Scalpels on the horizon

Well here one is mooching around, trying to take the mind off the impending hospital visit. See one is quite calm and relaxed about the whole thing... providing one doesn't think about it. The minute one starts to think about the foot operation the queasiness starts. Not thinking about it is a brilliant system that works well.

Well it would if one didn't have to fill out forms in triplicate and wash oneself, once again, in vile smelling iodine wash. The stuff makes you think of hospitals immediately. It's that medicinal smell that they have... disinfectants over the smell of human fear and excrement. Oh and the whole nil by mouth thing since 7am is not helping either... not to mention cereal for breakfast.

Which wanker was responsible for decreeing that cereal was an adequate breakfast? Now there is someone who should have had a scalpel taken to them. The poor little tummy, which is used to protein rich fare, is grumbling its dissent. Meanwhile the rest of the body is fighting an urge to snooze from all those carbs being shovelled in like that.

Oh and there might be a small underlying caffeine deficiency as well... just a small one... glares at the gigglers.

So here we are in the world's smallest waiting room. OMG there is the strange guy from the gym... with his mother no less... playing his iPod so we can all share in his pleasant taste in noise. Gods that is so annoying and there he sits oblivious to the glares of those around him. There is one in every crowd... he's ours L

Oh gods they are going to dress one small slave in purple. The universe hates, hates, hates...oh... maybe it's just His co-conspirator.  That it! So not dying during surgery. To die in purple would just be the living end.

Starving! Would kill for coffee, steak and chips about now. Not necessarily in that order might one add. Oh their calling one's name... here we go.

Whee and one gets a red cap... cos they go faster. OK and there is that pesky latex issue... which is kinda complicated in a hospital. And here comes the man bearing sharp things and a charming bedside manner. And here is the doctor bearing another type of sharpie to draw on one... dear gods how big is the bloody incision. Ah now here comes the good stuff...

Someone is calling a name... oh that's right... don't hear that name very often. Why do they have to wake you up by shouting at you? Pain relief? Umm... paracetamol will be fine. And there we go back to sleep... analgesics always do that every time.

The eyes flutter open... no pain. But damn one would kill for a drink and a snack. Oh good they won't let you out until you have eaten. What, is the question? Oh yoghurt and cheese... yes please. Institutional tea... umm no thank you, water will be fine.

Home again... dinner? Yes one knows the instructions said a light meal, but it's been nearly 12 hours. Dammit don't make a girl beg. And yes one gets control of the remote... recovery phase remember? Err... no one doesn't have to put out for these privileges... in recovery. Wonders idly how long that can be used... it's a sweet deal J