Another bloody minor hospital procedure

*EDITED* I took the names out, and also, looking over this, it was written kneejerk on leaving the hospital. I am totally freaked out by hospitals. I fucking hate them. It made me say ruder things than I meant in memory of my last time in one as patient.

Back into a hospital.

I’m not a healthcare worker. I have very little experience of hospitals. Usually in my experience they are a processing unit. They take in healthy people and process them dead. That’s my experience of what they do. I checked in my mum after she begged me: “I’m in so much pain!” MRSA happened quickly, totally unrelated to her actual condition, and killed her at 55. The doctor put what she was signed in for on her death certificate, not what killed her. She was the rarest blood type. Exceptionally harvestable organs. He was literally a monster, that doctor. He actually hated her and I felt it.

I went into the building and did all the hand sanitising etc etc and tried not to be too freaked out. Eventually a young woman sat with me and gave me a prognosis. No fibre in my diet until Sunday, and after a period of fasting they are going to put a camera up my asshole. I’ll be sure to go into great detail if I can, although my hope is that I’ll be full of morphine.

Last time I had an operation it was general anaesthetic and I was terrified. I quit booze for a year in the lead-up. I asked my friend to be there when I awoke from death. She never showed up, and then got weird with me for almost being late for her wedding. I remember being awkwardly woken and restored to myself by the surgeon who knew nothing about me. It is a scary thing, to go from the nothing of general anesthetic to the everything of world. I have subsequently been ticked off for the near miss with the wedding and we have never bothered to properly explode that casual betrayal of my existence. Even the doctor seemed disappointed and pissed off. He had better places to be, but I woke from nothing to him apologising about how my friend hadn’t bothered to show up. The doctor, by way of helping me remember who I was, laboriously gave me the details of her excuse for not being there. I absorbed it totally without judgement. Our friendship didn’t falter. Later I felt judgment for being *almost* late for her wedding, at which point I felt desperately sad. I was at her wedding in time but I was still made to feel bad for almost being late. I was made to sing the song I had prepared with a small group from my seat opposite the choir of singers. “Just go to your seat,” says one woman. “Oh so we do it from our seats?” “Just go to your seat”. I stood and gave it my all anyway, disconnected, from my seat whilst that damn woman and all the cool kids stood in a pack opposite me. Just a few weeks beforehand I had been zeroed and I had been brought back to life. My first face was not my friend but the actual surgeon, who was angry with me and with her for not being there. He knew that someone had to be there and I know why. It was a terrifying jolt back to reality, I remember it so closely and I try to forget that I was so shocked and upset that my friend basically pulled a casual “no” on the most feared day of my adult life. It was hard to come back to myself. I had to fight for a hospital discharge on my own. They wanted to keep me in overnight as I had noone to get me. It was a hard lesson for me about friends. Our friendship was very deep but it hasn’t survived it properly.

I’m thinking about that ancient unspoken friendship drop because the roots of it happened again today and I got flashbacks. I was asked by the nurse to give details of someone who would pick me up and I immediately went cold, thinking how the person I honestly thought would be there for me last time just scarily wasn’t.

This time I’m not being especially completely wiped out and then resurrected with a general. It’s not as big a deal as the one my friend dropped. But… I’m going to be wobbly afterwards for sure.

I’ve asked Tristan. I taught the bastard how to drive. He can drive me home now he’s got a car, dammit.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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