I TOLD HER THAT...

‘I told her that’ became my catch cry for Friday the 18^th of November, 2011.

So, Charlie and I rocked up to John Fawkner just before 12pm on this day.  I was as hungry as all get out, but more dangerously, I was thirsty.  I could have drunk the Cardinia Reservoir dry.

Not a good start to the day.

The night before, I thought I would play it a little smart.  Or so I thought, anyway. 

Knowing I had to fast, and knowing that my sugars would drop low because of it, I decided to amp up the sugar the night before.  Chocolate, fruit, fruit juice and cordial were on the menu for me that night.  Not too much, because I couldn’t risk a hyper allergenic reaction (sugars too high that I pass out).  Just enough to spike them.  So I grazed on these things over a few hours to push the sugars up slowly, hoping that my early morning blood sugar levels (BSL) would be high.

7.9.  At 8am Friday morning, my BSL was 7.9.  Damn.  FAIL.  I needed them up around 10 to 12, because by lunchtime, they would have fallen to around 6 – 8, and would be okay for surgery.

FAIL.  Nothing I could do about it now, as I couldn’t eat or friggin’ drink in an attempt to spike it.  Just have to roll with it...

So Charlie and I are called into the admission clerk’s office, and I wondered if this was the chick I spoke to yesterday.  This woman was about my age, so I’m tipping it wasn’t.  The chick from yesterday sounded 12.

When your 41, everyone sounds and looks 12.  Yes, I’m getting old.

Having been through this process before, I knew that this lady would just do the paperwork, and send me through to the day clinic, where the nurses would do the medical side of everything.  No point complaining to this woman about my sugars now.

I needed to hit the nurses with that one.

However, whilst sitting there going through the rigmarole, I could feel the sugars dropping.  I was starting to wilt, and I said to Charlie; ‘I’m feeling tired…’  He knew what I meant, and said ‘We’ll be with the nurses in a minute…’

The admissions clerk had no idea.

So, we wandered around to the Day Theatre, where we parked our arses in the waiting room, and… waited.  Minutes later, I was called through.  I asked Charlie to stay where he was, because I knew that when they’d finished with me, they would send me back into the waiting room.

After checking all of my vitals, the nurse touched on my diabetes.  I said ‘You better check my BSL, because I think they’re quite low.’

‘When did you last eat?’

‘About 9pm last night.’

The nurse just looked at me in horror.  ‘You’re diabetic… why haven’t you eaten today?’

‘I told her that…’ I said, and explained what happened with the admission clerk.  The nurse took off at a sprint and game back with a BSL meter.  She tested my sugars: 4.9.  Fuck.  The nurse just looked at me, speechless.  ‘I told her that.’ I repeated.

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Very tired.’

She took off again, and came back with another nurse.  ‘We’re taking you straight through, and putting you on a glucose drip.  You have to get your sugars up to 8 before you can be admitted for surgery.’

‘Tell that to the admissions clerk…’ I muttered.

‘I’ll get you a wheelchair…’

I stood up.  ‘I’m not dead.  I can walk just fine.’

‘Have you had a hypoallergenic episode before?’ she asked.

‘Yep, and I’m nowhere near it now.  Let’s roll.’

Half an hour later, I was comfortably nestled in a ward – wearing one of those fucken handkerchiefs again - with a bung in my arm; pumping in the sugar.    I took the opportunity to snooze.  Yeah.

I’d sent Charlie on his way, telling him I’d call him later when I had more information.  He had an afternoon at the golf range and the shopping centre (maybe a movie) planned. Hopefully, he wouldn’t forget me this time.

So, my sugars got back to 8 by the time my scheduled surgery came around (3pm!), and they wheeled me up to the operating suites to wait my turn.

The anaesthetist – who looked 12 – patted me on the arm and said that she was going to give me a local, not a full general.

I freaked out.  ‘A local?  Does that mean I will see and hear stuff?’

‘Yes, but trust me; you won’t remember.’

‘I don’t want to remember! I don’t know to see people’s faces whilst they’re looking at my lady parts!’

She laughed at me.  ‘You’ll be right.’ And off she went.  

Fuck me! Don’t leave me freaking out like this! OMG!

She was right though.  I didn’t remember anything.  Except the painful anaesthetic.  That hurt like a mo fo!  It looked like milk, and as she’s injecting it, the anaesthetist said ‘this is a painful injection, I’m so sorry.  It will ache really badly in your arm for about 10 seconds, and then it will dissipate.’ 

She was right.  Owies.  Stupid ‘local’ didn’t block that memory out.  Nor the memory of 10 complete strangers (except the surgeon) in the room again, and someone very politely saying ‘Okay Lee; lift your legs up and let them drop open…’ Thankfully, that was the last thing I remember, because my privacy went flying out of the window after that point.  The handkerchief I was wearing wasn’t saving my dignity at all.

I wonder if I was conscious throughout the procedure, and I have just blocked the horror of it out?  How the hell do all of these anaesthetics work, I ask you?  Scary.

Funny thing tho; when I woke up (again, what seemed like minutes later) in recovery, I started crying.  Why?  Well apparently, the anaesthetic that they used on me often causes patients to come out of it crying.  The gorgeous nurse (who remembered me from last time) explained that if I was anxious going into theatre, then I would wake up quite emotional.

No shit. 

Hello embarrassment.

So, about an hour later, me and my handkerchief were wheeled back into the peace and quiet of my room, where no one would be interested in looking at my lady bits. I called Charlie and gave him the heads up, and actually said ‘don’t fucken forget me this time.’

He came back and watched me devour my sandwiches and soup, and got upset when I smacked his hand when he tried to pinch my jelly.  We had about three more hours to wait before they could release me, so we sat watching crap on telly until it was time to go.

The nurse on duty and I were fascinated by a news article about this Frankston couple that had been on the run for three weeks, and had finally been caught and arrested somewhere near Dimboola.

We had bets going.  She thought it was drugs, and I thought they’d killed someone.  Neither of us guessed that it was child pornography.  Ew.  At least it passed the time.

So, as 9pm rolled around, Charlie and I got our shit together, thanked the nurse, and went home.

Hopefully, that is the last we’ll see of John Fawkner Private Hospital for a long time.

I would just like to say that I sincerely appreciate the efforts of all of the surgical, emergency and nursing staff at John Fawkner.  It was not their fault that my body reacted the way it did to the procedures I had; it was just one of those things. 

They were fantastic in their ‘handling’ of me, and treated me with utter respect, compassion and kindness.  Mind you, I’m an ideal patient, because I do exactly what they tell me, and don’t harass them every 2 minutes like the drama queen in emergency.  I respect they’re pressed for time, and I don’t need to be wasting it.

The only thing I can complain about was the admissions clerk insisting I fast.  Not 100% her fault, because I should have checked.  However, she’s supposed to be instructing me, and she should be getting her information correct.

I dare say this issue is not over.

Health and happiness, my peeps.