My money is on her brother Peter. There. I’ve said it.
Pre op number 2 today. Funnily enough I am still too short for my weight. Probably need to grow a couple of foot and I’ll be ok.
Ticked boxes, had my nasal and groin swabs (for MRSA) blood test (possibly anaemic) blood pressure (all good) had to make irritating small talk with people and was then told that Mr Johnson wanted to see me. Wasn’t planning on seeing him today. He wasn’t available for an hour. Maybe I’d like to go and get a sandwich and pop back……………
No. I don’t want to spend another sodding second in this hospital I’m running away and not coming back.
‘Ah yes, that will be fine’
So I return, to meet Nick AND Jane, the deadly duo. Lovely as they are, and they really are, they send the shits up me.
I had another chance to discuss the op, side effects, recovery etc. Then had to sign the consent form. I’ve asked twice now if it could be cancer. They don’t think so but they don’t know. On the consent form there is a bit where it says reason for procedure (or something like that) and mine says ‘Get diagnosis’. So that’s it really. Its not a curative procedure as such (though it might be) It is a chance to take a bigger bit of my body to send to the labs.
I was given a date to return for my results. More bloody waiting. I told Jane that I knew it was protocol to give bad news face to face but I was past that. If she knew before my appointment then could she please just ring me. Good or bad.
I also asked very politely not to be put in a ward full of dying old ladies if possible.
So there we go. The ongoing soap opera of my life. Because believe me, it takes over your life.