. But for him it’s every day. Probably twice a day. It’s a job.
Prep was unexpected, but then I don’t know if I’ve ever thought about it before. It’s a small ward of perhaps 20 beds, with a constant turn-over. I was there for maybe 35 minutes, and in that time the entire population of the ward changed twice. It’s a production line. We’re not patients down here, we’re a bunch of malfunctioning machines.
I’m asked the same questions 5 times, once every 5 minutes. I guess they have to be very certain they’re doing the right thing to the right person:
- What’s your name?
- What’s your date of birth?
- What’s wrong with you?
- What surgery are you having today?
I like saying “right radical nephrectomy” rather than “right kidney removed”. It gives me that same sense of belonging that you get when you manage to use a few words of French in Paris.
The anesthesiologist told me they’re going to give me an epidural so I can cope with the pain after the surgery. Odd: I hadn’t even thought about pain after surgery. I’m glad he has! So I’m wheeled in to pre-op and made to sit on the side of the bed. An assistant sticks a huge plastic sheet to my back and makes a small hole in it. I’m asked to arch my back as much as I can, so my chin is pressed on my chest.
I try, but I’m a rugby boy. Thick set, sturdy, inflexible. I can’t bend enough to make a gap between the vertebrae, and he keeps trying and trying. He’s put the needle in 4 times, and still can’t get into the epidural canal. I can feel him getting frustrated behind me.
The assistant holds me by the neck and pushes my head down as far as he can, but this just isn’t happening. So they give up and tell me they’ll work out a different pain regime for me while I’m under. They tear off the plastic sheet, and I feel like I’m being waxed.
I lie down. A drip or two go in, and a bunch of cardio sensors on my ankles, chest and neck. I’m perfectly calm, I notice. Am I a sociopath?
The anesthesiologist gives me a cord to hold with a button at the end. He tells me not to press it, and suddenly I’m reminded of Dougal in Father Ted, being invited into the cockpit and seeing a big red button marked “Do Not Press”. They’re bustling around above me.