So a month has passed since the dreaded Hernia operation, and what’s been a fairly horrid few weeks it looks like I’m well on the road to recovery and can reflect on what was one of my least favourite chapters in my life.
I awoke on that dreaded Thursday morning full of nerves and full of the stuff that often goes with nerves, I managed to get rid of some of the latter, the nerves however stayed.
I was fortunate enough to have an early morning appointment so I didn’t have to wait around too long before we’d be setting off for the hospital. In the car I turned the radio on and Gary Barlow sang to me “Today this could be, the greatest day of our lives”. No Gary, I suspect it won’t, and if it is then I’ve not got much to look forward to, I’m going to get knocked out and cut up which is exactly what would happen to you if I could see your singing cheese filled fucksmug of a face right now. I changed the station, Adele came on, more fitting as in many ways she reminded me of my hernia, a painful lump that needed removing.
Upon arriving at the hospital I was sent to a waiting area where there were already a few other people ahead of me. My details were taken and I was told someone would call on me shortly. It was very much like the deli at Tesco, except instead of getting a nice bit of edam cheese I was going to get cut open and have my intestines pushed back inside of me, so actually, exactly like Tesco.
I was one of the first to be called, I told myself it was because the nurses thought I was best looking and couldn’t wait to get my top off and their hands on me. More likely was that they had to give time to construct the scaffolding around my belly and retrieve the flag from the surface of the moon which they would later use to plant on my kite upon reaching its summit to mark this momentous occasion.
I was taken into another waiting room. The first waiting room was just the waiting room for the waiting room. Having waited in that waiting room I was now expected to wait in this waiting room where I would later be taken down to the surgery waiting room to wait for my operation. I waited.
I was soon designated a bed area in the “day ward”, this made sense, it being day.
Soon a nurse came around and took all of my details. She would also require some swabs from me which were part of the routine checks for MRSA. I would be required to take a swab of my groin area and also one up my nostril. Fortunately I was given two separate swabs I didn’t much fancy having to wipe my ball sack then stick it up my nose, the swab that is not my ball sack, not that I’ve tried but I don’t think my scrotum consists of enough elasticity to reach my face, might be worth a try one day though, I decided here was not the right time to try.
The nurse took away the forms I filled in and my lovely swabs. She left behind a gown and some “Surgical stockings” that I would have to wear for the operation. So, not only was I expected to stick a large cotton bud down by my meat swingers, then one up my nose, I now had to put on a skin thin frock and white knee high socks.
My lovely new wife (and first, just in case it sounds like I collect them) sat in the corner. A month into marriage as she watched me wiping the side of my nads with a swab and handing it over to a stranger, the swab that is, not my nads, I needed them, and as she sat watching me strip down to my George boxers displaying my less than toned form with my new accompanying belly testicle and then watched me slipping into my hospital frock and daz white skin tight tights I couldn’t help feel that she was probably thinking that this wasn’t how she envisaged the honey moon period and the words “could have done better” were probably doing laps in her mind.
The stockings proved to be an absolute nightmare to get on, tight doesn’t come close. I sat on the bed in my frock and wrestled with them, forcing my pasty legs into the tiny socks, I could barely get them over my feet let alone roll them up my legs. I felt like an elephant raised on Viagra trying to put on condom. What seemed like about half an hour later I finally got them on, I sank back in the bed exhausted from my fight with the tights.
The anaesthetist came around and told me what would be involved to put my mind at rest, it didn’t I was now terrified and whiter than my new lady socks. If shitting bricks is a measurement of regular nerves, I was now curling out replacement blocks for the great Pyramid of Giza.
I was told that when I awoke I would have a mask on my face and would probably have a sore throat as the surgeon would need to put a pipe in my mouth and down my throat. I was starting to worry as to just what sort of hospital this was. So far I’d had my balls wiped, been dressed up like an old woman and now I was going to be knocked out while a “surgeon” sticks his pipe down my neck and then gets me to wear a mask. I’m sure I’d seen a documentary on this sort of thing on Channel 4, and I’m pretty sure you had to pay for it.
The surgeon then came to talk through the operation with me. After he finished the discussion he asked to see the hernia, I lifted my frock up and showed him my belly testicle. He gave it a prod and then produced a pencil and drew a target around it. I was too nervous to ask what the point system was and hopefully it would be a game I would be partaking in.
It was time. The porter came to collect me. I turned and said goodbye to my wife, I was a soldier going to war, and they wheeled me away. In my head REM’s “Everybody hurts” played. I was in slow motion, and I half expected Paul O’Grady to start narrating, informing me that there was no hope for this fat old dog and that I might need to be put down.
The porter was talking to me, doing his best to make light of the situation, I just wanted him to shut the fuck up and let me shit myself in peace. I was driven down what seemed like the longest corridor in history, people stepped aside and gave that knowing smile that said “wonder what he’s having done, bet it’s going to hurt like fuck”.
We eventually arrived in what seemed like an alien autopsy room from the x-files. Once again to add to the shame a pretty student nurse came and took some more details, she was followed by who I assumed was her mentor who instructed her in what she needed to do. They asked to have a quick look at my Hernia. Again I lifted my frock up, doing my best to suck in my gut but given the level of my nerves I was scared to suck in too hard in case I released a projectile bottom bullet and put someone’s eye out. As they eyed up their target I half expected a short fat man to appear informing them to “keep out of the black, and in the red, there’s nothing in this game for two in a bed” though for this game it was more a case of, “take a good look but don’t press down, push it to hard and you’ll be covered in brown”.
Another young nurse then joined me, again a student nurse. She would be responsible for putting in the needle adapter thing for my drip. She was shaking like a leaf and was having trouble “Finding a vein”. She slapped my hand. (Could she tell what I was thinking?). She slapped it again, but apparently still couldn’t find a vein. Again she slapped it, as if beating it into surrender. She lifted my arm and asked me to flex my hand as if I was squeezing something. My hand was level with her chest and I was tempted to make a comedy horn sound as I mimed squeezing repeatedly. Still no vein. They tied some sort of band around my arm and proceeded to slap my hand. Christ, cracking start this, I thought, as I was tied up and slapped around repeatedly. Soon I thought I would break and tell my capturers where the secret plans were hidden. They had ways of making me talk.
Eventually a good vein appeared and the nurse went for her target, and missed, tried again, and missed. She was shaking so much I was tempted to grab it off her and put it in myself. Something told me she wasn’t on the university darts team, if she was, she’d clearly spent all her winnings on smack, and today was her first day of going cold turkey.
The plug was in, “does this mean I can shoot webs out of my hand” I said, pleased with myself that I still had my wit about me, nothing, not even a smile, difficult audience, not funny apparently, just fat, and veinless.
One of the assistants asked what I did for a living, clearly not a comedian, she thought. I began to tell her and no sooner had I started I felt pins and needles running up my arm, I assumed Nurse blind smackhead was attempting to put another needle in me and was turning my arm into a sea sponge. The pins and needles continued up my chest.
Sneaky fuckers, I thought, they had already given me my anaesthetic, I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to my tummy testical, within seconds I was out. Saying goodbye to my pesky belly ball should have been the least of my worries though, for the worse was by far yet to come.