Wind in the gallows

Well a very good evening to you one and all.

At Cancer Central – aka Chicken HQ – things have been rather busy. In so far as, while I was IN, having my lung OUT, a whole bunch of people down our road were very busy getting other things. All of which begin with C, as our road does.

We had 2 cardiac events; 2 cancer scares; one COVID; and the other, quite frankly expected, a bad case of the itchy Crustaceans. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Awkward. He’s still isolating, sideways, for a while.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I’d gone in for my surgery. I remember talking to you on Lungmas Eve actually.

We arrived (classically) 30 minutes before admission time. The carer can’t actually come in with me so he kicks me out the car with my bags and, knowing him, probably rushes to the nearby IKEA for some meatballs; watches the test cricket live in the nearby ground; or maybe, possibly, legs it back home for a bit of he time, knowing the old bag will be gone for a week.

Fine. All settled into my quarters and ready to go.

A visit from Dr Dreamboat throws me a tiny bit – not least because I’d just taken all my make up off, as per the requirements for surgery. (By the way, if you ever have major surgery you are also required to remove finger or toenail polish; it’s one of the first signs you’re croaking it if your nailbeds go blue).

‘I’ve been scratching my head about you’, he purrs.

(I’ve been scratching something else about you,’ I foam – but do NOT verbalise).

‘It seems a bit drastic to remove your whole lung for this tumour, even though it’s in a difficult place. So I’ve consulted a colleague, Professor blah blah blah, and because you are an unusual case (crikey – hadn’t he spotted that before?), he is going to attend the operation too. Ok?’

Still foaming, I attempt a nod.

Next stop, Nurse J. In she comes, the epitome of nursiness, efficient, clean, polite (as she stabs me with the pre op cannula and starts dispensing untold chemicals into my veins) – and then:
‘I’ve got nurse Y today – it’s her first day on the thoracic ward! Say hello to Mrs Cardigan Nurse Y!’

Nurse Y is wondering Y she has to say hello to a garment but she sees there’s a foaming human underneath and duly obliges.

Back to nurse J.

‘Y has never seen an operation before – is it ok if we invite her??’

‘Will you faint?’ I ventured.

‘Ooh I don’t know! But you won’t know either!’

I’m lolling so much by know I reckon I could get my own lung out by itself, via the nearest and most open orifice – and cash in on what clearly is turning into a hot ticket seller. Hello, hospital porter/chaplain/person on street – we’re hoiking a lung out today, it’s a free for all, BYOB, everyone welcome!’

I love the way, these days, in the hospital that’s becoming a second home to me now, that you walk your way into the operating theatre, in a gown which bares your arse to the world, and get on to your own operating table, with full view of all the hammers, saws and bolts they’re planning to use on you. I mean, it was a long walk with limited lung function; we talked about the weather (heatwave at the time but it’s blowing a gale up my fandango); what they’d had for lunch (not v fair given I’d been nil by mouth for 12 hrs) But such is life, and we had lots of laughs along the merry way into the cutting chamber.

There’s eight people in that room, plus Nurse Y, and only the Dreamboat and his curious professor voyeur are nowhere to be seen. Anyway after lots of bants between us all, my mad Russian gas man appears; shoots the dose..and off I go, possibly still laughing as I go under. I remember saying, ‘I love this bit….’ – then obviously he clubbed me over the head and off I jolly well went.

Next thing I know, I’m in thoracic ICU. Now, if you’re on that part of ICU, you’ll wake up with a funny old mask thingy on, tubes up your nose and a fairly brisk breeze going in. As the mad Russian described it, last time:

‘Zis is like driving down motorway in open top car at 100mph wiz no vindscreen – ha,’

One by one, we (all four of us) are starting to come round and be weaned off of our forced oxygen intake. Trouble is, what goes in, must come out.

‘Hello Mrs Cardigan are you ok?’ says ICU head nurse.

‘Buuuuurrrghhhhh’ say I.

‘Mrs Rodgers, how are you feeling?’

‘Errrrr—uppp’ – Mrs R retorts.

‘Paaaaarph..fweep’- went Mr Peterson.

‘Don’t worry Sir, we’ll soon mop that up’, says the Nurse, with just the tiniest hint of a bark.

And so the round continued, just like Campfire’s Burning – until, just at the ‘pour on water’ moment, along comes Mrs Higgs:

‘Hicc! Hicc! Hicc!’

A late entrant to the orchestra with an unannounced percussion part – very well received and we got a standing ovation. The Proms have nothing on us lot!

It’s a long story and I am sorry for that; but it was a fun time, and I came out earlier than they wanted me to. The next chapter is about to begin – and I need you with me, if you’ll stay. This one is not as funny on the outside – but I know we’ll find a reason to smile 🙂