Feeling: KITE-ISH THEN URGH

  
Feeling: KITE-ISH THEN URGH
So the surgery was a success, the lump is gone and I feel like utter urgh. 
I had to wait until about 2pm to go in but I didn’t mind in the slightest; I was keen to put it off as long as poss. Hell, tomorrow in fact. But at 1.30pm the call came up, then 1.42pm brought the attendee man. 

It felt like a Waikato-ised version of Grey’s Anatomy as I was wheeled down to pre op. Even in my nervy state, I felt slightly important as my bed was propelled through the corridors. And being rather anxious had my rambly Pop on, yarning to the man having to retrieve me (poor sod) about his job and other hish hosh. I was lucky in that lovely Mary-Beth and Deb were able to come down to pre op with me so I could continue gabbering away. 

See, the thing I was most scared of was going to sleep and not waking up again. Ever since I was at primary school and a boy a few years older had passed over in his sleep, the idea terrified (and continues to terrify) me. Even some nights when I’m just at home I get a sudden fear that I might not wake up again. So I was in this instance also. Two-point-oh.

I was wheeled off to theatre after all regulatory checks and a farewell to Deb, and hustled into a room adjacent to that of operation with my two anaesthetists and a technician. Catching on I was a tad on edge, Tania (the female numb maker) injected some sedatives into my vein. “Some people don’t even notice a difference,” she said. About 12 seconds later I laid back and said, “Dude, I am super chilled.” They couldn’t told me they were taken off my whole head and I would’ve responded with a “no worried mate!” thumbs up. 

I was moved on into the actual operation room then and given a mask to breathe into. Three deep, Tania said, “And you’re falling asleep.” 
What?! No! I hadn’t even had a chance to check out surroundings and ask a medly of questions, hadn’t yet met my Dr Methu, hadn’t seen the table I was going to be 1-2-3-flipped on! I couldn’t go to…. 

I woke up as my bed was once again going through a corridor. “Hello there!” I cheeped to the theatre nurse rolling me along to recovery. She leapt up in fright, “My goodness!” She said. “How on earth are you already with us?!”
I had been deep in a dream that I had been reclining on a cloud in a loin cloth eating squares of Russian fudge a mere moment earlier, so I was also unable to answer. 

In the post op area I was in a warm fuzzy place (mindfully, I mean; though the temp there was rather tropical also). I was just damn ecstatic to be awake, and the pain relief certainly wasn’t hurting. All the staff were surprised I was revived and chattering away; apparently I came to extremely quickly. 

I noticed the buttons on my gown shoulder area were undone. “Did the doctor take sneaky peek of my tits?” I asked. Semi joking. They all had a good titter and assured me that no, the surgeon had not taken the op (-pportunity I mean, he did take the -ration) to give a geez. 
I was taken back up to my ward pretty quick smart; for some odd reason, I feel they thought I might have a been a bit of a disruption. 
When the attendee to return me upwards (literally, if you look closely at the makeup of that word) appeared at the foot of my bed, I gasped out in glee. 

“You look like a carrot coloured, less-lined version of Dumbledore!” I said by way of greeting. With the lad’s lengthy gingery beard, and half-moon specs (though I may have imagined the glasses) he definitely did. 

“Omg do you know what you should do?” I enthused. “Have you seen those ornaments you can get to decorate your beard? You should adorn yours for Xmas! Or go glitter! Imagine the excitement your post op patients would have on waking up to your bobbling baubles or shimmering strands!” 

   
 

I think he was glad to discard of me (“A beard pushing a bed! Fantastic!”) back at my floor. 

My nurse greeted me at the door. “Well someone’s had the good stuff,” she remarked as I called out a prolonged  “Siiiiiiimoooooooooooone.” (Her name, nothing random; afternoon shift had started). 

I was deposited in my room (back to number six on my own, woohoo!) (though anything would have prompted a “woohoo” at that point). Simone did the obligatory obs of blood pressure, reflexes and Q&As. The “name/dob/where are you/what’s the date” all went well until she said “Year?” at the end. I thought she was giving me a verbal high-five of sorts with a “Yea!” and responded with my own drawn out one in kind. “Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhh!” I agreed. “No,” she said. “What’s the year?” I burbled over with hilarity. How funny was it?!

I sat there smiling for a wee while, then in came Dr Methu my surgeon. “I was just in India!” I told him by way of salutation. It’s only now I realise I didn’t elaborate and he probably thinks I said so purely because he is Indian (he had actually been over there just before I had in the same area, the registra had told me yesterday). Must clarify my intents and purposes with said remark tomorrow with him. 

I listened out for familiar footsteps and eventually heard the slapping of Birkenstocks on the Lino; Deb was here! Henio was hot on her tails holding two sugarfree yellow Powerade Zeros for yours truly. Such a trooper.

Unfortunately, the warm fuzzy place left me and I was hit with a horrendous sensation that someone had cut my head open (oh wait, they had). Simone administered me some Tremadol to soften the discomfort, and I found my eyelids starting to falter. “Night M&D,” I said. And off I went to unconsciousness (but alas not back to my loin-clothed cloud condition). 

I was woken before by the overwhelming urge to makes my wees (blast you downing two Powerades in immediate succession) (Obviously cathater not installed in surgery; kind of wish it had been at the thought of lifting my heavy head out of bed) and am currently absolutely wide awake awaiting some more meds in 17minutes time. (Was hoping for some morphine but being the head, pain relief must be distributed in forms giving short bursts, drat it). 

One recent discovery: have just realised the loud motor-like hum drum that starts up every so often is not in fact a helicopter (goodness the Westpac heli goes out a lot, I’d been thinking) but the automatic fan in my shared ensuite when my next door neighbour goes to take a tinkle. A bit disappointing; had been visioning a chopped gliding about the skies above and humming to myself – the Budgie the Helicopter theme song. Isn’t quite so exciting when you find you’re actually murmuring along to another post op patient urinating, not a heli. 

To tomorrow! 


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