A week after my operation, and I'd been at home for two days.
I'd made an appointment at my GP's surgery to get my stitches removed by the nurse. This was pretty much the first time that I'd been outside for any longer than a few minutes.
My mum drove Helen and I to the surgery. I checked in at the desk and sat down in the crowded waiting room. We were a little early.
There was a little boy running round, showing off in front of everyone and hiding behind chairs, walls and me. He brought a big smile to my face - which hurt, actually.
There was also a range of older people, coughing and spluttering over each other and generally looking sorry for themselves.
Next to us, there was a Turkish-looking lad in his late twenties in a tracksuit and kitted out with crutches.
We'd accidentally exchanged glances a few times before he gave me a proper raise of the chin. I smiled at him and mumbled a generic 'Alright mate'. He looked at me with a rueful eye and smiled.
'How'd you do that, fighting?' He asked.
'Er, no, I had brain surgery. Getting the stitches removed today.' I said, smiling both at his suggestion and at the realisation that I was getting those fucking stitches out.
'Yeah, but you do it fighting? Is that why you had surgery?'
'No, I had a, erm, a brain tumour, just here.' I said, pointing at my frontal lobe.
'What, from fighting? Just 'cause a lot of - most of - some of - my friends have scars like that from fighting.'
'No, this was just a tumour.' I said trying to keep a straight face.
Our new friend went on to explain that his knees 'weren't his', after injuring them boxing. He was the best boxer in the country, so he was currently out of a job. My mum randomly got really involved with this chap's story, but unfortunately it was cut short, as I was called into the nurse's room.
I hadn't met this nurse before. She was a tiny Vietnamese-looking lady with a nice smile and a comforting accent. Until, that was, she asked why on Earth, if I was a man, my mum and Helen where there and then ordered me to sit down in the corner.
Just as when I'd had stitches in my knee when I was a teenager, it was the getting them out that was the real gum-dryer.
The nurse was telling me what a neat job they had done at the hospital, and how it was one long cross-stitch running from my right earlobe in a question mark shape to the top right of my forehead. Like this.
Neat job, eh?
.JPG)
A couple of times she warned me that it was going to hurt, and she was not wrong.
Afterwards she explained that she'd been pulling a knot through each one of the holes. I didn't want to retrospectively ask her why she hadn't just trimmed that bit off (FOR FUCK'S SAKE) as the stitches were out, it was done, and by all accounts my head was - relatively speaking - in one piece again.
I waited a day and then I did something that I'd been looking forward to for a week. Have a proper shower!
I'd made an appointment at my GP's surgery to get my stitches removed by the nurse. This was pretty much the first time that I'd been outside for any longer than a few minutes.
My mum drove Helen and I to the surgery. I checked in at the desk and sat down in the crowded waiting room. We were a little early.
There was a little boy running round, showing off in front of everyone and hiding behind chairs, walls and me. He brought a big smile to my face - which hurt, actually.
There was also a range of older people, coughing and spluttering over each other and generally looking sorry for themselves.
Next to us, there was a Turkish-looking lad in his late twenties in a tracksuit and kitted out with crutches.
We'd accidentally exchanged glances a few times before he gave me a proper raise of the chin. I smiled at him and mumbled a generic 'Alright mate'. He looked at me with a rueful eye and smiled.
'How'd you do that, fighting?' He asked.
'Er, no, I had brain surgery. Getting the stitches removed today.' I said, smiling both at his suggestion and at the realisation that I was getting those fucking stitches out.
'Yeah, but you do it fighting? Is that why you had surgery?'
'No, I had a, erm, a brain tumour, just here.' I said, pointing at my frontal lobe.
'What, from fighting? Just 'cause a lot of - most of - some of - my friends have scars like that from fighting.'
'No, this was just a tumour.' I said trying to keep a straight face.
I hadn't met this nurse before. She was a tiny Vietnamese-looking lady with a nice smile and a comforting accent. Until, that was, she asked why on Earth, if I was a man, my mum and Helen where there and then ordered me to sit down in the corner.
Just as when I'd had stitches in my knee when I was a teenager, it was the getting them out that was the real gum-dryer.
The nurse was telling me what a neat job they had done at the hospital, and how it was one long cross-stitch running from my right earlobe in a question mark shape to the top right of my forehead. Like this.
Neat job, eh?
.JPG)
A couple of times she warned me that it was going to hurt, and she was not wrong.
Afterwards she explained that she'd been pulling a knot through each one of the holes. I didn't want to retrospectively ask her why she hadn't just trimmed that bit off (FOR FUCK'S SAKE) as the stitches were out, it was done, and by all accounts my head was - relatively speaking - in one piece again.
I waited a day and then I did something that I'd been looking forward to for a week. Have a proper shower!
No comments:
Post a Comment