An Existential Crisis: Just Call Me Kermit

I'm telling people to call me Kermit-then, when they do, I want to smack them. Go figure...

The entire hospital experience was an absolute nightmare from start to finish. After my speedy post of last week, I was driven to the hospital and then I waited. And waited. And waited some more. And then I waited. You get the picture: I waited. Bad enough to wait (a silent NHS rule: everybody waits. Preferably until they die, and then the waiting list gets shorter), but I had to wait in a room filled with people who were coughing and sneezing-without covering their noses and mouths, something that really, really winds me up. I grew up with better manners than that, and I'm sure you did, too.

I finally was taken into a small treatment room and told to change my clothes-and everything I had with me was put into a big green bag and placed in a locked cabinet. I then-guess what?-waited some more. Finally, I had to walk to the elevators, and a nurse, another patient and I went to the third floor surgery waiting room. What did I do there? You guessed it: I waited. I couldn't believe I had to walk that far, either - I felt like I was walking the Green Mile, and I said to the nurse (only half-joking, but she didn't get it anyway) that I felt like I was walking to my own execution.

I finally walked down a long corridor and into the ante-room to the operating theatre. I was then prepped for surgery. And the room was filled with people. I was already nervous, but the sight of about eight people crushing each other didn't help. I asked if one of them was the undertaker. Honestly, they took me seriously! That did not bode well for what was coming, I have to say.

I then asked to see the consultant surgeon, since his name was on my appointment letter. Now I understand why there was only his name, and he was a phantom: he came out of the operating room, very grumpy, snapped "why do you want to see me?"-he had the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. And I said, because I want to know who is doing this operation, and I want to know who to come after if it all goes wrong. If you were in my place, wouldn't you want to meet the person who is shoving a tube down your throat? He grunted, and walked away. What a charmer. And it transpired that he didn't do the surgery anyway: it was performed by a registrar (I know because I badgered the registrar to tell me the truth afterwards). Boy, do I hate being lied to!!

I woke up in recovery, and I felt like someone must have punched me in the face while I was sedated. I know that didn't happen, but my head was really hurting, and my jaw felt like it had been yanked out of my skull. And I felt like someone had used a flame thrower on my throat. I couldn't swallow, I was in such pain I could hardly breathe, and I had to wait nearly nine hours-left on a gurney, not even put in a bed-until I was finally wheeled into a room where I was supposed to be monitored overnight. I wasn't monitored, and when I asked for pain medication, the nurses tried to give me paracetamol-the UK's version of Tylenol, which was about as useful as a bag of candy (at least candy would have been pleasant, although I couldn't eat anything anyway).

To say that I was royally pissed off at the shabby treatment is probably the understatement of the year-perhaps the decade-these people are supposed to care about patients, and put the welfare of patients first, and I fully understand why the NHS is in such a terrible state: because it sucks.

I got back to North London after six pm on Friday, and I really felt like crap. I wasn't supposed to be talking at all for at least the entire weekend, but I had to communicate with the staff on Thursday and Friday-and how do you do that if you aren't able to talk? I kept telling them what I needed, and they kept telling me to shut up. In retrospect, it beggars belief.

I was texting friends on Saturday, and whispering into the phone. It was almost funny-if I hadn't been in so much pain, it would have been funny. And Saturday was Halloween, I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Halloween, to draw a line under yet another month of medical ickiness- and instead, I was in bed, feeling terrible. So Halloween was happening all around me, and I bloody missed it.

Halloween has become really huge in this country, and that has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It's fun to see all the trick or treaters (I call them Halloweenies), walking with their parents, some of whom are also in costume. But-they're all witches, or princesses, or fairies, and that's just the boys. I keep waiting for someone to be dressed like the walkers out of The Walking Dead, and trying to do the walk, too. Now that would be really creative. Or, someone with a chainsaw (a working one, obviously-otherwise where is all the fun?)-today's Halloweenie, tomorrow's serial killer.

You can tell I'm sleep deprived, can't you?

So, to bring you up to date: I have been at the hospital for the last three days. I saw Mr. Tan on Monday, and had a session of bloodletting (bloodletting first), and Tan and I discussed the merits of changing the expanders for permanent implants (I'm going to push hard for that to happen). Then yesterday I spent the entire day being magnetized (head banging MRIs) and irradiated (another scan), And, of course, most of the time was spent -you guessed it-waiting! Today I was back to see another doctor, whom I only see twice a year (this is because I have CVID, so everyone seems to think it is so fascinating. I feel like a bug under a microscope, but hey, I'm just a patient, who cares about a patient?).

I'm happy and relieved to say that I am nearly finished with all this stuff. I get all the results back in a couple of weeks, and I'm pretty certain that everything is normal-well, of course, "normal" being a relative term, since all the irradiation will probably give me cancer anyway.

And, unfortunately, it is probably for the best that nobody come anywhere near me if they ever want children. I don't even glow in the dark, so that is the end of the hope that I will save a fortune on electricity. Bummer.

As for my throat: it is still very sore, although I no longer feel like I was punched in the face during surgery. And my voice? I sound like a frog-a bullfrog-if I sounded like Kermit, at least you would be able to hear me. I don't speak, I rasp. I did ask if I would sound like Lauren Bacall after surgery-I always wanted a deep voice. The doctor just looked at me, pityingly. No, he said, you won't. Well, what a waste of my time, then!!

The only good thing is that I get to eat ice cream without feeling guilty...