I’m having surgery today on my abdomen. Nothing major: just a little operation to keep my lower intestines in ship shape! This is a before and after blog post.

Before.

Hungry. I haven’t eaten or had anything to drink since yesterday. I don’t usually eat very much in the mornings but I do rely on several cups of tea and coffee to keep me up and running. Hopefully the surgery will be quick and I can get a drink this evening.

Going to hospital always seems to be a strangely liminal experience; as if it’s only half-happening. That strange half-asleep, quasi-dreamstate you have just before waking up. Usually trips to hospital seem to happen unexpectedly: births, deaths, accidents, illnesses. That this operation has been booked for over a month hasn’t given it any greater sense of actuality. (In fact, I’ve half-expected the hospital to cancel the operation because of a lack of surgeons.)

I haven’t really thought about the complications much. When you sign the consent forms you are recited a list of possible complications. It was only when a nurse told me they maintain a blood match to ensure that the hospital has a supply of matching type, that an accidently cut artery becomes a possibility. I’ve also avoided searching up the procedures online. My mother, who had been a surgery nurse, always advised against surgery. She’d describe the way that doctors lifted out the intestines and slopped them on the table as something medieval. It’s a ghastly image that’s always stayed with me. Let’s hope that’s not what actually happens nowadays.

I was asked to arrive at 11.30 and got to the admissions lounge early. Once admitted, I changed into a rather fetching gown and disposable pants.

After that I sat around until 2.15 when the surgeon and anaesthetist interviewed me. Then another long wait until after 5 when I was walked down to the operating theatre. I was the last of the day.

The needle with the anaesthetic was sharp and cold. Quickly, I felt looseness in my vision. The room I was in moved to and fro. An oxygen mask was put over my mouth and nose.

“Think of these colours,” said the aneathetist. “Turquoise, white and yellow.”

I started to repeat the words aloud…

Then I was on the balcony of a white hotel in the Mediterranean. I was looking out at a turquoise ocean. The most gorgeous ocean possible. Below, a golden empty beach stretched around the curve of a bay. Someone was calling me from behind…

After.

And I woke up on a bed in the recovery room. A nurse asked me if I was ok.

“My throat hurts,” I told her.

“You had a tube down your airway during the operation,” she replied, checking my blood pressure and heart rate. A machine beeped behind me.

“How long was I in surgery?” I croaked.

“About an hour. It’s all gone well.”

I spent two hours in the recovery room begore being taken to a ward. There were no beds available and all we (three other parients and me) could do was drink water, then a hot drink and then some food. The nurses were forced to stay an hour over their shifts while a bed was found. Then they couldn’t locate a doctor to discharge me from surgery (called EDM – no, nothing to do with electronica).

Eventually, they wheeled me to a ward where I’m writing this. I can’t go home until I urinate and, as of now, my urine won’t ate. So I guess I’m in for the night.

My wound is tender but not painful and I can stand up. I have checked: my testicles are still both there. So far, the “complication” of having a testicle chopped off hasn’t happened. Hurrah!