A week ago today I found myself sitting in front of an anaesthetist.
I listened, keenly, as he checked my medical history.
Then he told me, in cool detail, what he was going to do.
Five different anaesthetics.
Yummy!
The nurse reappeared as he left to scrub up.
‘Is he any good?’
‘He’s the best I’ve worked with in 23 years. If I had a family member undergoing surgery, I’d want him as the anaesthetist’
‘Fair enough’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yep’
‘Good. Follow me’
This was something new.
In all of my previous surgical encounters I’d been unconscious on arrival at the hospitals.
I walked out of the pre-op ward, through the double-doors, a litle way down the corridor and followed the nurse through another set of double doors.
Straight in to the operating theatre.
As requested, I hopped up on to the operating table.
The anaesthetist asked how I was doing, and then fitted the cannula.
‘Do you drink?’ he asked me.
‘Hardly ever’
‘You’ll feel like you’ve had quite a bit, in a minute’
A minute passed and he was right.
The surgeon walked over and said hello.
The anaesthetist fiddled with the cannula attached to the back of my hand.
‘That will feel very cold’
Man, was he right!
‘Before the cold has spread past your elbow you’ll be asleep’
He was right again.
I slept.
I woke just as I was being wheeled in to my private ward.
I felt fine, but let’s put that in context.
When I was sitting in front of the anaesthetist a couple of hours ago, I felt fine then too.
I felt fine last week.
I felt fine last month.
I felt fine last year.
Here’s the history.
More than a handful of years ago, I was in North Wales for a weekend break when I had a painful attack of trapped wind.
The wind passed after three eye-watering hours, during which I briefly contemplated stabbing my chest with a sharp object, to release the cause of the pain.
Fortunately a sane inner voice talked me out of it.
A couple of years later I had another, very brief attack, and decided to seek medical advice.
I went to my GP who poked, prodded, listened, and asked questions.
I was diagnosed with… trapped wind.
Well that was unexpected.
Not.
The GP gave me some ‘sort your stomach out’ pills, and that was that.
Fast forward to modern times where, after a big round of blood tests which led to an ultrasound scan, I was diagnosed with a defective gallbladder.
In the late post-surgery afternoon, the consultant walked in for a chat.
He wasn’t very complementary about my former internal organ.
It was, apparently, half full of gallstones, completely full of pus, and severely infected.
And I’d felt fine.
My gallbladder was in such a poor state, it had taken the surgeon three times as long as normal to remove it and tidy up.
No, really, I’d felt fine.
I was released from hospital early Tuesday evening, wearing four nice new holes in my abdomen.
I also had a carrier bag full of a range of different medications.
I strode purposefully out of the hospital, eager to get home.
Don’t get me wrong.
Every single member of staff at the hospital was brilliant.
Skilled, professional, compassionate, good communicators, approachable, and yet no-nonsense.
They were all excellent.
I just wanted to be home.
So, one week after my surgery, how’s it going?
It’s going pretty well.
The first few days (and nights) are a retrospective blur.
I thought I was fine; thought I was in full possession of my faculties.
Thought that I was ticking over on minimal medication.
Last night I spoke to a couple of people about the week just ended, and that’s when I realised I had lost 48 hours.
Those first two days and nights at home had become a single, hazy event, in which I had no grasp of time.
I couldn’t tell you what things had happened on which days.
That’s a little bit spooky.
Anyway.
I’m on the mend.
I haven’t needed any morphine since Sunday.
I’m due back at work on Wednesday next week.
I plan to be off all medication by the end of this week.
I miss doing things, and I’m going a bit stir crazy.
But I haven’t stabbed anyone yet.
Take care post anaesthetic. I was told that to really get over the possible effects of a general anaesthetic takes 1 week per year you’ve lived. Don’t be surprised if you tend to feel tired quicker than you did before.
Anyway, congratulations on becoming gallbladderless.
*counts on fingers and toes* That seems like a very long recovery time. Thanks for the congrats.
The wife had her gallbladder out a few years back, as it was giving her jip. The pain was so bad, she said, that one night she phoned for an ambulance as she thought she was having a heart attack (I was working away at the time).
So, you’re right to have it out: it’s a pointless organ… like the appendix.
Or Donald Trump’s brain.
Glad you’re on the mend.
I do understand the current Mrs M’s description of the pain. It went on and on and on, like a bad party political broadcast. There was just no relief. You should tell her that it’s all the rage now – being gallbladderless. She’s started a trend.
My wife had a similar issue, and result. All the rage indeed. I feel dirty owning one still.
Funny how the issue/result seems to be quite as common as it is.