Yesterday saw me have an examination under general anaesthetic, which basically meant that my oncologist could take a good look at my foof and make a route to the cervix for the radiation beam.
I totally forgot to ‘tidy’ up that general area so the poor doctor probably didn’t appreciate that.
Anyway, I had a panic attack about not waking up and dying in theatre, so the night before, I thought it best to let Pete know who my pension was with and what to do with the money and the three songs I wanted at my funeral.
Once I had some reassurance from some very amazing people, I knew I would be ok.
Plus I was in the very capable hands of John the Irish anaesetists nurse.
He was loooovely. In fact he was so lovely that when he said ‘I’m gonna make sure you have a lovely dream’ my response was ‘Ooo I will have a dream about a lovely Irish man now’
Crimson. I went crimson.
Seriously, even having Cancer doesn’t stop me being inappropriate.
So they got me talking about James and where I went on my last holiday and when I said it was to Quebec, they asked me to ask for a beer in French and then my legs when fuzzy and I was asleep.
Not sure If i did get passed ‘Je vou….’.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up with the tube still down my throat and me motioning to the nurse to take it out. That was weird.
So it all went well and they did what they had to do and I had to wait eleventy billions hours to be discharged and they gave me Tramadol. WIN!
It’s just another box ticked in the fight against Fuckwit and I bloody came out with a wound which makes my bloody hand look like a Michelin man’s.
But still soldiers get wounded everyday and keep on fighting.
Fucking hurts though.
Anyway, whilst waiting for Pete to come back with the best tasting sandwich in the whole world, I had this little skit running around my head….I really hope they acted like this in theatre…