Getting Rid of It

So, the diagnosis was Monday. On Thursday I’m sitting in an open backed robe, taking off my toenail polish with NHS supply remover and signing a form for a mastectomy of my left breast and axillary clearance of my lymph nodes. The nodes did their best to get rid of the cancer on their own bless ‘em, but had only gone and got tumours themselves.

I can honestly say I had no doubts about the op. I do sometimes wonder if I’m a little bit emotionally retarded about the whole thing, but I think a mixture of not wanting it and having complete faith in my surgeon made the whole thing very straight-forward in my head. So into surgery I go…

And then, the morphine. The lovely, warming, snuggly, cocooning morphine.

I hear a voice above me (my eyes are closed but I know exactly where I am).

“Lucy, Lucy… Do you know where you are?”

“Yes, I’m queueing for the bar at The Flask”.

(The pub. My sub-conscious had taken me straight to the pub).

“Erm… No…. You’re in hospital…”

Bump. Back down to earth then.

“Ah, yes, yes. Have I been snoring?”

From that point on, I can only imagine I was the most annoying patient that recovery ward had ever encountered. When I wasn’t sleeping I was talking. A lot. Constantly.

“Oooh-I-love-a-chicken-mayonnaise-sandwich. Thank-you-so-much. And-a-banana? Ooooh-I-love-a-banana. I-didn’t-think-I’d-be-hungry-when-I-woke-up-but-turns-out-I-am. What’s-your-name? Chris? Where-do-you-come-from-Chris? I-thought-Portugal-but-I-don’t-know-why-I-thought-Portugal. Ooh-the-Philippines. I’ve-never-been-to-the-Philippines-but-I-have-been-to-Malaysia. I-love-Magic-FM-don’t-you? Just-singalong-songs-all-day. I’m-having-a-lovely-day. One-of-my-best-days-ever. I-never-thought-I’d-have-a-lovely-day-but-I-am. My-other-best-day-was-the-Royal-Wedding. I’m-having-a-lovely-day. Did-I-say-this-was-one-of-my-best-days”.

Shut up. Just shut up! Around me were other patients reacting normally to having had an operation. Sleeping, the occasional groan, some of them looking a little grey. Poor them for having a small child with ADHD unleashed on their ward moments after undergoing surgery.

Finally, I’m taken up to my ward (if only to give my recovery nurse five minutes of peace).

To find….

More people to talk at. God help them.