At 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon, the phone rings.
‘It’s the hospital here. You’re booked in for surgery at 8 o’clock on Monday. Has anyone called you?’
Er, no.
‘Oh. Well, can you make it?’
Er, yes.
‘Right, so that’s 8:00AM on Monday 16th July, nothing to eat or drink after midnight. I won’t send you a letter now, with the postal strike you probably wouldn’t get it.’
As I’m hanging up, I’m thinking – Monday 16th, that rings a bell. A school governors’ sub-committee meeting and a strawberry tea. But they’re not till the afternoon, how long is this going to take? Hmm, be sensible about this, I’ll be in no fit state, I’ll have to send my apologies. Which means really giving some indication of why I’m doing it, at this short notice.
The other thing I think about is that last time I was there, they said I would have to go in for a preparatory session, prior to the actual surgery. But if it’s that, why no food and drink after midnight? No, this must be it.
I put ‘minor surgery’ in the email that sends my apologies. Up to now, I’ve not really told people outside the immediate family, certainly not people in the village. I hadn’t really planned for circumstances in which I might have to tell people, though I had half an idea of making jokes about having a ‘boob job’.
I have been torn during the last few weeks between wanting to tell people and getting their sympathy, and not wanting to tell them because I don’t want to worry them or put them in an awkward situation of not knowing what to say and making them think that maybe I’m trying to get their sympathy. Part of me wants to be fussed over, part of me doesn’t want to ask to be fussed over. So, on balance I haven’t told people. Except in Oxford last week after a couple of beers. And on Melinda_blog, but no one reads that so that’s OK, no one noticed.
Since I came back from Oxford, I’d wondered once or twice what was happening. Maybe they tried ringing up when there was no one here, and somehow the fact that the message hadn’t been left wasn’t registered. Or maybe it is a cancellation, or some kind of ‘just-in-time’ system that they’re operating now (like Toyota), or some cunning method of massaging the waiting lists.
I didn’t have the happiest evening I’ve ever spent. Then I had a bizarre and horrible dream, in which my car scared the horse which the Chair of the Parish council was riding and she was thrown into the river, from which I pulled her out and tried to give her the kiss of life, but she turned very nasty and accused me of doing it deliberately. This from a woman that I really like and respect. So I was glad to wake up, even though it was only 1:30, and realise it was a dream.
And Hubby has been giving me the silent treatment again, though he hasn’t retreated to the attic yet. But that’s part of another story.