So it happened. After eighteen months in which I’d experienced seemingly endless blood tests, hospital appointments, scans, genetic tests – and not forgetting my lost weekend held hostage at my local A&E – I finally had surgery to remove the growth that had caused few physical symptoms, but which might have resulted in problems in older age.

Nobody wants osteoporosis or an increased risk of kidney stones if at all avoidable and more acute problems were also a possibility, as borne out by my visit to A&E with an “I think she might be having a heart attack… oh no, it’s indigestion” episode. An episode which alerted the medics to dangerously high calcium levels and resulted in me having burning hell water fed through a drip into my veins.

Of course, hyperparathyroidism and resultant hypercalcaemia hadn’t left me completely symptom-free and was a likely contributory factor to the depression and general fatigue that I’d been experiencing for a couple of years.

On 4th of June, the day arrived for me to go under the knife for the removal of a parathyroid adenoma that had been detected by ultrasound and radiolabel scanning.

One flew over the cuckoo’s nest
The six hours between arriving at the surgical admissions lounge to being escorted to the operating theatre are lonely, boring and peppered with increasing levels of anxiety.

As I sat at the side of my bed in the day surgery unit, wondering when I should change from my clothes into my hospital gown, I noticed that exit from the unit was only possible with a key card via the door in which I’d entered, or accompanied by a theatre nurse through the other doors that led to the operating rooms. You don’t need to be mad to be here, but any wrong moves and we’ll lobotomise you.

“A radical feminist lesbian would be professionally offended by this!”
I’d met my surgeon and discussed my operation, signed the consent forms. I was second on the list, so should be going to theatre mid to late morning.

The anaesthetist had also visited, described what would happen, discussed pain relief and asked me a series of standard questions.

A nurse came by and asked the same questions, followed by “Is there any possibility that you might be pregnant?”

“No, absolutely not”

“Oh, well, because of your age, we’re going to have to do a pregnancy test. We only need a wee sample.”

And it was this that sent my heart racing. Nil by mouth since the night before with only a sip of water that morning, I’d had a nervous pee at the first opportunity, there was no way I had anything in me for the requisite sample. I explained, “I’m gay, I’ve never had sex with a man and that, honestly, I don’t need a pregnancy test.”

But of course I did. Patient safety, risk management and all those things meant that I had to have one. Rational me knew this, but anxiety was taking over. This anxiety had me arguing with myself, what about respecting diversity? I should kick up a fuss, tell them what for! How DARE THEY! I am offended by this!!! Who can I complain to?

The simple fact of the matter was that I was only experiencing this faux rage because I couldn’t pee. I took my little pot to the toilet, and try as hard as I might, nothing, not a single drop. I was gowned-up by this time and I shuffled forlornly back to my bed. There’s something about wearing a hospital gown that transforms an otherwise normal person into an institutionalised shuffler.

“Nothing?” the nurse asked sympathetically.

“No, I’m afraid not”, I replied, slumping into my chair, pulling up my surgical pop socks. Why can’t they just take a fucking blood sample? Or my word for it! Cocks.

I shared my rage on Facebook, via text message, almost tweeted my rage directly to the hospital. And then, when all seemed lost and I was certain that I would have my operation cancelled for the sake of an arid bladder, I decided to give it another go. I shuffled back to the toilet, little pot in hand. I sat on the toilet, leaning forward to put pressure on my bladder and then it happened. I did it! Miraculously, my aim was true and I managed to collect a sample of sufficient volume to perform the test.

I returned to the nurses’ station with a spring in my step, a beaming smile on my face. This felt like the biggest achievement of my life. Not pregnant? Nailed it!

To infinity and beyond
And so the wait began in earnest.

The lady in the bed next to me was having the same procedure and was first on my surgeon’s to do list. She’d been gone for only an hour and I knew there’d be at least another two before my time came; it was 10.30am. I was bored and I was hungry. I watched people come and go, some tried to engage in conversation with me. Some came back, bandaged up and groggy from the gas. I was tortured by their post-operative coffee and toast.

As time passed, and as 12.30 came and went, the tingling in my stomach grew stronger. I knew my time was coming. And then the cheery theatre nurse arrived at my bedside. “OK, your surgeon is just grabbing a sandwich and then she’ll be right with you. Are you ready?”

I was asked the same questions that I’d been asked by my anaesthetist and the unit nurse. My wrist and ankle ID bands were checked and double-checked. I sent a quick text message to my sister and then started the short walk to the operating theatre. My institutionalised shuffle had well and truly returned.