Early November 2006. Less than a week after my mum's death I’m being admitted into St. George’s Hospital, Tooting, for my biopsy. Avtar, one of the cops in my squad, takes Francesca, my auntie Ann and me there. The kids stay at home with Francesca’s mum, who is over from Rome for about two weeks.
Upon arrival I'm booked into a two-bed side room. The patient lying opposite me, I soon discover, was a roofer that had fallen some distance onto a concrete floor compressing part of his skull a few weeks prior. He was cheerful, and introduced me to the delights of the patient TV at the side of my bed.
After about two hours I told Francesca and Ann to go home, it was getting late and I didn’t want Francesca to go home to find her mother dangling from the rafters. The kids had a tendency to ‘run rings’ around her.
Shortly after, the nurse came around and took a blood sample from me. This would be the first of many. One of the surgeons called in next to explain the procedure to me. He told me that in addition to a biopsy they would be removing a portion of the tumour through ‘debulking’. It was anticipated that this would alleviate any pressure build-up within the cranium. He’s a young man, in his early thirties, and judging by his name and accent I would say he was from Central America. Not a good time to mention the Alamo then?!
The next morning a nurse wakes me at 7am. She orders me to wear a ridiculous operating gown. After ablutions I don it the logical way, the only way the one hundred tiny tassels can be tied. Unfortunately, this leaves me with a slight problem, my ‘wang’ is hanging out. Hmm… air-conditioning, I think. Just then a nurse walks in. Time for a ‘bom chicka wah wah’ moment. Yeah, not the way my lucks been lately! She’s someone’s granny, about 300lb, and not putting up with any shit at the start of her shift. “Son”, she announces in a thick Jamaican accent, “you got that on the wrong way”.
Shortly after a porter arrives with a gurney. Carefully, covering my ass and ‘bits’ I gingerly hoist myself up and sit on the side. With one deft movement I bring my legs up horizontal whilst maintaining my dignity.
Quick intros. In the theatre, seem like a nice bunch of people. I remind them that I’m not a traffic cop, and that I only usually deal with robberies and burglaries. A small prick in my hand, doctor, there’s a time and a place [sorry, couldn’t resist that], an icy stream up my arm. I try to say the caution, I get to, ‘…court…’, and I’m out.
Operations are strange things. I always fancied time travel would be the same. I mean the needle goes in and the next thing is you wake up three or more hours later in another part of the hospital with no sense of elapsed time. Sure enough, true to point, that’s what happens.
The recovery in hospital is swift. Ten staples in the side of my head, and a big patch of hair missing. The wife fondly refers to me as Frankenstivan. Truly, the root canal work two years before was worse. But then again, that was in a tiny Italian village with little or no anaesthetic. Just call me Indiana Ivan. Well my life is made up of challenges. ‘Snakes, why did it have to be snakes?’ Nah! Brain tumours, why did it have to be brain tumours?
Upon arrival I'm booked into a two-bed side room. The patient lying opposite me, I soon discover, was a roofer that had fallen some distance onto a concrete floor compressing part of his skull a few weeks prior. He was cheerful, and introduced me to the delights of the patient TV at the side of my bed.
After about two hours I told Francesca and Ann to go home, it was getting late and I didn’t want Francesca to go home to find her mother dangling from the rafters. The kids had a tendency to ‘run rings’ around her.
Shortly after, the nurse came around and took a blood sample from me. This would be the first of many. One of the surgeons called in next to explain the procedure to me. He told me that in addition to a biopsy they would be removing a portion of the tumour through ‘debulking’. It was anticipated that this would alleviate any pressure build-up within the cranium. He’s a young man, in his early thirties, and judging by his name and accent I would say he was from Central America. Not a good time to mention the Alamo then?!
The next morning a nurse wakes me at 7am. She orders me to wear a ridiculous operating gown. After ablutions I don it the logical way, the only way the one hundred tiny tassels can be tied. Unfortunately, this leaves me with a slight problem, my ‘wang’ is hanging out. Hmm… air-conditioning, I think. Just then a nurse walks in. Time for a ‘bom chicka wah wah’ moment. Yeah, not the way my lucks been lately! She’s someone’s granny, about 300lb, and not putting up with any shit at the start of her shift. “Son”, she announces in a thick Jamaican accent, “you got that on the wrong way”.
Shortly after a porter arrives with a gurney. Carefully, covering my ass and ‘bits’ I gingerly hoist myself up and sit on the side. With one deft movement I bring my legs up horizontal whilst maintaining my dignity.
Quick intros. In the theatre, seem like a nice bunch of people. I remind them that I’m not a traffic cop, and that I only usually deal with robberies and burglaries. A small prick in my hand, doctor, there’s a time and a place [sorry, couldn’t resist that], an icy stream up my arm. I try to say the caution, I get to, ‘…court…’, and I’m out.
Operations are strange things. I always fancied time travel would be the same. I mean the needle goes in and the next thing is you wake up three or more hours later in another part of the hospital with no sense of elapsed time. Sure enough, true to point, that’s what happens.
The recovery in hospital is swift. Ten staples in the side of my head, and a big patch of hair missing. The wife fondly refers to me as Frankenstivan. Truly, the root canal work two years before was worse. But then again, that was in a tiny Italian village with little or no anaesthetic. Just call me Indiana Ivan. Well my life is made up of challenges. ‘Snakes, why did it have to be snakes?’ Nah! Brain tumours, why did it have to be brain tumours?
Four days later I’m on my way home to the temple of doom. Well the mother-in-law is staying! Help!
5 comments:
Seriously, no one said that did they?
And debulking? How much did they remove?
See you in a few days.
TTFN
Not much, thats why I opted for more surgery. No, I'll see you tomorrow night. Hey its my birthday tomorrow, booooo!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
A day early. I'm forgetful in my old age.
Thanks K, appreciated, although I stopped celebrating birthdays a long time ago (much to the wife's disdain). A year older, hmmm... we should be happy because? What, we're a year closer to being a dribbling, gibbering, incontinant burden on our children?
Hey, Happy BD again! Too much cleaning in the house kept me away from your blog. I'm back now.
I just remember when they operated me . "Let's go to "open you""- they told me. It's good they did it at 10 pm on a Saturday night ... Otherwise, they would have certainly had to keep my gangrenous appendix for the autopsy!!
Keep it up, M
Post a Comment