I was terrified of having surgery. In my mind, two things were paramount: loss of control of everything and the omnipresent fear of vomiting. I’ve already written about how it led to a meltdown and how I was suddenly struck with pragmatism (with a bit of self-sabotage in the swallowing problem - cant make things too easy for myself, can I?).
These fears partly lay behind my option to have the surgery done privately. I believed I’d have a greater degree of control in a smaller system - I certainly didn’t expect better surgery - and that the staff would be obliged to listen to my needs as a paying client rather than a patient going through the system. I won’t ever know if things would have been different. It’s enough to say that I was allowed my control, I was listened to at every stage and the staff bent over backwards to accommodate my needs.
My friend Anne came to collect us at 8am Saturday morning (13 October) and drive us over to NR Hospital. I was in a diazepam haze, feeling like I was heading for execution but resigned to my fate. The process was a lot slower and more protracted than I’d have liked - my original operation had been scheduled for 8am, then 9.30, then 10.30 - but I’m not complaining. Den stayed with me all the time. People popped in occasionally, Mr B visited to see if I needed any pre-op sedation (no, I was fine - miracle) and draw on me with a biro. Sometimes there’s no place for high technology! The anaesthetist introduced himself, the head nurse introduced himself and explained I could walk down to theatre or be trollied.
I walked, wearing my cosy cardigan and comfy Sketchers over the ubiquitous hospital gown. It wasn’t far, being a small hospital, into pre-op. Then I came round in my room, all done. Staff in and out, a dressing to be changed because of more bleeding, a blood-thinning injection in my tummy and then - The Socks. One of two constant nightmares for the next two weeks, those bloody socks to prevent DVT. Agony, itchy, impossible to get on and off one-armed and therefore requiring the clumsy nursing services of my poor husband.
I’d had a full mastectomy and a full axillary clearance, which usually requires a few days in hospital. Mr B, in his infinite wisdom, recognised my mental wellbeing was paramount so, having ensured all my tests were up to scratch, he agreed to discharge me that evening as I’d feel more in control in my own environment. Marilyn and her husband came to pick us up (good job too as she has an organisational head on her and remembered far more about the instructions I was given than Den and I did - I was dopey and he was a bit stressed).
Then the practicalities hit me. I didn’t remember being told I’d be attached to a drain so that was a surprise and quite difficult to get dressed around, let alone carry it everywhere. I’ll never be able to drink raspberry smoothie again, that’s for sure. Plus the sock issue. They itched and hurt round the tops but were essential. Apart from that, I was fine. I needed no pain relief throughout the whole recovery period. The only major problem seemed to be that my dressing wasn’t waterproof so a simple wipe-wash was the best I got for a week, till we went back for the next consultation.
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