WRITTEN BY MICK
Have just read your responses to my rather exuberant ‘Yeeeeessss’ post. What a buzz, being able to share that first bit of bloody good news since this saga began months ago.
On arrival at my beloved’s bedside yesterday I was greeted by ‘You wreak of garlic… what the hell have you been rolling in?’ Given I haven’t been ingesting or rolling in garlic, I can only conclude her smell buds are fucked from the anaesthetic. I’m qualified to make that assessment since everything tasted like the bottom of a fruit tin after my op. As good as the medicos are in their respective roles, they do overlook stuff; like telling you the after effects of being knocked out for 4 hours. FYI I couldn’t get warm for about a month after my foray into theatre. Sorry, I digress… this is Prue’s moment in the spotlight.
One of my instructions from yesterday was to give the punters more detail… put myself in their/your shoes and think about what I would want to know. Given I’m prone to minimalism, I’d just like to convey that Prue is alive and moderately well. Oh yeah, I did take her, and her array of tubes and bags for a short stroll down the corridor, but looking down from the eighth floor proved to be a leap too far. The Kenworth effect was all too evident… it’s tough seeing my girl, the one who not that long ago was running large chunks of the lighthouse track, reduced to the energetic level of my 94 yo mum.
So, more detail…they’ve removed the intravenous pain relief preferring to slug dose her with Targin – a slow release Endone. This is good news cos it’s one less tube hanging out of her. From my perspective, this pain-controlled stint in hospital has been a godsend given her pain levels pre-admission. Poohing through a radiated bowel will never be high on my list of desired experiences. We had great difficulty controlling the pain, core pain, which really fucks you over when you can’t touch it, or see the offending area, and you never quite know what’s going down.
At one point a Doctor Cross rocked up with her buddy, both decked out in blood splotched gowns – said she was surgeon. I thought, no shit… hope that’s not Prue’s blood. This was unusual given the propensity of this lot to immediately discard everything they use. You wouldn’t want to marry one of ’em. When these two appeared with all their gadgetry it was as if we’d ordered in an op theatre. Hospitals never cease to amaze me in that I’ve never yet been able to work out the colour coded uniforms and who does what… although I’m getting better at recognising blood encrusted surgeons.
The patient is going well, in fact really well. It’s me and my garlic breath I’m now worried about.