I remember the early part of the day quite vividly (well, you would, wouldn’t you?) I remember sitting patiently with my bag at 5am, waiting for the transport to arrive and carry me to the hospital. (I hadn’t bothered going to bed, just dozed in an armchair for a couple of hours.) I remember paying the driver when we arrived. I remember the long walk up the corridor to the reception area, and I remember the little cubicle where the preliminary preps were performed. I remember being taken to the waiting room outside the operating theatres where I exchanged banter with the other patients because I assumed they were more nervous than me, and because I always resort to banter in unfamiliar circumstances. I remember not being in the slightest bit nervous myself, which might sound odd but it’s true. (It’s a strange fact about me that I tend to be the least nervous in the most hazardous circumstances. I could give several examples if pressed.) I remember a big nurse giving me an unusually painful injection and telling me what an excellent reputation my surgeon had.
The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed in a ward, with Mel looking down at me. She told me it was 9pm and I’d just been brought up from the recovery room. I asked her later what I looked like. She said: ‘sunken.’
I remember the week that followed during which I ate hardly a morsel of food because I couldn’t stand the smell of it in my nose or the taste of it in my mouth. At the end of the week I saw myself in a long mirror and was shocked at the sight of a scrawny little creature with a big belly (because part of the process of laparoscopic surgery involves pumping air into the abdomen, and it takes a while to return to normal. Mine never really has.) There was hardly any muscle mass left, but there were plenty of unfamiliar bones to be seen. It seemed as though I’d aged ten years in the space of a week and was close to the status of cadaver.
And then the so-called recovery began, punctuated by complications consequent on the procedure, one of which involved experiencing the worst pain I’ve ever known. There were more visits and more incarcerations, but at least I was getting out and about and exercising to put some muscle back where muscle is supposed to be. It was a process characterised by two steps forward and one back as the days went by, but at least that’s progress of a sort.
Eighteen months, they told me; that’s about the average to get back to normal after a kidney removal. So what’s ‘normal’ I might ask? I’ve never got back to where I was before the operation and never shall; the combined assaults of ageing and further health problems have precluded such a hope. But I’m still here for a while longer yet, and none of us knows how much time we’ve got left, do we? The current mantra can only be ‘carry on while you’re able and let the life force decide when it wants to move on.’ And so it shall be.
And I think that’s enough reminiscing for one day. The laundry is done and needs dealing with.
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