Waiting for the (wo)man

Today was the day of the Minx's operation on her foot, to remove the invasive section of cocktail stick, which, in a bizarre household accident, made its way into her foot about eight weeks ago. 

The day didn't start that well as having parked up at Chorley and taken the long - and, for the Minx, painful - walk to the day case unit we were told the operation was at Preston, so we had to walk back to the car, drive to Preston and go to the DCU there. Ironically, despite it being Chorley's fault, they were largely dismissive and unsympathetic whereas the staff at Preston couldn't have been move lovely and helpful.

I was allowed to stay on the ward, which was nice, and both the anaesthetist and the consultant came 'round before hand to answer any questions we had (me: none, Minx: loads). Eventually, though, they came to take her away and I retreated to the reception area.

There was a large flat screen TV on the wall (you can just see it in the photo), broadcasting mindless daytime TV to the room. By positioning myself in the corner, I was able to avoid its distracting pictures and, by deploying my earphones, could blot out its nonsense. 

As a science fiction fan from an early age, I still get a buzz out of the fairly mundane act of connecting my laptop wirelessly to my 'phone and then connecting to the Internet via 3G. And so it was that I was able to distract myself with a bit of work and email, avoiding thinking about the Minx, somewhere nearby, under general anaesthetic. 

After forty minutes or so, a nurse came to get me and I returned to the ward to find the Minx, woozy but happy, with her foot swathed in bandages. Despite the cock up, this morning, which, of course, could have happened in any organisation, the NHS did the Minx proud, today. What was lovely was just how genuinely keen the nurses on the ward were to help and take care of her, and it struck me quite forcefully what's meant when we describe nursing as a vocation.