Flashback

My Dear Princess and Dear Fellows,

Another hot day today. I've been out in it already. I can't help it. A lifetime of feeling that sunshine wasted is a SIN has programmed me to step outside whenever the weather is fine.

But that's it now. I am home, the fans are on and my only plans today are to drink a gallon of water. Er Indoors has bought special cooling mats for the boys and they are loving lolling all over them. I'm thinking about joining them down there, if they will have me.

Today's blip is a white agapanthus. The blue ones are all over the place here. So much so I believe agapanthus is classifed as a weed here, but I love it. I love watching the buds burst open, and then they turn into THIS.

Right. Too tired and hot to blip. So instead here are extracts from some emails I sent to J-Bar my naughty mother in law years ago. I re-wrote them a little bit and thought they might amuse you. Princess, you may remember me going through all this. Mad Dog and Auslaender may have done their best to erase it from their memories.

S.

Dear J-Bar,

What follows is my account of a personal experience with a hernia. I should tell you now that it is not educational. If you want that sort of thing you can look at Wikipedia, although I should warn you they also have pictures. Of hernias. From the inside. You’re better off with me.

Part One – The Uncomfortable Truth Discovered

So I have hernia’d myself. Something has gone awry in Bollock-town. There’s no pretty way to say it.

The thing is, I hadn’t noticed. I took myself to the doctor purely on the basis that my pants felt too tight even when I wasn’t wearing actual pants. My doctor was very understanding and thoughtful, but I was still uncomfortable. This is because, for me, it is not the policemen who seem to get younger and younger, but the doctors. This one looked like she was about 14 and I had to fight back an urge to ask who her favourite member of “One Direction” was. It was like giving my medical history to a girl guide, looking to score her “Bollock Examination” badge.

“Okay, if you just drop your trousers, I’ll have a look,” she said. That ended my train of thought right there. There is nothing that drops one out of a reverie quite like the SNAP of a rubber glove.

So she prodded and asked me to cough. I felt like I was in a “Carry On” film. She found a tender area and pointed out a really obvious lump I hadn’t noticed before. There are some parts of me that I just don’t lavish that much attention on, and it was clear that this was their revenge.

So actually it is not my nad as such. It’s just sort of the general groiny area nearby. “It’s part of your bowel that has broken through the muscle wall,” explained the doctor. “It just needs to be poked back in.”

This upset me. Referring to my upcoming medical procedure as “poking something back in” sounds so budget. I imagined a surgeon performing the operation with a wooden spoon or the rubber on the end of a pencil. “Pass the Blu-tac!” he would shout as he wrapped up.

"Don't worry," explained my doctor. "Lots of men your age get them." Which was rubbish. BEDSIDE EFFING MANNER, I wanted to say to her, but I did not because she was just little and I didn't want to make her cry. But was it really necessary to insert the words "YOUR AGE" in that sentence? Since when I am "YOUR AGE"??? My DAD is YOUR AGE. Sean Connery is YOUR AGE. I'm NEVER going to be YOUR AGE. Oh shut up.

But that's not my main problem. Because it’s a relatively pain-free and therefore non-essential process I think I will be at the bottom of the waiting list. It could be MONTHS before I get the rubber end of the pencil, as it were. In the meantime I am not allowed to go to the gym anymore, which is annoying. I was just getting to the point where it felt like I was getting somewhere. Mind you, it could well have been the gym that caused the problem in the first place.

And that’s the really perplexing thing. I have no idea how or when I ruptured myself. I thought you’d notice, like when you bend over and rip your knickers and everybody laughs, but no. The only noticeable things are more of an urge to wee and the fact you have a lopsided willy area.

So for now I am stuck with it. It’s not so bad. Other than the symptoms I’ve mentioned so far, I would barely notice it. Oh, also whenever I sneeze I have an urge to check that everything is still there and that nothing has twanged across the room. I shall keep you updated with future appointments, medical procedures, novelty shaves and descriptions of itchy regrowth. I’ll bet you can’t wait.


Part Two – A Lovely Butterfly
“Yes, he’s shaved.”

This is the first thing Er Indoors tells anyone. And she’s not talking about my face.

I’m semi-perplexed, though not surprised, that my friends’ first query is if my willy now looks as if it requires a toupee.

They are MY friends after all.

Following my announcement of having a hernia (which sort of constituted my “Coming Out” in more ways than one). I got a great deal of support and concern from my friends. Mostly in the form of willy jokes. Reg and Jacinta, two good friends and yoga-instructors were particularly interested.

Was it caused by lifting heavy things or pooing too hard?” asked Cint. I should explain. She is Australian.
“I’m going to go with that whole ‘lifting’ thing”, I responded.
“Can you exercise?” asked Cint.
“I can walk,” I explained, “but no going to the gym. It’s really annoying.”
“Are you allowed to swim?” she asked.
“Well, no, because I can’t swim,” I said. “I’m allowed to drown. But I’m not sure that would help.”

Reg and Cint suggested that yoga might help, post-surgery. Reg, being a down-to-earth sort of chap, is very popular with men who have never tried yoga before. “I’m thinking of opening a studio and calling it ‘Stiff Men’”, he explained.

I’m sure it would be very popular, although for entirely the wrong reason.

“But seriously, I’m used to dealing with people in recovery,” explained Cint. “Is it an inguinal hernia?”
“A linguine hernia?” I repeated in horror. That sounded disgusting. However, once I got home and googled it, I told her that it was. Adding that it was somewhat disturbing she knew more about my goolies than I did.

Months after my initial diagnosis passed like this and I got used to my little bump and the conversation it provoked. But finally, three months later I got a call for my appointment with a consultant – Mr. Hart, consultant urologist and bollock-supremo. It wasn’t a very satisfying appointment. He basically patted me on the bump, like he was giving me a really weird high-5. “Yes, that’s a hernia all right," he said.

Great. Two taxis and a 30 minute wait for THAT. I was expecting a decent grope for that amount of effort. Not even a finger up the bum. I could have saved myself a trip by sexting him instead.

“We have options here,” he told me. “You could ignore it, which I don’t recommend, or we can prescribe a surgical support.”

Yes, he really said that. I’m not sure how Er Indoors would feel about encountering a truss in the laundry, so I politely declined.

“In that case, surgery is the best option,” he opined. He offered me general or local anaesthetic. I settled on local. I’d had a general anaesthetic 25 years ago and got some weirdarse reaction to it. I remember looking around the ward at all the other people coming around, eating toast and watching telly and wondered why I was the only one throwing up on a nurse. So local it was.

What was nice was all the pre-op support I got. Cint informed me she had asked her mother to light a candle and say a prayer for my willy. Also, Er Indoors, Lisa & Shetland Dad all offered to accompany me to surgery and take me home again. It’s a nice thought, but I politely declined. I can be sick and pathetic just as well on my own as in company and it is not like anyone ever died from a bollock-realignment procedure.

They didn't, did they? Oh dear god, the horror.

So I took myself to the Western General the following Sunday, where I was assigned a bed and a revealing shorty smock. I felt like I was one of those women who wear mini-skirts and spend the rest of their evening wriggling about trying to hide their Lady Garden. No-one was going to see my Gentleman Privet either.

Or so I thought. Actually, it got quite an airing. All day. To large numbers of appreciative audiences. The surgeon was the first to whip up my smock so that he could draw a big arrow on my leg pointing to my bump. I’m not sure what the point of this was. The bump was OBVIOUS. It didn’t need signposting. Given that he was DOING the surgery, I didn’t see the point, unless he was planning on doing it drunk. I’m only surprised he didn’t add a note, “WILLY THIS WAY. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.” Or some such.

After some sitting around, I was then taken off to surgery by a friendly orderly and a lovely Irish nurse. For some reason we got onto the subject of Poundstretcher and how you always end up buying a ton of stuff that you don’t need purely because everything’s a pound.

“I don’t even LIKE Dolly Mixtures,” the Irish orderly was saying. Then we encountered another gurney being wheeled toward MY gurney.
“Chicken!” shouted the Irish orderly.
“Faster! Faster!” I said. And we sort-of raced toward each other at a fast walk. Sadly, my guy blinked first. I think it’s because, out of the two patients, I was the only one who was conscious.
Meanwhile, the Irish nurse attempted to talk me through my operation and assured me my bump would be transformed from an “ugly caterpillar” into a “lovely butterfly”.

I was going to ask, “How did I get THIS orderly and THIS nurse?” But I know full well that I encourage this sort of behaviour. It was the same when I met Ann, who I think was the head nurse. She apologised for shaving me and also for applying tape afterward, which whipped out the rest of my hair. Which reminds me:

AIEEEEEEEE!!!! OOOOH! YA EFFER!!!

But in between the tears and screaming, I managed to carry on a conversation with her, in which it was established that – 

- She lives in Glasgow
- She has four dogs, a spaniel, a lab/spaniel mix, a rescued retriever and a naughty Jack Russell “who is their leader”
- I would never forgive her for yanking out my private place hair

But Ann was lovely. I’m not sure what her job actually was, but she took it upon herself to chat to me throughout the procedure. “It’s nice to chat to patients,” she said. “You’re normally asleep and boring. Don’t look so NERVOUS.”

Well EXCUSE ME for being nervous as I was covered in plastic, like one of Dexter’s victims. Local anaesthetic was applied and then all I could feel were things being pushed and pulled about.

“Was your hernia giving you much pain?” asked Ann. I conceded that it wasn’t and that it actually took me a month to even notice it. Ann rolled her eyes. “Well, who looks down there?” I asked. “I’m usually half-asleep when I shower.”

“And a MAN,” shouted the Irish nurse.

The Irish nurse then put on Bon Jovi, and she, Ann and I all grooved to “Living On A Prayer”. “Try not to dance,” Ann suggested. I apologised but told her I couldn’t help it. I am a child of the 80’s after all but OW F***.

“That hurts. Hurts quite a bit,” I said. Trying to be polite, after my filthy-mouthed faux pas.

“More local,” said the surgeon.

“That’s what I like to hear. Oh yeah that hit the spot,” I said. That made them all laugh.

(Is there something wrong with me, that I want people to like me even during surgery?)

“I know, I know,” said Ann patting my arm. “It’s like having someone rifling around in your handbag isn’t it?”

“Handbag? What are you trying to say Ann?” I asked.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she apologised. “That’s just what I always say to women having a c-section.”

If I’m making gonad-surgery sound relatively pleasant, I have to say, it wasn’t so bad. I mean, it’s not comfortable but if I were to compare it to anything, it would be like really bad wind. So the next time you have explosive diarrhoea you can say, “THIS is what bowel-surgery feels like!”

I spent the rest of the operation talking to Ann about New Zealand, her children and the fact that she used to live in Leith too. I also talked at length about Er Indoors’s job recruiting medical staff. I hope it gets back to her boss that I was TOTALLY trying to drum up business during surgery. I would have handed out business cards, if only they’d fit into my smock.

Then it was all over and I was being whipped away. I was quite sad saying goodbye to Ann and the Irish nurse. “You’re a lovely butterfly!” she announced.

“Do I get a Brave Boy lollipop?” I asked. They offered me a wine gum instead. “We’re the human face of the NHS,” said the Irish nurse.

So I was full of good NHS vibes for a little while. They were just so nice and kind to me. This was dissipated a little bit by the nurse who left me hanging around for 45 minutes while she busied herself doing – um – nothing. I don’t mind being kept waiting but WAITING IN EFFING PAIN not so much. Yes, the local was wearing off and I was feeling quite grumpy about it. I texted Er Indoors that I was okay, but she didn’t reply for an hour. I sent her a second text:

“You took ages to reply. Were you sleeping? Were you NAPPING during my brush with death??” I said, because I prefer not to over-dramatise things.

I got back a text accusing me of “bloody cheek”.  Whoops. You don’t want to irritate the chick who will be required for sandwich-making and possible sponge-bath duties.

But finally the busywork nurse got back to me. After yes-yes-yesing my way through her post-op care chat, I made my way out of the hospital, miraculously caught a cab right outside and got myself home in 20 minutes. “Just visiting?” said the cab driver. I told her I’d just come from surgery. That’s ALL I said. “Surgery”. “AAAAH! Too much information,” she cried, and spent the rest of the trip talking about HER last operation. Hmph! What a hypocrite!

After I got home Er Indoors took very good care of me. On day 1, sitting up, moving around and farting were EFFING AGONY. But we are now on Day 2 and I’m over the fart hurdle, much to Er Indoors’s disappointment. By the end of the week I should be okay to pick up the cat.

Speaking of which, Jasper has been pretty good. Ordinarily, he delights on kicking me directly in the stomach and/or balls, but that hasn’t happened so far. He did fall directly asleep on my “butterfly” last night and then made himself all heavy and complainy when I tried to move him. In the end Er Indoors had to scoop him up for me. But that’s all right. I know it is only because he loves me.

And thanks to all for your queries about whether I’m shaved or not, I know you love me too. That, or you are all perverts. Either way, I feel loved. Also chilly.