The Recovery Room

Hard to say whether Tuesday May the 4 th was a good day or a bad day. On the one hand I was knocked out, partially frozen and set about with sharp instruments, which doesn't sound so good. But on the other hand, I did get rid of an irritable gallbladder- so maybe it'll be for the best.

At the moment, I look like I was attacked by a mad man with a hole punch, I have wobbly legs and my belly button looks like a Texas sunset. It can only get better.

When you say you're having your gallbladder removed by keyhole surgery, everyone says cheerfully; ' My brother/auntie/best friend had it done and was in and out the same day and demanding a Sunday roast with all the trimmings by the weekend! It's a piece of cake!' A piece of cake? Really? Hmm.

On the appointed day, I arrived at the hospital at 6.45 am. At 7.30 when they called my name I was still debating whether to actually go through with it. Never was very good at making commitments.

I went to meet the surgeon. He was a reassuringly older man- so I knew he may have done this operation once or twice before. He helpfully informed me of all the things that could go wrong and then offered me a pen, to sign away my rights in case it -or I - went tit's up. That really settled my nerves. Not. I knew from all the reading I had done that sometimes they were unable to perform this particular procedure by keyhole surgery. When that happens, they open the patient up properly. The pain is greater and the recovery time much longer. It sounded deeply unpleasant and I seriously didn't want that to be my fate.

Knowing it was a large stone, I thought there was a good chance that it might. I have spent most of my life getting my way with words, so I hoped there was something I could say to persuade this doctor not to reach for the can opener. I tried to flutter my frozen-with-fear eyelids, forced my face muscles to smile and said; " I heard you're the best." He paused, looked quite surprised and then, smoothing his hair, replied, "Oh I don't think that's true." But he looked rather pleased. I ploughed on with the rest of my strategy. "I'm hoping you won't have to open me right up." He looked at me, smiled and told me he would do his best. Being a first class wimp and fully paid up coward, I was quaking in my shoes when I arrived at the hospital

After that, everything happened very quickly. I changed into a gown, climbed up on a gurney and had some kind of tap arrangement inserted in the back of my hand. The anaesthetist was grumpy. I hoped he wasn't going to be my Last Living Memory.

The next thing I knew I woke up in recovery- freezing cold, shaking like the proverbial leaf and my teeth chattering harder than a set of mad castanets. I have never felt so cold, and from someone who lived in Eastern Canada for twenty years, that's saying something.

The nurse took my temperature, gasped and called for the hypothermia blanket. Oh, what a blissful cocoon of warmth. She told me then that my temperature was 35.6 and hypothermia is 35. Apparently for this operation, they chill you. I felt like I was one degree from the deep freeze. It took half an hour for my poor teeth to stop hitting each other.

While I slowly warmed up, the nurse showed me the gallstone- it was one and a half inches long and perfectly egg shaped. 'One of the biggest we've ever seen!' she beamed proudly. Then the surgeon appeared to tell me that because of the size of the stone, it had been a much longer operation and as a result, I would be staying in overnight. I didn't argue. It sounded like a wonderful idea. But, may God Bless him, despite it having become major surgery, the good doctor had managed to avoid opening me up.

Just before I was transferred to the ward, I realised I needed to pee. 'No problem' they said and someone shoved a bedpan under me. 'I don't think it's in the right place' I said. 'No, it's fine' you go ahead' came the cheerful reply. Well, it still didn't feel right, but if you say so....I let go. What a sweet release. I peed. I carried on peeing. I peed for England. 'Are you finished?' asked a disembodied voice from behind the curtain. 'Not yet' I replied. I peed some more. Another pause and someone said ' All done?' 'Not quite' I answered. Niagara would have blushed.

Finally the torrent subsided. I heaved a sigh of relief. And then - oh dear- felt a squelchy wet warmth. The bedpan had failed and failed spectacularly. Apparently they give you 2 litres of fluid during the operation. Well, I can report that I returned every last drop and dispersed it liberally around the gurney, the matress, the wheels, the floor and probably even the curtains.

'My Goodness' said the nurse who had previously commented on the size of the gallstone. 'You must have a bladder as big as a Space hopper!'

Charming. First the biggest gallstone on record and now a bladder the size of an inflatable toy. Still, I like to do things properly and as my pal Larry said to me later- either Go Big or Go Home. Wouldn't have it any other way!