How to under estimate ........

I've never been good at guesswork, or estimating. Hence my aversion to gambling, not on morality grounds but merely on grounds of my own utter fuckwittery when it comes to guessing scores, or winners or losers come to that. And ultimately, no matter what others say, gambling is guesswork!

So, about 18 months ago I went to see the doctor about something trivial....so trivial I can't remember what it was.

However he spotted a lump just below my belly button. Immediately worried he sent me to the hospital suspecting a hernia and of course worrying that this could lead to complications if it twisted and got strangulated. He actually referred me to his 'good friend' who for reasons of anonymity we'll dub Dr Evil.

In fact he ticked all of the Holby City stereotypical consultant boxes. Brash, yes. Arrogant, yes. Confident, yes. Blase, yes. Contemptuous of patient, yes. Subject matter expert, of course. Able to feign interest in patient, absolutely. Strangely likeable, weirdly yes. Anyway he said it was umbilical and therefore no threat and besides they don't like doing them in adults because of the reasonable recurrence rate and the chance of infection. Apparently the belly button is an unhygienic area full of germs and bacteria. Think of nthat the next time you engage in a bit of oral foreplay with your partners cute navel. Apparently its a warm hive of filth and disease carrying mega bugs.

As the year went by and I lost some weight it didn't get any better and after cycling or swimming it was arguably worse, and when ot protruded it bloody hurt which can't be right. So I went back. This time he said that as it hadn't settled down it would be a good thing to repair it. He also stated that this was routine and so a local anaesthetic would be sufficient.

So, a couple of Tuesdays ago I went for the op. I'd been MRSA tested in July and all was Ok there and the appointment letter simply stated it would be done under a local and that I was to keep to an ordinary light diet. Fine by me. On the morning of the op I was a tad subdued based on an underlying morbid fear of hospitals and the premature death of 2 friends in 2 years both with 'routine' ailments. So, wearing some 'comfort' clothing of tracksuit bottoms and footie shirt off we trekked. W|e arrived nice and early and so were the second to check in. As we waited I noticed everyone turning up had a bag with them, mostly supermarket carrier bags but the odd sports bag as well. My first thought was that I was in some sort of Chav Central and that these people were off to the local shops right after their treatment. Then this happened.....

Nurse Ratched: Grocerjack?
GJ: Yes, that'd be me.
Nurse Ratched: Oh. Haven't you got a bag?
GJ: Errr...no...why?
NR: So you have no dressing gown?
GJ: Errr....no...why...do I need one?
NR: Well what do you expect to wear to the theatre?
GJ: Theatre? I was expecting a quick procedure in a bed in a clinic.
NR: (Laughing)....you do know what you're having done?
GJ: A hernia op.
NR: Exactly, an operation. You should have read the letter which would have told you to bring a few bits.
GJ: (hands over letter which stated NONE of the stuff she had mentioned)...
NR: So you'll need a sick note then.
GJ: Huh? I'm going back to work on Thursday, so no thanks.
NR: (Laughing harder)...ooh no, its a MINIMUM of 2 weeks recovery and up to 6 weeks depending on age and fitness etc.
GJ: (gulps)...what?
NR: So you'd also better warn your partner you'll be about 2 hours in post op and about an hour in theatre...
GJ (the sound of a large penny dropping)...so this is a proper operation then?
NR: Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.

If she'd cackled at this point it wouldn't have been amiss in the midst of the day surgery ward reminiscent of every mental hospital drama you've ever seen. Spartan beds in a room of spartan walls, with grumpy nurses growling at patients and mad looking and sounding porters chatting away about the most inane bollocks in the world.

To me and you, a completely alien and intimidating environment. To them, just another day in the office.

Anyway, I had to undress...completely and wear a gown and another one backwards to ensure no-one saw my arse. Yep, how very dignified.

NR: When did you last eat?
GJ: Last night
NR:..and drink?
GJ: A glass of orange juice this morning.
NR: Oh dear, You're not supposed to have anything other than water before an operation...
GJ: What? It's only a local anaesthetic!
NR: What? A local? For something like this? Blimey, you're brave
GJ: (gulping) .......am I?

Anyway, convinced at this point that certain death was looming because they'd leave a blade inside me, or my cholesterol laden blood would clot instantly on the arteries and veins exposed, I sat listening to Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here album whilst waiting for Dr Evil to show up. Typically, as I listened to the title track, he arrived. He barked a few things at me about nmy holiday without listening to the answer. Then made me sign the disclaimer form. Then he looked at me and said

DE: Oh, you've opted for a local then?
GJ: Opted? I wasn't given the choice.
DE: Oh well never mind, too,late too change it now. You're first on the list. See you in 15 minutes......

And off he strode. The word 'shit' just kept coming back to me..................

to be continued..........

Later, GJ