Operation: I Beg Your Pardon?

I was not given enough notice. A message, via my mother, indicated that they were ready to slice me open on 12th October. Six days notice! I knew it might be a little sudden, but six days?! That was not a great deal of time to er… let my friends know… er… prepare myself.

Arrangements were made for me to jet to Southampton and Chandlers Ford to have so pre-op talks/tests/proddings on the Monday before the operation. When I say ‘jet’, I mean crawl in traffic through the bottle-neck of Arundel and the various school runs of the Sussex and Hampshire conurbations.

Maybe a slight exaggeration

My pre-op tests were interesting to say the least. The first one was based at the hearing centre at Southampton Uni. It was short and it was very sweet (if you have heard my singing voice, you will largely agree). In aid of research and progression, I was videotaped and asked to perform various aural tasks (aural!). Including the musical scales, something I have not done since my voice broke and a sound check – counting from one to ten, whilst increasing the volume. I have previously been likened to Brian Blessed when it comes to volume, so apologies to my hearing therapist for defeaning her – at least she was in the right place if there was any long-lasting damage.

The second part of my pre-op tests were in the hospital of my operation in Chandlers Ford.  I had three hours to kill and it is not easy to kill three hours in Southampton. I ended up supping a coffee with a wide variety of people in McDonald’s, for my sins. Sorry, that should read a variety of wide people. I was astounded by the amount of people who saw fit to devour the American fayre in the Golden Arches produce BEFORE 12pm!

Only two hours to wait…

Whilst battling with five different Su Doku puzzles, I counted 27 people coming in and out of the fast food joint and feasting upon various beef patties, chicken burgers and what-have-you. By the time I had tired of the puzzles and people counting, I had devoured three cups of coffee and I was ready to move on.

The final stretch of my journey towards the hospital was spent in a Waitrose car park, people watching, whilst mucking about on Twitter. An overzealous parking attendant told me to move on if I did not wish to buy anything from the store, so I departed for the hospital. They were not ready for me, so I slumped into a leather chair and thumbed my way through a germ infested copy of the National Geographic. Definitely want to visit some salt flats before my time is up.

An American nurse called my name at least three times, before I eventually twigged that I was to be her next victim, particularly when the rest of the waiting room ignored her calls. I was ushered into a small room, with a lingering aroma of that school post-vomit smell.

A barrage of questions followed.

Do you have any allergies? Quiche

Does your family have any history of amnesia? I can’t remember

Do you suffer from any physical ailments like a loss of hearing? Pardon?

We then moved on to the physical side of things. I was beckoned to lose my shoes, shorts and any particulars I had on me. I was weighed and measured.

Thank you, Mr Baron. Your weight seems to be relatively normal and you are 5’11”.

Ah good…

Hold on one cotton picking minute. 5’11”!!!! I protested. I was measured again. 5’11”. No, no, no, no, NO!

Much like a flailing MP, I demanded a recount. The American lady frog marched me out to another height measuring device and I came in at 6’1″. I was relatively happy with that and was not going to quibble over the missing quarter of an inch. Justice prevailed. My protestations were vindicated. I do wonder how many patients lost a couple of inches in that hospital.

The penultimate check was a swab test. The test was rather invasive. I had a cotton bud jammed into pretty much every available orifice. I shall spare you the details.

Needless to say, I was feeling rather sheepish after such treatment and the final leg of my tests was to produce a ‘sample’. Having relieved myself on a number of occasions that very morning, it did not bode well when I was gifted a rather large looking test tube with a line at the top – “fill to this point” – it was made even more difficult by a staff meeting outside the toilet door. The old running of the tap trick worked a treat and the tube was soon filled. I reappeared with my sample to be faced by six or seven nurses, giggling amongst themselves.

With my tail placed firmly between my legs, I was bade them farewell. Freedom. For the time being.

The next two days went exceedingly quickly. I laboured on and the jitters were quelled by a rather pleasant distraction in the shape of a walk and cup of coffee with a lady that shall remain nameless on the day before the big operation. Wednesday morning came and I found myself back on the A27 under the guidance of Mr Baron of Sussex Senior and his Mercedes. A quiet journey later (my batteries were running out), I found myself returned to Chandlers Ford.

I was gifted a bedroom and for the next hour or so, I familiarised myself with the TV and electric bed – definitely be wanting the latter sometime in the not too distant future. I slipped into a rather unbecoming hospital gown and a dressing gown over the top.

A bit of Jerry Springer to lighten the mood!

A pretty nurse beckoned me into a wheelchair and I was given a grand tour of the hospital, before finally hitting the Anaethetists’ room, quite literally. There was no lasting damage to my foot and an apologetic nurse settled me on the table to ready myself for the knock out. The rest is a blur, thankfully, but I was informed that I shouted “Goodnight Vienna!” before my prone body succumbed to the anaesthetic.

I was the Starr of the show

I awoke at around 5pm to an empty room and a sore head. Just in time for Neighbours and a cup of tea! My head was still a little numb by the time the Captain and Mrs Wendover paid me a much welcome visit, bearing a Bonsai tree, some grapes and a humongous tin of chocolates. We chatted for what seemed like hours (not that it was arduous!) and they were kicked out to let me rest and finish off my dinner, which I must say was rather lovely (the dinner, not them getting kicked out).

 

The moment I awoke, I grabbed my camera!

 

Sesame and pumpkin coated chicken goujons with chilli jam = Yum!

 

The Bonsai courtesy of Captain and Mrs Wendover

Sleep was a little difficult, so I managed to keep the nurses entertained until approximately 0300 hours, before I drifted off into dream land. Woken at 0600 hours for some meds and a pot of tea, followed by a good old fashioned English Breakfast.

 

It tasted better than it looked

 

My last appointment, before heading back to God’s own city, was a brief chat with the surgeon, an unwrapping, and an x-ray to check everything was in place. It was and I had survived.

 

Unwrapped and uncensored with an impressive bruise forming

The bionic man

 

An interesting experience on the whole, but not one I would particularly like to repeat. Here’s hoping the implant doesn’t need any tinkering with! I’d rather not have my head sliced open again.

Mr Baron of Sussex Senior was waiting and I bade my farewells to the morning shift.

The end or maybe the beginning?