I am in a hospital bay, with five other patients. Being in such close proximity during the day and night, there is little room for privacy, between all the inmates.

You can hear them chatting to their visitors, what they’re watching on TV – you even hear their bloody farts!

Another thing you fast become privy too, is their telephone conversations. For a nosey bored person, like me, this can be interesting and passes the time between the 12noon lunch and 5pm supper.

Not all conversations are of a subject you wish to hear. A patient in a neighbouring bed, was on the telephone to his wife.

Unfortunately, the “lady” on the other end of the phone uttered the words…

A darky came along

as well as

The drivers are all bloody Polish

I shouldn’t really get worked up by this – not when you consider the intelligence of the racist woman.

As I continued to eavesdrop, I learnt of two of the television programmes, Eva Braun was planning to watch…

Britain’s Top 100 Dogs and Danny Dyer’s Royal Family

God help us all…

I can now proudly say that I am one of those lucky patients to catch (or is it ‘win‘) a Hospital Acquired Infection.

My prize… a chest infection. It’s not a very good prize, to be honest – I don’t even feel unwell with it.

However, for at least the next four days, while being pumped full of antibiotics, I can look forward to…

• Relaxing with anything up to 6 hours sleep a night
• Enjoying the beautiful, bright LED lights, from the hospital ceiling, throughout the day and night
• Laying back and listening to the local wildlife – including call bells, telephones and screaming patients
• Daily injections with needles made from Sheffield’s finest stainless-steel
• The finest cuisine, with a menu created by world-renowned chef, Olive, from Bash Street School
• Finally, laying back, doing nothing all week – literally – I’ll be bedbound!

“Frustrating” is probably the most appropriate word, to describe the rest of the week. The pain has become a lot more manageable, I continue to feel better with each day and the small wound from the surgery is healthy. All good? Not exactly…

I am still in hospital – but not where you think. Yesterday, I transferred from Southmead back to Bath – simply because I am at the rehabilitation stage, as opposed to treatment.

There are one or two final Is to dot and Ts to cross, before I can return home. Unfortunately, the ink is running out on the pen and there are no pencils left.

Hopefully, the hospital will take a trip to WHSmith and update their stationary cupboard tomorrow – enabling the completion of those Is and Ts – and most importantly, allow me to get home.

Fingers crossed, tomorrow night, I’ll be blogging from home and not this place. I think I’ve outstayed my welcome.

You last heard from me, in one of Southmead Hospital’s operating theatres. Prior to the use of any any scapels or blades, I was being pumped full of medication, keep me calm and pain free.

In reality, I was behaving much like a horse that had consumed an entire jar of pills, from James Herriott’s tranqualiser curboard.

Slicing and dicing

• I was promised that during surgery, despite being wide-awake, I would not feel any pain. I’ll give the staff credit – they stuck to their word.
• The waves of nauesea were nasty and apparently a result of tranqualisers and antibiotics, which I kept apparently being given, via some tube on my arm.
• The pain control and calming techniques, I was receiving were pretty much what women experience during a caesairian section. On hindsight, a tad embarrassing, as they seem to shout and protest a lot less than I did. Even worse, is when you see a cow on TV, cut open with offal and organs hanging out, stood on all four legs, not giving a shit. All because it was injected with a tiny needle numbing the animal.
• There is a screen in between my face and everwhere else in the room. I don’t know the full purpose of this screen – I have heard it’s to prevent me from spotting any gore and freaking out. One slight problem…
• The screen seperating my face from the surgeon and his work area – my body – is transparent. Clearly visible was a pool of claret on the floor, along with red pebble-dashing all over the surgeon (and even the screen).
• I couldn’t help but be amused, when a student entered the theatre. He was very keen to learn. By this point, I was being stitched up. He had two choices – observe some excellent needle-work, or mop up a pool of blood. He ended up doing the latter. In fact, I don’t think he was offered needle-work, or any alternative to mopping, for that matter.

The rest of that day, and indeed the entire week, was a long and drawn out affair.

I was subject to some real pain on the evening of the surgery and felt as if I was climbing the walls, like the girl on the horrible film, The Exorcist.

The pain felt as if somebody had taken a huge nail and repeatedly smashed it into my bones with a steel hammer. Then I remembered that is exactly what had happened earlier that day!

The pain was eventually eased, with medication. I may have only been in really bad pain for little over an hour; but, as anyone ever unfortunate enough to find themselves in real agony will testify, minutes really do feel like hours.

You’ll see I am yet to write anything new on my blog, since I attended surgery.

This is because having an operation on a major limb, becomes very traumatic and tiring – affecting the patient both physically and mentally.

Preparing to go under

• My first post-surgery blog, was always written pre-op and simply scheduled for publishing.
• Therefore, some of the predictions in the blog, were just that. Predictions. For example – the type of anaesthetic, to be used…
• I was under the impression that a general anaesthetic was the favoured and preferred approach. I had psychologically prepared myself to be knocked-out – safe in the knowledge, that I would be  unaware of anything related to the procedure, until I woke up. Ignorance is bliss.
• I was therefore scared and underprepared, when, upon arrival in theatre, I was told that the operation would take place without any feelings below the waist, all while being fully awake.
• In preparation for the operation, I was injected with a strong sedative, called ketamine. I had only heard of this drug twice before – once when the local ‘Bobby’ visited my school, to tell us what drugs are bad, really bad, or really really bad. In case you didn’t know, ‘Bobby’ is slang for police officer and not drug dealer.
• The tranqualiser is also given, by Hannibal Lecter, to all-round nasty chump, Mason Verger, who is then encouraged to cut off his own face or nose – depending on whether you’re watching the movie or tv series version of the storyline – before feeding his resulting handywork to his dogs or self. Again, this all depends on if you’re watching the movie or TV version of Hannibal – or reading the book!
• I didn’t react well to the ketamine. By this, I mean that the drug did the job exactly as the anaesthetist intended. I was petrified, but I was distracted from what was going on, with regards to my operation.
• I remember warning everyone in the operating theatre, that I had seen Hannibal, and therefore knew what they were up to. I was told how a needle would be stuck into my back – to which I started laughing hysterically, telling the anaesthetist “nooo, you’re not going to!”.
• I also recall asking if my pet bunny would have been given the same medication, when he was castrated. Maybe this was the most unusual enquiry that I could have made – especially as I was yet to be injected with anything, at that point, so my mental state remained unaffected.

I like to be in control of my body and thoughts. It’s one of the reasons I rarely got drunk in my twenties, whereas many friends of mine would hit the pubs and clubs at least twice a week, without fail. That and the fact, alcohol usually made me vomit, way before I became close to any drunken shenanigans.

By this point, the effects of the ketamine were in full swing, with other pain killers and potions, working their way around my body.

But that’s for another post…