There's something about a man describing to you how he is going to slice you open and readjust your insides. It sounds like a horror film and some of the process of recovery really is horror.
Three days ago when the specialist told me that the surgeons had made a u-turn and that they would operate on my liver then both Becky and myself were chuffed. It's always my preferred option, to get the vile disease out of me. It was my favoured treatment last year and a few weeks ago when the surgeons said they wouldn't operate this upset me more than I had realised at the time. Now, along with an element of surprise I had a feeling of positivity that something definitive is at least being attempted. We left the hospital looking forward to finding out more and planning the recovery. "It won't be as major as the last surgery you had," the specialist said. Nice words, they even made us feel a bit blase about it all until the realisation that he has used a comparative statement. Of course it's not as major as last time; last time I had my spleen, two thirds of my pancreas and a further six tumours removed from liver. I don't think I have enough organs left to have something as major as last time.
Telling people that I'm having surgery creates contrasting responses. I get the "oooh shit I'm really sorry to hear that," and awkward shuffle from one person before bumping into someone else around the corner who smiles with a "that's great. It's really good they can do something." The latter is the correct response in case you are wondering. This is a positive step. They wouldn't wasted the time and money of the NHS if they didn't think it would be worthwhile. Yes, it's not a guaranteed success but it's still a positive plan.
So today the surgeon talked about cutting me open with the calm of a man telling us his route to fetch the Sunday newspapers. What's removing five tumours or possibly cutting the whole side of someone's liver between friends?
The trouble with reminiscing about last years recovery has been a tendency to recall the nicer times. Now the finer details came back like that second dose of hiccups that irritably always arrive later in the day.
Remember the epidural not working? Oh yeah.
Remember how many tubes were sticking out of me as I lay with intense sore throats in intensive care? Oh yeah.
Remember when I was off my head on morphine and claiming I was going to fly away? Oh yeah.
Remember when the nurse dropped the bag of bile from my liver all over the bed? Oh yeah.
Remember when I needed help every time I wanted to get up off the bed or sofa? Oh yeah.
Remember wincing in a sudden shot of pain a couple of times every hour? Oh yeah.
Remember the crappy food in the hospital? Oh yeah.
Remember being spaced out for weeks and blurry vision? Oh yeah.
Remember the tube for the drain from my liver being sickeningly painful? Oh yeah.
Remember every meal being a painful experience and leaving a feeling of intense sickness? Oh yeah.
Remember not being able to hold or play with the kids? Oh yeah.
Remember going off chocolate? Oh yeah.
Remember never feeling comfortable and the nights of not being able to sleep? Oh yeah.
Remember needing to go to the toilet making me feel like I was going to collapse with sickness? Oh yeah.
Remember having 57 staples plucked from my abdomen? Oh yeah.
Remember my floods of tears because catching a certain smell brought back horrific memories of the hospital? Oh yeah.
Still, all of the above could really be a small price to pay. So 26th June will soon be here and then the recovery begins.
Remember when it didn't actually take too long to physically recover and life regained an element of normality whilst feeling better than I had for years? Oh yeah!
Onwards and upwards.
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