so impressed with how you’ve handled all of this so far.’ My eyes widened and tears took their cue to form as he continued, ‘I wish I could be more like you.’
Astonished by his compliment, I lost the power of speech. ‘Pfah!’ I exhaled, incomprehensibly. ‘Wha … well, hah.’ He continued to smile at me as I made a prize twat of myself. ‘Crikey, well, I don’t know about that,’ I eventually retorted, my inability to know what to do with a compliment showing no signs of improving. I shuffled about uncomfortably, muttering ‘thank you’ and feeling grateful when the lift doors opened. Every time I’ve since relived that moment in my head – which is, at the last count, precisely 693, 821 times – I’m far cooler than I was in reality, playfully nudging his shoulder with a wink and an, ‘Aw, I bet you say that to all your patients.’ But, goofy as I was at the time, I couldn’t escape the feeling of smugness that the man I was fast coming to hold in such sky-high esteem had said that
he
wanted to be more like
me
. It was like getting a report card filled with As, and I make no apologies for lapping up my opportunity to become teacher’s pet.
Back on the ward, P, my folks and Jamie were waiting around the bed that was to become my base for the next five days, doing what they could to make my room feel less like a hospital and more like a student dorm: P tucking in a teddy bear, Mum tending to flowers, Dad setting up an iPod docking station, and Jamie blu-tacking a Foo Fighters greeting card that opened out into a phwoar-tastic poster of Dave Grohl. I changed into my gown and squeezed my calves into DVT socks, recommending some swanky local shops they might like to visit during the six hours I was expected to be in theatre. It was stupid, really – pretending that they’d be out on a jolly shopping trip rather than biting their nails to the bone until such a time as I was wheeled back to them – each of them was as frightened as me, and avoidance of the issue seemed like the best – if not the only – tactic.
‘Are you ready to go then, darlin’?’ asked a head that popped round the door.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’ I shrugged. ‘Come on, then,’ I said, glancing over to my fraught-looking parents. ‘Let’s do this thing.’ My bravado didn’t last long – barely enough time for Mum, Dad and Jamie to kiss me and tell me that they loved me – for by the time I was wheeled out to the lift, gripping P’s hand all the while, I was already in tears. My eyes burned with pure fear as I begged a higher force to let me wake up with this
thing
– this
bastard thing
– successfully removed from my body, never to return again. I looked nowhere other than into P’s beautiful eyes – even as I was introduced to the anaesthetist – thinking that, if I wasn’t going to survive this, they would be the last thing I’d wish to see.
‘Have you had a general anaesthetic before?’ asked the anaesthetist. I shook my head, still weeping. ‘Well, there’s nothing to worry about,’ he continued. ‘It’ll just be like having a few G&Ts.’
My head answered, ‘I could do with one of those,’ but I didn’t have the energy to articulate the thought, so fixated was I on my husband’s loving face as the needle entered the back of my hand.
And then, with one too many shots of Gordon’s, I was asleep.
CHAPTER 6
The equaliser
Ah, morphine. I’m whizzed off my tits.
I mean tit.
And, in the drug-induced spirit of everything being lovely, here’s a thing to melt your heart. I just found the following text on my husband’s phone (I may be flat out in a hospital bed, but I’m still sneaky enough to check people’s phones when they’re not looking): ‘I know this is a strange message to send to my mother-in-law, but I’ve just seen your daughter’s left breast and it looks amazing.’ And I thought the morphine was good.
I might have a discoloured, odd-looking, wonky mound of flesh
Astonished by his compliment, I lost the power of speech. ‘Pfah!’ I exhaled, incomprehensibly. ‘Wha … well, hah.’ He continued to smile at me as I made a prize twat of myself. ‘Crikey, well, I don’t know about that,’ I eventually retorted, my inability to know what to do with a compliment showing no signs of improving. I shuffled about uncomfortably, muttering ‘thank you’ and feeling grateful when the lift doors opened. Every time I’ve since relived that moment in my head – which is, at the last count, precisely 693, 821 times – I’m far cooler than I was in reality, playfully nudging his shoulder with a wink and an, ‘Aw, I bet you say that to all your patients.’ But, goofy as I was at the time, I couldn’t escape the feeling of smugness that the man I was fast coming to hold in such sky-high esteem had said that
he
wanted to be more like
me
. It was like getting a report card filled with As, and I make no apologies for lapping up my opportunity to become teacher’s pet.
Back on the ward, P, my folks and Jamie were waiting around the bed that was to become my base for the next five days, doing what they could to make my room feel less like a hospital and more like a student dorm: P tucking in a teddy bear, Mum tending to flowers, Dad setting up an iPod docking station, and Jamie blu-tacking a Foo Fighters greeting card that opened out into a phwoar-tastic poster of Dave Grohl. I changed into my gown and squeezed my calves into DVT socks, recommending some swanky local shops they might like to visit during the six hours I was expected to be in theatre. It was stupid, really – pretending that they’d be out on a jolly shopping trip rather than biting their nails to the bone until such a time as I was wheeled back to them – each of them was as frightened as me, and avoidance of the issue seemed like the best – if not the only – tactic.
‘Are you ready to go then, darlin’?’ asked a head that popped round the door.
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’ I shrugged. ‘Come on, then,’ I said, glancing over to my fraught-looking parents. ‘Let’s do this thing.’ My bravado didn’t last long – barely enough time for Mum, Dad and Jamie to kiss me and tell me that they loved me – for by the time I was wheeled out to the lift, gripping P’s hand all the while, I was already in tears. My eyes burned with pure fear as I begged a higher force to let me wake up with this
thing
– this
bastard thing
– successfully removed from my body, never to return again. I looked nowhere other than into P’s beautiful eyes – even as I was introduced to the anaesthetist – thinking that, if I wasn’t going to survive this, they would be the last thing I’d wish to see.
‘Have you had a general anaesthetic before?’ asked the anaesthetist. I shook my head, still weeping. ‘Well, there’s nothing to worry about,’ he continued. ‘It’ll just be like having a few G&Ts.’
My head answered, ‘I could do with one of those,’ but I didn’t have the energy to articulate the thought, so fixated was I on my husband’s loving face as the needle entered the back of my hand.
And then, with one too many shots of Gordon’s, I was asleep.
CHAPTER 6
The equaliser
Ah, morphine. I’m whizzed off my tits.
I mean tit.
And, in the drug-induced spirit of everything being lovely, here’s a thing to melt your heart. I just found the following text on my husband’s phone (I may be flat out in a hospital bed, but I’m still sneaky enough to check people’s phones when they’re not looking): ‘I know this is a strange message to send to my mother-in-law, but I’ve just seen your daughter’s left breast and it looks amazing.’ And I thought the morphine was good.
I might have a discoloured, odd-looking, wonky mound of flesh
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