Most people have had the unfortunate experience of having to go to hospital (A big white building with Doctors…but that’s not important right now) at some stage in their lives, usually before adulthood. Whether a broken bone falling from a tree (you know those things kids used to climb before todays generation was wrapped in cotton wool?), an appendix that wanted OUT.. NOW!!!, a crash on something vehicular, or just general sickness. I had however, managed to escape any such incident. Apart from being a visitor on too many occasions, and the one drama drama incident of 1981 (playground collision half night stay-just for the jelly and ice-cream) I had never been rushed off to spend a night in sanitary confinement.
This past 12 months changed all that.
Gradual pain build-up, shortness of breath, severe chest pains and crippling stomach cramps later…Oh crap.
I have now been admitted to hospital several times and have one procedure, one laproscopic surgery and one open-cut surgery under my belt (and that is literally where one is).
They say a job is never done properly unless there are left over parts that you really didn’t need and I think I have well and truly proven that theory.
Now a lot of people would be all “What’s the big deal?”, but let me tell you the background here. I HATE HOSPITALS.
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of knowing your sedated bare body is in a room with a total stranger (who’s writing and first language you couldn’t hope to understand) and they are equipped with a large tray of sharp objects. What’s more, their aim is to cut you open and poke around until they find a bad bit to remove. Comforting, I know.
Another little gem. I HATE NEEDLES. To which the usual first response is “But you have piercings and tattoos?”
News Flash…it’s NOT the same! I wanted them, so much so, that I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes and dealt with it. It doesn’t feel the same. The end result is not the same. IT’S NOT IN ANY WAY THE SAME…KAPEESH??
My recount of the whole drawn out experience is not pleasant by any means either.
The first procedure, I was petrified, but I went in (waited the obligatory 3 hours in the waiting room with hideous paintings and daytime television) and was out that night. The anasthesia took two groggy days to wear off.
The second procedure had a hiccup. I went in, waited (see above) and as I was being wheeled into the surgery room, the doctors decided they had done enough for one day and cancelled. As the nurses told me this, a wave of anger, disappointment and relief washed over me and all the hideous anticipation burst from my body in a flurry of tears. I quietly removed myself from my trolley and shuffled off to remove my sexy purple gown and reaquaint myself with non-humiliating clothes designed in this century.
I was back in a week later for real, but I was so freaked out, the nurses had to hold me down to the table to sedate me.
Also, you know all the pictures you see of happy smiling ‘nice’ Nurses. Yep, none of them, all nasty heinous witches.
The third procedure (after being rescheduled twice over a few months) seemed to go fine. No problems with surgery, nice nurses, three night stay, but eventually had a worse hiccup. Post-op internal infection. Imagine some of the hottest chili on the planet, and now picture that inside your stomach eating its way back out. Now to add to that, imagine it getting into a papercut 15cm long across your lower stomach. You are now beginning to grasp how this felt. No standing up, no moving without pain. (According to my brother, that problem could have been due to the fact that I am a “girly wuss-bag”)
However…it’s all done now. I am mending, however slowly, and on the road to recovery. They tell me in a few weeks time, I will feel better than I have in a long time (I assured them it couldn’t be too much worse) and have a lot more energy to burn.
With everything we still have to do around this place, I know I’m going to need it, so bring it on.