Preparing for surgery

The night before surgery, I went to my favourite curry house in Turnpike Lane with Helen, my sister Clare, and my mum.

On the walk there and back I managed to speak to my old man, my Grandma and also a smattering of aunts and uncles.

Tearing into a garlic naan, I was feeling quite relaxed.

But some complex feelings of excitement were mixed up with a fair bit of anxiety. I have a feeling that a lot of this was about what I was leaving at home, though. Namely nearly every female in my life within a ten-yard radius of each other. Critical mass.

The next day, with my bag packed like I was going on holiday, the four of us got a cab to Queen Square. We even drove straight past my office, allowing me to give it the customary - and completely unnecessary, I really like my job - two-fingered salute.

I'd been to this hospital many times before for MRIs and meetings with my neuro-oncologist, and this didn't feel much different.

We all walked into the ward that I'd be staying on and the mood changed somewhat. I became very aware of my surroundings, with people scattered around beds in various states of disarray, and that this atmosphere was going to be inescapable for a few days at least. I could see a change, notably from Helen, on our party's faces.

There was a mixture of old people and young people, some had obviously already had their surgery with bits and bobs hanging out of them, some people were so grey and washed out they looked like they'd been in the ward for a considerable amount of time, and some were fresh meat like me. They all had one thing in common, everyone looked fucking miserable.

I was pointed towards the bed that I'd (be trying my hardest to) sleep in, which was in the middle of a bay of six, in two rows of three.

Every ten or twenty seconds the relative quiet of the ward was punctuated by an old chap who was in a room of his own about twenty yards away from our bay. He seemed to be aware of his surroundings, but he obviously wasn't very happy with them. He was screaming and shouting and swearing at anyone that came near him or his room. This didn't bother me at first, but it visibly upset Helen.

My merry gang stayed with me for some time, and various nurses came and took my blood pressure and temperature, as they would every three hours day and night for the next week, and introduced themselves. They were all lovely people.

Steamed lasagne - who would've thunked it?

The lady who was in charge of steaming the food (expertly modelled by myself, above), however, seemed to be a slightly more troubled character. By that I mean she was grumpy as sin. Helen made it my mission to get her to smile before I left. Which wasn't as easy as it sounds.

Helen stayed with me until the very end of visiting hours. It was very odd saying goodbye to her, but I wasn't scared. 

I had a feeling that everything was going to be OK.