Stitched Up

I’m sure if you go back and look at this blog from 18 months ago (although quite why anyone would choose to undertake such a thankless task is beyond me) I am sure that I made a prophecy. When I crossed the threshold of 40, albeit gracelessly and with much anger, I believe I declared to anyone who’d listen that no good would come of it. It turns out that I was right.

Other than having my wisdom teeth removed when I was 16 I’d never been given general anaesthetic for a medical procedure. I only opted for it with the wisdom teeth because they were buried deep within my gums and heading off course towards my existing teeth that such drastic measures for removal were even considered.

Then last year you may recall that I ended up having my gall bladder taken away from me, due to it developing a fault and being out of warranty. It serves no useful purpose these days anyway, much like a cassette player or a Liberal Democrat MP.

Now, another part of my wretched cadaver is suffering from wear and tear and needs surgical intervention.  To be honest, I had assumed that the recent stomach pain I’d experienced was a touch of trapped wind, however on the third or fourth bout of excruciating pain I decided to seek medical advice.

I visited a GP who asked me a few questions and then she got me to stand behind the curtain and drop my trousers. Having spent a couple of nights in hospital last year I’ve lost any embarrassment about such requests and will now merrily drop my trousers at will, whether people want me to or not.

In fact I’m not entirely sure the GP wanted to see quite what I was exposing to her but she didn’t scream or point and laugh, and following a quick prod around my lower stomach she concluded that I probably had a couple of inguinal hernias. To be honest I thought they’d be more noticeable but a subsequent ultrasound confirmed her diagnosis.

So the other week I was back at the hospital in front of a very cheerful surgeon (that’s private healthcare for you I suppose) who gladly signed me up to be cut open and have my hernias repaired and sealed. I asked if this was all really necessary as, despite what the present Mrs Hayward would tell you, I am not addicted to surgery.  In fact I am deeply suspicious of the whole thing.

The surgeon said that it’s best to get them done while I’m still young and fit as hernias can cause problems in later life. Notwithstanding his apparent short sightedness I’m not sure if later life is going to be much of a problem if parts of my anatomy keep packing up or falling apart. Unless this is some long term experiment to turn me into the Bionic Man, which could be advantageous; the special eye thing will be most useful to see if there’s a new guest ale on at the bar without me leaving my seat.

Mind you, if I were a caveman I’d probably be dead by now so perhaps I need to take the hernia on the chin (not literally) and behave in a much more stoic way, rather than whining on the internet. After all, it’s a miracle of modern technology that they can patch me up like I’m a rusty Ford Escort (Mk 2 of course) and send me on my way.

Oh well, it's only a few hours now until I have to show my face at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 7:15am, but that's still plenty of time for me to run through all the potential worst case scenarios, including but not limited to, the surgeon leaving implements inside my body, waking up during the operation, and the whole hospital being staffed by lunatics masquerading as medical staff.

Actually that last one may have happened on the previous occasion. He was called Dr Bob, but that’s another story.    

Under the Knife

The present Mrs Hayward would have it that my frequent trips to see my GP would imply that I’m a raging hypochondriac. This isn’t entirely true, however having a healthy regard for any signs of malaise does set me apart from the stoicism of some men who would prefer to wait until their leg drops off before looking to see if they have a plaster.

I, on the other hand, assume that every ache, pain, cough or sneeze is a sign that the Grim Reaper is about to point his bony finger in my direction and so I get myself off down the quacks' to make good use of my national insurance contributions. Combined with some medical insurance at work, which means I occasionally bypass the National Health Service to attend hospitals with bowls of fruit in reception, means that my health needs are well catered for.

The combination of all these kindly medical providers came in very useful a couple of months ago when I was struck down in the middle of the night with what I concluded must surely be a heart attack of some kind.

To make sure of this self-diagnosis I got up, paced about to distract myself from the abominable pain, and held on for about an hour to see if I died or not. When the hour was up and I found myself to still be residing in the land of the living I rang 111. They concurred that my symptoms were a trifle odd and decided to send a paramedic to me, which sent me into a further paroxysm of panic. I had assumed they’d just tell me to take an aspirin and stop bothering them but within minutes a paramedic was in our lounge and had wired me up to some beeping machinery.

His results were inconclusive but he seemed fascinated by my slow heartbeat, despite my assurances that this was a natural phenomenon which had been commented on before by medical professionals and had been put down to my obvious athletic prowess.

He decided that I should be taken to the Accident & Emergency department for further tests and so he packed me into an ambulance car, whilst I apologised profusely for wasting his time with what was probably only a bad bout of indigestion, and driven at speed to Peterborough with the present Mrs Hayward trying to keep pace behind us in her little Fiat 500.

At the hospital I was prodded, poked, stabbed, scanned and mauled until they decided I wasn’t about to expire, despite the heart machine suggesting that I was flat lining on more than one occasion, and came to the unexpected conclusion that I was suffering from gall stones. Until that point I had no idea what a gall stone was.

In short (and from memory) they can be found, perhaps unsurprisingly, within the gall bladder. The gall bladder is an organ attached to your liver that stores the bile that secretes from the liver which is then released and helps to aid digestion when you eat. Sometimes, if the bile hangs around too long the cholesterol within the bile crystallises into jagged stones. Most of the time these stones cause no problems but if they move or create an infection they generate a remarkable amount of pain and, if they get stuck in a tube somewhere, they can kill you. See, I told you I was ill.

I came within a cat’s whisker of having the gall bladder whipped out there and then but the Doctor overseeing my general wellbeing refrained on this occasion and sent me home with a good dose of morphine and some pain killers that could fell a horse.

The pain failed to subside for a couple of weeks and after further prodding and scanning I found myself in front of a surgeon who suggested that, given the problems I’d had that it was time that my gall bladder and I had an amicable separation.

He assured me that once recovered from surgery I would be able to live a perfectly normal life, no strange tics or funny walks, and my diet, which since ‘the incident’ had mostly consisted of water, lettuce and dust, could also return to ‘business as usual’ with the usual caveat of ‘everything in moderation’.

He explained that the gall bladder is a useless part of our anatomy and, like the appendix and most of our intestines, are products of a bygone age when food was scarce, fire was a distant dream, men hunted mammoths with spears and Bruce Forsyth was still in short trousers. In essence, he was telling me that I had not evolved since the age of the cavemen which is fair enough I think. Just don’t expect me to wrestle a sabre-toothed tiger to the ground or fashion rudimentary tools out of flint any time soon.

So, this Saturday, I will be heading to a hospital to bid farewell to my gall bladder and its resident stones. I am being upgraded to a 21st century body, more efficient and slightly lighter. I don’t necessarily recommend this route as an alternative to conventional weight loss but when life gives you lemons and all that.

Frankly I’m terrified of actual surgery and a night in a hospital is going to be a new experience for me. I’m hoping it’s going to be like ‘Only When I Laugh’ or ‘Carry on Doctor’ and if it isn’t I will be sorely disappointed. Well, I’ll certainly be sore, regardless of the whole affair.

I have however prepared by buying some old fashioned pyjamas that button up at the front and am developing my Sid James-style earthy laugh for whenever a nurse bends over or a Doctor inadvertently puts his foot in a bed pan. Wish me luck.

Ooooh, Matron!