Cancel my previous post about liking being in hospital. This visit wasn’t so much fun. And I’m not just saying that because it was the first time a surgeon have been wielding a scalpel around my privates since 1999.
Although frankly if I never have to have another procedure around the perineum, I’ll be delighted.
Jeezus the things we put up with for motherhood.
And by the way, I laughed aloud when my (lovely, really) obs/gyn said: ‘No sex for six weeks.”
No sex again, ever, ever is how it feels right now.
Handily hubby is about to go away for about 6 weeks so all’s well there. Unless I suddenly decide to have an affair and find some poor bloke to have one with. But since I’m never going to have sex again, there’s not much point. So that’s OK.
ANYWAY…. I was lucky, it wasn’t too bad. The anaestheic was lovely. I was very mature and didn’t beg for extra morphine.
All the operations I’ve had in my life (plate on broken ankle, and no, I’ve never drunk margaritas since, two ears ops, two D & Cs, tonsils out) have been minor. Not at all life threatening. Big difference there.
But the last time I had been in this hospital was to visit the most lovely man, a dad of three, a neighbour. He was in for an operation to see if cancer had returned. It had. He died in March this year.
This family’s story is not mine to tell. But the death of this dad, too young, far too young, has had a huge impact on his friends. Of course it has. We know we’re alive and we’re bloody, bloody grateful. We miss him.
So I thought a lot of this lovely Irish man who died too young. Chatted to the young Irish nurses and thought of him more.
And am thinking too of friends who really are up against it, in hospital for very serious conditions. Dealing with days, months of pain.
And believe me, with every fibre of my being, I’m grateful.