I slept well once Treacle had stopped stomping all over my head. I did think I’d be a tad more restless what with worry about the day’s ordeal, but I woke feeling rather more miffed about the fact that I couldn’t have anything to eat what with a general anaesthetic coming later.
I had a message from work – do a COVID lateral flow test. Something of a waste of time and money bearing in mind that Saturday’s PCR was negative and I hadn’t left the house since, but rules are rules. I did the test, and half an hour later saw it was negative.
As it incubated I sparked up the lap-top and peered into cyber-space (without toast for once). There was a rather controversial post on one of the work-based Facebook groups. People were bemoaning the piss-poor pay rise the NHS staff received last year. Many were blaming the unions. Others were defending the unions asking what the critics had done to help the unions. I kept well out of it, but couldn’t help but remember the last time I needed anything from a union. The full-time-paid union official told me that any help I wanted should come from unpaid work colleagues and that her time was better spent being seen on the telly taking part in high-profile protests and marches. She was rather vague as to what my (at the time) monthly subscription of a tenner paid for.
As “er indoors TM” got on with work I did a little more of my Coursera course, and completed all of the first week’s lectures.
And then the time had come…
At half past ten we got into the “er indoors TM”-mobile, and as “er indoors TM” drove I Munzee-ed like a thing possessed all the way to the Kent and Canterbury Hospital, and was soon in my bed on Kent ward for my third nasal polypectomy.
Once checked in I got out a puzzle book and tried to ignore the other two old chaps in the ward. One was thrilled at the prospect of having a “camera shoved up his arse” and the other was telling everyone and anyone about how he didn’t have to wear a face covering because he was ”exempt from COVID”. I had managed to tune these two out when what I can only describe as “The F*ckwit From Hell” ensconced himself in the bed opposite me. The chap immediately told me that hospital food was better than prison food, but I wasn’t to ask him how he knew. He told the fan of arse-cameras that he didn’t want a general anaesthetic because they knock him out for three days. And he told the nurse he was going home. After ten minutes of the poor nurse trying to placate him, he had a visitor. Wife? Girlfriend? Painted-Plastic-Barbie-Doll? The moment this fugitive from “Love Island” arrived so “The F*ckwit From Hell” burst into hysterical tears and announced that everyone in the ward (presumably me included) was part of a conspiracy to trick him into taking some obscure medication or other.
I made a point of ignoring him as best I could and got on with crosswords until the anaesthetist arrived. He told me what he was going to do (knock me out and keep me alive whilst the surgeon did his bit), and then the surgeon came and got me to sign some paperwork. The two of them then went over to “The F*ckwit From Hell” and I tried not to laugh out loud as this idiot tried to teach the doctors their jobs.
At ten to two I was taken down to the operating theatres. In years gone by I used to go in there once a week for professional reasons. As I said to the nurses, the place looked much the same, but as a patient seemed completely different.
They laid me down, put a needle in my hand, my arm went cold and suddenly it was an hour later and I was wide awake in the recovery area. It no longer felt as though there was a marble lodged behind my nose. The surgeon told me all had gone well, and that although he can’t say I’ll never need another polypectomy, he felt I should be good for a few years.
After half an hour it was clear that I was recovering to plan, and I got taken back to a peaceful ward. I took the opportunity to tell Facebook I was still alive and was reading “Harry Potter” on the Kindle app when I heard a commotion.
My heart sank.
“The F*ckwit From Hell” was being brought back to the ward. I’d been back half an hour and I hadn’t attempted to move from the bed. “The F*ckwit From Hell”’s bed hadn’t been put back into his bay when he was trying to get out of the bed. The nurses asked him if he’d like a drink of water, and by the time they’d got him one he had pulled out his cannula and was getting dressed. There was then an embarrassing ten minutes whilst his painted companion tried to reason with him; the more she calmly spoke sense, the more hysterical was his sobbing. After an embarrassing ten minutes “The F*ckwit From Hell” announced to the world that he was doing a discharge (!) then marched off the ward never to be seen again.
There was a general sigh of relief (not least from the nursing staff), and we all sat quietly. After half an hour I was given a pot and was told that rules are rules, and the nurse said she had to see that I’d pissed in said pot. I told the nurse that pissing in the ward was a tad feral, and asked if I could go to the toilet to do it. Permission was given. I took the pot to the toilet, pissed in it, handed the pot-full to the nurse and she was ecstatic. Some people are easily amused.
After having been back on the ward for two hours without any incidents (of my own) I was told I could go home, and it wasn’t long before “er indoors TM” was driving me home.
We had KFC for dinner. It was rather good. I’m feeling surprisingly chipper right now but I suppose that is to be expected with a nose full of cocaine. I wonder how I will feel tomorrow?