So, in three days’ time I’ll be going under the knife at Guy’s Hospital, right under the towering gaze of the Eye of Sauron Shard. They want me there at 7 in the morning. That means nil by mouth – nothing but water past my lips since 11pm the night before, so I don’t blow chunks all over the surgeon and choke to death, Hendrix-style. Fair enough, I suppose.
They tell me I’m top of the list for that morning session, which suggests I’ll be whipped into surgery quickly. But a colleague tells me they tend to save the young, sprightly types until later so they can operate on the old, frail and broken and keep them in for a while. To make sure they don’t bleed out or decompose or something. So that suggests I’ll be sitting around, nervous and starving hungry, for a while.
This is a recurring theme: not knowing what to expect. It’s probably as much to do with me trying not to think about the whole affair as anything else. Has it actually sunk in that in a few days I’ll be rendered unconscious and have knives shoved down my throat? No, not really.
An old uni friend came round for dinner last week, having had her tonsils out a few years back. Her line was ‘you’re overthinking this, it’s a sore throat and ice cream and two weeks off work’. Here’s hoping you’re right Saz….
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