Operation: Operation

I woke up on my own accord, before the nurse came to get me out of bed.

I'd slept well, considering the din the old man down the way had been making, randomly shouting at nurses and shadows all night. 'Go AWAY, be off with ya!' on an endless loop, interspersed with random swearing and racially-tinged provocations. In hindsight, the bloke was obviously in pain or troubled or both, but I didn't like him very much.

I had previously noticed that a patient who'd had surgery a few days before had been given some purple liquid with which to wash his head with. I didn't mention this to the nurse, as I presumed that if I needed to do anything special she would tell me.

I hadn't seen my dad for a couple of weeks before the operation so I replied to a text that he'd sent me that morning. Helen and I had spoken about not speaking to each other that morning, which seems as though it would be easy enough to achieve but I had to try hard not to contact her.

I am naturally inclined (some would say unnaturally clingy) to tell Helen that I love her when I go round the corner to get some milk, so to not call or text her before the operation felt weird, but I think it was beneficial for us as it could've been a bit dramatic and upsetting for a couple of wimps like us.

After a few moments deliberating, I pulled myself together.

One of the nurses came round to do the usual tests, and I asked if I should have a shower, which I subsequently did.

Turns out that purple stuff was a super-duper antibacterial shampoo that would make my head clean enough to cut open. Apparently Head and Shoulders wasn't going to cut it. 

So, when my surgeon came to speak to me, I got told to go and scrub the millimetre long stubble that made up my hairdo.

I had met my surgeon a few times before. His name was Mr McEvoy and he is a very mollifying man. He looks and sounds slightly like Derek Acorah, that scouser who says he can talk to ghosts, but is infinitely more trustworthy.

He also has quite small hands, which had bothered me in the run up to the operation - but when I shook his paw that morning I decided it was better that he had Beadle-dexterity than Lennox Lewis-style mitts poking around in there.

He asked if I had any questions and I double-checked with him that I wouldn't be awake - having still not had this confirmed - where the incision would be, what the percentage chances were for the surgery to be a complete success and also for what could be considered an utter fuck up. Here's a list of some of the things that could go wrong:

1. Just the same as with any surgery, I could have a bad reaction to the general anaesthetic and go into cardiac arrest, or have breathing complications or stop breathing all together
2. Infection in the brain, wound or skull
3. Blood clot or bleeding on the brain
4. Brain swelling
5. Stroke
6. Coma
7. Seizures [Seizures? Pah! I shit 'em.]
8. Short-term problems with speech, memory, muscle weakness, balance, vision, coordination and other functions
9. As above, but long-term or lifelong
10. Locked-in syndrome 

We didn't mention that last one. Locked-in syndrome. Fucking hell. Just take the crystal and head for the dome, I'd rather be dead.

Blindness and paralysis being my two worst fears in life, I was elated to hear they were still nestled right at the top of the list. 

He bid me adieu, and I wished him good luck. Not entirely sure this was appropriate but it filled an awkward silence. To be honest I was just relieved he didn't ask me if there was anyone on 'the other side' that I wanted to speak to.

I hadn't really felt nervous, but I don't think I'd allowed myself to take on the seriousness of the situation.

Having sheep-dipped my head and put my gown on (the right way round and everything), a young nurse came and took me down to have my last MRI scan before surgery, so they could map exactly where my tumour was.

When we got down there, the entire ward was empty apart from a receptionist. This felt very odd as I had been there many times before and it was usually a hive of activity.

The nurse went through to the MRI department, but was halted just on the other side of the door that she'd left me by. I could hear her conversation with a doctor, who asked if she had my notes.

She didn't. Neither did he. Nor did the receptionist. 

The doctor bellowed that she should 'know your fucking patients better' and smashed through the doors, throwing me a smile - obviously not realising how loud he'd just been - and stormed off somewhere.

None of this was filling me with confidence.

Eventually though, my notes were found (someone had been using them to rest on when they were doing the Metro Sudoku, or something) and I was wheeled into a small room that had the i-MRI machine in it. It looked as though it was a little fireplace, or at least that's how I remember it - much smaller than I thought everything was going to be.

Lying down, looking like Private Pile, they slipped the needle into my hand. 

Unlike the previous times that I'd been under general anaesthetic, they didn't ask me to count down from twenty, they didn't ask me anything. The entire thing was played out in an eery silence.

It must have worked though, I didn't even feel them pummel me with the bars of soap. 

Then over the course of about ten hours, they scanned me, cut me open, scooped, sliced and chopped, scanned me again, and repeated that process until they got hungry. Or had a fag. Or thought they'd done as much as they could to remove my brain tumour and save my life, one of those.