A good physician treats the disease, the great physician treats the patient who has the disease.
Surgery
Valentine's Present
It was the fourteenth of February and Catherine and I were having a really romantic day out at the hospital. Today was the operation and we had caught an early train and were now sat in a waiting room. There were other people in the room but I didn't really notice them. I was focussed on myself. When we had arrived, the hospital had seemed very quiet but now that the day was starting the corridor outside the waiting room began to buzz with the footsteps of staff, exchanges of pleasantries and the finalising of plans. Alas there was no rattling tea trolley. I was already hungry and thirsty being nil by mouth. A nurse approached and ran through the usual pre-opt questions about when I had last eaten or drank etc. I was given a 'lovely' hospital gown to put on and an even more fetching pair of compression stockings. Catherine couldn't complain that I hadn't dressed up for Valentines! We then met with one of the doctors from the team. We had to sign all the various forms giving consent and agreeing to the associated risks. He also explained how they now wanted to open my appendix scar up to harvest some fat to fill the void when they removed the facial tissue.
After this it was time for Catherine to go home. I was going through to be prepared for surgery, the operation would take several hours and I would take hours to recover. There was nothing she could do at the hospital and it was better for her to be home for the children. I would see her tomorrow.
A little anaesthetic
I remember being very calm and not at all nervous. I was abdicating responsibility, there was nothing I could do and there was no point worrying about anything. I had watched a gruesome film of a similar operation and knew what they were about to do to my face. I had to accept my fate, if something went wrong, it went wrong. But I had faith in the team that were supporting me. They were particularly good at explaining things to me. The anaesthetist talked me through what she was doing as I was prepared to go into theatre. She was connecting a long transparent box with a huge syringe inside it to a cannula in my left arm. "This is pain killer." she explained. "Lots of it." she smiled. She explained how it was connected to a driver that constantly delivered the drug and how she would make sure that I didn't feel anything." She then showed me a small syringe that was connected to a cannula in my right arm. This, she told me, was the anaesthetic, we don't use a lot - just enough to keep you drowsy. You might wake up but you wont remember anything. A few minutes later she asked me if I was ready, and then slowly emptied the syringe into me.
Waking Up
My next memory was not for another six or seven hours later. I felt great! I had apparently been waking up and going back to sleep for well over an hour. I later was told that I had had a conversation with one of the surgical team about the operation but I do not remember. Apparently, I had even suggested that they tell me this again later in case I forgot. I was in a room with one other patient recovering from their operation. Nurses came and went, monitoring my vitals etc. and I was still in and out of wakefulness. However, by the time the nurse on the night shift arrived I was fully and totally awake.
I was now on my own in the room as the other patient had been moved earlier. This meant I was fortunate enough to have the nurse to myself and was able to have a pleasant chat with her for a long while. I took the above 'selfie' at about 2am before falling back asleep. Next thing I was aware of was the early morning staff arriving.
The Morning After
At about 7am I was moved to a ward where I expected to be for the next week. That was the plan and Catherine would visit after taking the children to school. I was enjoying some tea and toast when one of the doctors from the surgical team arrived to see how I was. She told me that the surgery had gone well and that they had found and removed a tumour. She then explained that she had had this same conversation with me the day before when I had been in recovery. Then to my surprise she said I could go home. She explained how I could come into the clinic at the end of the week for my dressings to be changed but for now I didn't need to remain in hospital. This was great news as recovering at home was infinitely better than having to stay in hospital. When she left I rang Catherine who was initially rather sceptical that I was being discharged. Eventually she realised that I was not totally delirious. Catherine had planned to come in on public transport but now had to arrange a friend to come with her in the car. All this took time so it was about lunchtime before discharge letters, medication and my transport home were all ready.
