Literally cut up

Got a call from Southern Health two weeks ago saying its been well over a year since I was put on the wait list for surgery and was I still interested..?

Interested? Not quite the word for it really. I wasn't really interested in getting the condition in the first place but there you go. But now that I've got the chance to do something about it it well - yes I am quite interested thanks for asking.

It made me wonder how many folks do say "Nah, don't think I really can fit in a heart by-pass with my schedule - what say we give it a miss!"

Admittedly mine is a condition that is neither terminal nor life threatening, and even though I do try to be very careful with the term "need", I think it does count as "needed" (But not quite like how I need a cobalt blue Kitchenaid). I know that without intervention the condition will ultimately result in increasingly debilitating pain, possible infertility and potentially ruin a perfectly good marriage.

So worth doing I'd wager.

Unfortunately as I discovered at the pre-admin clinic shortly thereafter, surgery did not necessarily prevent any of these things. But things should improve. Three cheers for qualified optimism!

The inspecting Doctor (and the cast of thousands that "needed" to inspect my most private of parts) said there had been a cancellation and would I like to be scheduled for the 27th?

Well "like" is again a term most folks don't readily associate with being cut open, but having spent so long dreading the phone call right before I started a new job or right before my wedding, I was relieved that it was finally going to happen.

I will spare you the details of "bowel" preparation for surgery, suffice to say it was both worse, and not as bad as I expected.

My poor Dad probably knows more than he would have liked about my reproductive organs and sexual history, but he was outstanding company during the long wait for theatre.

By the time I made it to the recovery ward my bits felt like the Ikea car park - with everyone having had a visit. This was not a teaching hospital but I think they shipped in a herd of 4th years just for me.

The coincidence of all coincidences is that one of my best friends was also (unexpectedly) under the knife at exactly the same time. Fortunately for her, she at least got to take home a baby. Though two lucky viewers/research organisations did get to take home a show bag of my dodgy DNA. May I serve as a warning to others.

Jms and Dad are well deserved co-recipients for the "Man of the Year" award for my post-operative care. Having become an invertebrate (delightful effect of the morphine) they had to pour me in and out of the car/bed/chair and put up with me falling asleep mid-sentence.

Jms commented the following day that my pupils were still completely dilated. That might explain how I got the glow stick (just a hallucination) and the fluro wristband. No wait - that's the "don't stick anything nasty into this already dodgy arm" band. With the matching "allergy" red hat and arm band combo (and rather humorously "Bee Stings" written on it - just in case they had an apiary problem in theatre).

And so much for not driving a car for 24 hours - its Sunday night (4 days post -op) and I am only just able to sit in a chair without falling over. Lord knows how you'd do this with a new born.

Thank goodness the last few months have me well trained for sitting on the couch. This time staring wistfully into the distance and wishing I was in Sydney. Holding the latest member of the Dobbins clan, Phoebe Arbella. All 9 pounds and 10 precious ounces of her. Our "in utero" flower girl is finally here.

Well done Bronald!