I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, but I was woken by the lovely Tabitha wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my left arm and clamping a pulse oximeter onto one of my fingers. I barely registered the cuff inflating, then deflating before an electronic thermometer was stuck in my ear. “We just need to take a couple of swabs too. One up your nose and one from around your groin.” Now accustomed to having lost all dignity and ownership of my body, I let her at me with her elongated cotton wool buds.

A busy-looking and very well-groomed charge nurse arrived at my bedside with my things.

“Hi, I’m Lee and I’m the charge nurse for the ward this evening. I’ve finally found you! Your things had been taken to the wrong bed. Anyway, if there’s anything you need, just let one of us know.” With that, he spun on his highly-polished, pointy shoes and left my bedside. My eyes tracked him to the nurses’ station, which was on the corridor directly outside the eight-bedded bay, I saw with bleary eyes that my sister had arrived with her partner. I waved them in.

I think you’ll find you’re in my space
They arrived at my bedside and it was this point that I noticed that there were already two visitors next to my bed. It just so happened that they were visiting the woman in the bed next to me, but they’d seen fit to encroach on my side of the space between the two of us rather than, like socially adept people might, sit on the other side. I could use numerous words to describe this man and woman: her bizarre outfit, her excessive jewellery, her generally odd appearance, his gormless expression, the baseball cap. But why use so many words when two will suffice: trailer trash. Oblivious to the fact that my visitors couldn’t get to my bedside, the woman who was the daughter spent her time focused on being abusive to her mother while her partner interjected with the occasional “Ha! look that this that Brian has posted on Facebook. Fucking hilarious!” Coming to an episode of Jeremy Kyle soon.

My sister drew the curtain around me, the sound of which hid her breathing the words “fucking scumbags” as she rolled her eyes. She passed me my glasses and my phone, I responded to a few text messages and asked her to put it on charge. Then she passed me a drink. It was with a certain degree of apprehension that I took a drink. What if I was leaking? What if it REALLY hurts? Why DOES my chest and throat hurt so much? I really didn’t expect it to hurt there.

She asked the standard questions about whether I’d seen my surgeon, when I’d be getting out, if I needed help going to the toilet while I was there. Essentially, made sure I was OK before pulling out some supplies and placing them on the table trolley next to my bed.

“Oh, you need to make sure these are easily accessible at all times, so don’t cover them up with anything.” She was pointing to something that had been taped to the table.

“What are they?” They looked like nail clippers. I could’t imagine anybody needing to clip anybody’s nails with any degree of urgency.

“They’re staple removers. You’ll have been stapled shut, but if there’s an internal bleed, they’ll need to get in there without any delay so they can put a drain in. OK then, we’re off. You get some rest and we’ll see you soon. I’ll leave this curtain closed.” She nodded towards the visitors again and, before I could say “Give Rocky a cud…”, they’d gone.

Hospital toast
Drifting in and out of sleep, I was woken intermittently by the conversation between the young woman in the bed to the right of me and her visitors. Yes, I know they’ve come a long way to see you, but it’s gone 9pm now and visiting is supposed to end at 8 and I’m tired and you’ve all covered how much of a twat your ex was and yes it’s great that the nurses have allowed your friends to stay for longer, but some of us have had surgery this afternoon and we need rest! Between that and my stomach telling me I was hungry.

Like the shopkeeper in Mr Ben, the supper trolley arrived. At last, some food! The young woman with the trolley stopped at the “soon to be featured on a daytime TV programme” patient next to me.

“Can I have two slices of toast, no, make it three slices, and three packets of biscuits? Ginger biscuits.”

She was obliged without question. What if they run out of toast before they get to me?

“Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate, no, tea. Tea.”

I scowled at her lack of manners, but my smile returned as the trolley arrived at my bed. I wish I could remember the name of the healthcare assistant who provided these refreshments. She was ever so nice, worked non-stop throughout the night and was so caring with everybody. Anyway, maybe she was a bitch and I just liked her because she asked: “Would you like some toast?”

GIMME THE FUCKING TOAST!!!!!! And did I hear biscuits? And hot chocolate??? Bring it on, I’m so hungry!

“Yes, could I have a couple of rounds please? And some hot chocolate? And… do you have any biscuits left (after that greedy fucking bitch took a load)?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll put you some milk in your hot chocolate too.”

There’s something about hospital toast. It really is the best toast in the world. Even though it’s not really warm, even though it’s a little bit soggy by the time it gets to you, it tastes wonderful. I devoured the slightly greasy, soggy toast, drank my not-so-hot chocolate and rested back against my pillow.

The long march
It was then that it hit me. I really needed a wee.

We’d switched from Tabitha to Priti and, once she’d been accosted by her to the left of me for the fourth time in five minutes for requests such as “Could you pass me that off my table?”, I called her over.

“I need a wee, but I’m a bit scared to go on my own, I still feely a bit groggy and wobbly, could you get somebody walk with me in case I feel unsteady please?”

“Just give me a minute and I’ll take you. Here, your drip has finished, I’ll take this off so you don’t have to take the drip stand with you.” With that, she unscrewed the tube from my cannula, dropped the side of the bed and steadied me as my feet hit the floor.

As if my legs weren’t my own, I moved one in front of the other and she steadied me on what seemed a five mile walk to the bathroom. I hadn’t expected to feel this weak, but since I’d already perfected the hospital shuffle, I figured I might as well use it to full effect.

Returning to my bed without incident, I asked if I was allowed to change into pyjamas. Priti looked at me as if I’d asked if it was OK to blow my nose, “Yes, of course it is.”

Casting off the hospital gown and changing into my own nightwear, I felt slightly less owned by the hospital. The scheduled two-hourly observations put me back in my place.

Can we get you some REALLY strong opiates?
I was in pain. I couldn’t deny it any longer. Yes, the area of my wound hurt, wherever that happened to be underneath the tight bandage around my neck, but it was my chest that concerned me the most. Why is it hurting there? Did I have some sort of infection starting? What’s going on?

Biting the bullet, I asked for some pain killers.

“Would you like some codeine?”

What the fuck? Now, I’m the first one to admit to taking the odd recreational cocodamol
when I was teetotal, but knowing the effects, the wooziness in particular, I figured that, what with still having anaesthetic and morphine floating around my system, codeine was the last thing I needed.

“No, paracetamol will be fine thank you.”

The same happened the next morning. Tabitha was back on duty. “Do you need any pain relief?”

“Yes, can I have some paracetamol please?”

“Are you sure you don’t want codeine?”

Do you do take out for when I’m feeling a bit better? I could have some for when I’m home perhaps? Sell it to any takers? “No, honestly, paracetamol will be fine.”

Everybody just shut the fuck up, but especially YOU!
I’d been under no illusions that I’d be spending the night in anything approaching comfort or privacy. It’s not possible when you’re sharing a sleeping area with seven other women, all at different stages of post-operative recovery. It’s expected that your sleep will be interrupted so the nurses can do your observations, that other patients will need attention, that stuff, in general will be going on. But as the lights were dimmed, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, unsuspecting of the constant disturbance I’d experience from her next to me. All. Fucking. Night.

There were the “nurse, can you pass me those tissues?” orders. The five visits to the bathroom: a groan, then a whimper, then the shuffling as she went TO the toilet… I drift off to sleep only to be woken again be her… shuffling BACK from the toilet. FIVE times. The piece de resistance was her opening a packet of biscuits and crunching away at 4am. Biscuits, at 4am. After four slices of toast and biscuits just a few hours previously.

Why are they keeping you alive? Why are you even here? Just go the fuck home!

Then there was the door behind the nurses’ station. It needed oiling and the closing mechanism needed adjusting so that it didn’t close with a… creeeeeeeeeak… BANG! Every time a staff member went into room behind it, something that happened seemingly every two minutes. Or maybe, just maybe I’m the only one on this planet who can hear doors slamming? No? You can’t hear that? You obviously can’t hear it because maybe if you could, you’d hold onto the door and make sure it closed quietly so as not to wake up every poor fucker who’s trying to get some fucking sleep! Oh GOD, and here they are with their bloody sphygmomanometer a-fucking-gain!

Each time I woke, I was reminded of the pain in my hand and wrist, of the pain in my chest from whatever the fuck was going on in there, and the fact that I needed to cough, but was too scared to in case something exploded.

I removed a very large adenoma… oh, and your thymus
After surviving the night without ramming a packet of biscuits down the throat of her next door, I was sitting up in my bed when my surgeon came breezing onto the ward. Cheery as ever, I noted.

She asked how I was feeling and said, “Right, let’s have a look at you” before removing the strapping from around my neck.

“That’s looking fine! We’ll have you back in clinic on Friday to have half the staples removed then the remainder can come out on Saturday” she smiled.

“So, what did you end up doing?” and why does it feel like my lungs are on fire?

“Well, I had a look at the left hand side first because that’s where the scan showed the growth. What we thought was a growth on your left inferior parathyroid was actually on your SUPERIOR parathyroid, so I took that out, then had a look around. I took something out that I thought was you left inferior parathyroid and had it looked at in frozen section, but it came back as being thymus tissue, so I took out your thymus gland too,” her hand gestured to her chest, her CHEST, “you don’t need it when you’re an adult. I didn’t bother going into the right hand side because there’s a chance that something might grow there when you’re older and it’d only cause complications down the road if I went in there now.”

Yes, but what if you’re not around if I need surgery in the future? I trust you, you’re really good.

After a few more pleasantries, we agreed that I could go home that day… and have two weeks off sick leave “Well, the weather’s improving, you might as well take two weeks.”

Please, come and get me out of here
I arranged for Mother to come and collect me at 1pm, got changed into my outdoor clothes and sat expectedly in the chair next to the bed as the activity of the ward time-lapsed around me.

My mum arrived to collect me and, after saying my thankyous to the staff, I started the long shuffle to the car. For the first time in many years, Mum could keep up with me as we located her trusty red Toyota and set off on the road home.

I was escorted to the pre-op room. My anaesthetist and her assistant were waiting for me and I was invited to hop up onto the operating trolley. I said my goodbyes to the friendly theatre assistant who’d accompanied me and lay back on the bed. Feigning calm, I answered the same set of questions for the third time while the anaesthetic nurse stuck electrode pads to my chest. I noted the monitor as I beeped into life.

The room was new. It was clean, tidy and bright. So very bright. My anaesthetist was relaxed, with a happy, confident and caring demeanour that helped to ease my growing anxiety. My left arm was held by the assistant as a cannula was inserted into the vein in my hand. We chatted for a short time as the procedural checklist was followed item by item.

“So what is it you do?”

“I’m a research manager at the university. It’s actually quite a nice job and I like my academics. Most of them. They’re psychiatrists, a lot of them.”

“Oh. right! Right, well, we’re ready here. I’m going to inject some anaesthetic into your vein now, it will probably sting a little bit, but then you’ll fall asleep very soon afterwards.”

“OK”, I responded. “Thank you”.

It always feels icy cold. Whatever gets injected through a cannula feels icy cold. This was no exception.

I looked up at the bright light above me. This would be absolutely fine, I thought to myself. If it all goes wrong and this is it, then this would be lovely. Just let it go. Like an old television set, the blackness engulfed me… the little white dot… then nothing.

I was expecting pain, but not there and not like that
“Ok Cristina, you’re all done now and absolutely fine. Jane is going to look after you in recovery”.

I was moving! Opening my eyes, I saw my anaesthetist disappearing from view as I was wheeled into the recovery suite. We came to stop and I noticed the clock on the wall: 3.50pm? 4.50pm? Definitely 3.50pm. Nearly three hours in theatre.

There seemed to be a lot of activity around me, my nurse was talking to me. “How are you feeling, are you in pain, do you feel sick?”

“I feel a little bit nauseous. I feel like I’m getting a really bad sore throat and chest infection.” It must have been the tube they stick down your throat, I told myself, while remembering all the other things the anaesthetist had told me could happen with the insertion of said device. I checked my teeth with my tongue: all present and incorrect. It was then that I could feel the restriction of the bandage around my neck.

“I can give you something for the sickness and I’ll put some paracetamol into your drip. You had some morphine just before you were woken up, so that could make you feel quite groggy.”

Within seconds, the mild feeling of sickness had disappeared. What was this miracle drug? Why can’t I stockpile it for Saturday mornings?

Suddenly, all the nursing staff vacated the area while something happened to the patient on the trolley next to mine. Ahem, hello? Don’t I need to be moved too? What if it’s like something out of Alien and I, as closest in proximity, am next to get the octopus from outerspace on my face? By the feeling in my chest, maybe I already had one growing in me.

It’s just an x-ray, Tina. They’re just doing an x-ray.

Everybody returned and I heard one of the nurses answering the phone on the reception. “Yes, she’s fine”, she was looking at my nurse and nodding, “tell them that we’re moving her over to you now.”

And with those words, I just knew that she’d been speaking to a staff member from the ward I was going to, and that particular staff member was acting as some sort of medium for my mother. In the days before people used mobile phones, I could tell who was on the other end of the phone from its ring. Oh god, it’s Mother.

Within minutes, I was being wheeled down the hospital’s corridors on my journey to the ward. I always find it odd that this is done in public. You’d imagine that there’d be some sort of private corridor system for transporting patients from theatres to wards, but no, there you are trundling past the great unwashed (and washed) of Salford.

Seconds later, I arrived at my bedside and, lacking any diginity, I flopped myself from the trolley onto the bed. The theatre staff made me comfortable and said their goodbyes as the lovely nurse Tabitha introduced herself to me by performing the first of the hourly observations for blood pressure, temperature, oxygen saturation. She didn’t ask me if I was hungry though, since, well, I’d not eaten for 24 hours. Starving, actually. She did ask, however, how I liked to be addressed and what the most important thing to me was. “Please call me Tina. The most important thing to me is my family… and world peace.”

I familiarised myself with my surroundings, checked for fire exits and toilets, noted the cooling breeze from the open window behind me, and fell asleep.

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.