Notes From Hospital

They let me out for the weekend but I’m due back later today. More surgery tomorrow, fuck it.

Contrary to everyone’s expectations, a dissection of the organ-formerly-known-as-my-cervix revealed the cancer had spread there … meaning “They” are now taking nothing for granted. So tomorrow it’s back under the knife for me, whereupon a whole bunch of wee lymph node funsters will be removed and dissected to see if the Big C’s gone on tour.

The best case scenario is that they don’t find anything and my legs don’t swell into fluid-filled balloons due to the sudden shortage of lymph nodes. The most I’ll have to deal with is two or three sessions of internal radiotherapy (don’t ask … it’s icky) and then we can go home.

The worst case scenario is that they do find something and my feet do start spilling over my shoes (the medical term is lymphoedema) and then I’ll be rewarded with chemo and god knows when I’ll be able to leave Perth.

A few hospital-type observations from Your Patient Correspondent:

1. The degree of liking we have for our doctors depends entirely on the type of news they’re going to give us.
I would dearly like to be good buddies with my doctor, who’s a nice-looking bloke in his late 30s from County Limerick. His accent alone would be enough to reduce me to hysterical giggles if he was ever tempted to reveal he had a sense of humour. His off-sider, who I’m sure is a very nice bloke as well, speaks slightly above a whisper and is so pale I reckon he can’t have any more than three red blood cells in his entire body.

2. Nurses love their patients most when they’re fresh out of surgery.
There’s nothing like being still terrified from seeing your mortality reflected back at you in the glare of the theatre lights to make you do as you’re told. But three days later, when you’re feeling a little better and wanting to talk about your hobbies and complain about the food and become overly familiar, that – oh yes, that – is when your carer wishes you were dead.

3. Hospital is a modesty-free zone.
Amazing how, in the space of twenty-four hours, you’re transformed from someone who’d be mortified at the thought of a complete stranger seeing all your bits, into someone who’s hoisting up their nightie and revealing their stubbly charms to anyone who walks into the room, regardless of whether or not they actually asked for a look.

4. Language takes on a whole new meaning.
Take my “Wound”, as they call it. Everyone in the hospital’s been ooh-ing and aah-ing over it and calling it “beautiful”. No way in hell in this thing beautiful. A swollen, mottled, puckered-up horror, is what it is. However, Jenny, the sweet young doctor who sewed it up, is obviously very proud of her handiwork. I didn’t want to deflate her, so I complimented her on its straightness and said something to the effect that my bikini-wearing days might not be over yet. I have to admit it’s way better than it would’ve been if, for instance, I’d done it myself while drunk. But it’s still not beautiful. No way.

So that’s about it. I’ve spent the weekend hanging out with the Dreamboat, taking photos of myself looking miserable on my mobile phone and calling them, “With Cancer, In A Motel Room”. I persuaded the Dreamboat to take measurements of my Wound (12.5 centimetres – just under five inches) and got him to immortalise it in image form on his mobile phone. And I’ve been inordinately proud and excited every time I take a dump.

It’s that hospital vibe, you see. It’s hard to shake off.

We’ll keep you posted. Thanks again for the good wishes. And Rev, me darlin’, I’ll have some info for you on bogans another time, soonish. I think Wikipedia has an entry on them. And Rat … *mwah*. That was gorgeous. You couldn’t be sweeter.

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