New Year’s Day set the scene for what 2016 was to bring, with my first visit to A&E in 20 years, but apart from the drunken Eastern European guy in triage beating up the coffee machine for looking at him, it was pretty plain sailing. Following scans and tests I was diagnosed with a big fat fibroid which was competing for space alongside my already swollen manky baby oven, hence the pain. I was put on a lovely cocktail of mind altering drugs and referred. I researched and found my amazing new foof doctor who agreed to give me a full hysterectomy, something that my last consultant was reluctant to do due to my age (apparently there was still baby mileage in me), but if you’ve read my previous blogs you’ll know the above is just one of many nasties.
The first week in February see a return to hospital for a CT scan to better understand exactly what my surgeons would be letting themselves in for. The CT scan involved drinking a litre and half of something that can only be described as “satans urine” an hour before the procedure and a cannula being placed into my arm so dye could be pumped through my body. This is the weirdest sensation I have ever had as it floods your body with warmth and you automatically want to pee – thankfully no puddles!
March see me visit the hospital twice, once for a large camera crew to visit my bottom and then for my pre-op assessment. I’d had a colonoscopy before and the procedure itself isn’t really a memorable one as you’re sedated, however, it’s the words “bowel cleanse” that should send you running for the hills. I’m not actually too sure what they put into the medicine that you need to drink the day before the procedure, but a note to world leaders, forget nuclear missiles, just pump some of this into the water of the country you’re thinking of starting beef with, it sure as hell will be more effective! It’s not the toilet seat indentation on your bottom you need to be afraid of, it’s the fear of ever eating or drinking again once you’ve had the world fall out of your bottom. As for the pre-op, it seemed a doddle in comparison, pee and blood tests, observations and an ECG, then the obligatory “have you ever” type questions, but a lot more tame than those which I’m used to when alcohol is involved.
April was the main event, my de-gibleting, de-foofing or cut n shut, just some of the endearing terms I gave to my operation. I wasn’t too worried in the run up as I’d arranged quite a few nice things with family and friends to take my mind off everything. I’d packed 3 bags with the contents of my entire house. Bag 1 contained a sparse array of necessities for straight after my op, you know, hair straigteners, full make-up and Gucci sweats – NOT! Bag 2 was lovingly called my NHS bag, not knowing if I’d be living out of a locker next to my bed with nowhere to lock valuables and lastly bag 3 which resembled my 2 week vacation bag for my private room complete with fluffy slippers, satin robe and cigarette holder. In all seriousness there’s a very useful packing guide on the Hysterectomy Association website, whose resources became my bible and remains so.
The day before the operation, I had to do the dreaded bowel cleanse again as they wouldn’t know until they’d unzipped me what needed chopping, so even if I could’ve slept through the nerves, my bottom wouldn’t let me. Thankfully I was first in to theatre that morning, so I was quickly and efficiently popped on a gurney, given a sexy pair of anti-embolism stockings and gown, tagged around various parts of my body in case they chopped something off they shouldn’t and next thing I knew I was waking up in recovery what seemed like 5 minutes later. All went really well and much better than planned, hurrah!
I was taken up to the gynae ward initially to a 4 bedded room and prodded every couple of hours to ensure I was still alive. It was only a few hours later that I realised something wasn’t quite right as although I was self administering morphine it felt like I had a 1400 rpm spin cycle going on in my tummy. Despite several checks with the nurses with real tears and snot, it wasn’t until 3am when the night nurse realised that my drip had stopped working in recovery and I’d spent the last 12 hours with no pain meds. Boy was I not happy. To make things worse at 6am I had 2 newcomers to the room, a very upset woman who had just miscarried and had no support and me being me did all I could to soothe her and someone who I’m sure had been on Jeremy Kyle several times who was telling her friend she wished she’d brought her methadone in (she was pregnant) and called the nurse a c*** when she gave her an injection! A thoroughly pleasant experience all in all! This is where my complete saviour, Faye, who is my consultants secretary came in to her own, within a couple of hours she had secured me a bed in the private ward and I was quickly moved up to my own little white cell with more niceness and drugs than I could shake a stick at.
I had my pee bag removed after 24 hours so was able to roll out of bed with my little red handbag (tummy drain) and morphine drip and pee in the privacy of my private bathroom. I had daily visits from my 2 lovely consultants, was given exercises from the physio and started wobbling around the ward several times a day to get things “moving”. I had another minor blip on day 3 where I was a bit sick – wow the pain of retching after tummy surgery was incredible, but thankfully my nurse quickly came in and wrapped a big towel around my tummy and pulled hard to support me why I was at one with my paper bowl. Peppermint oil/tea was a godsend, as was cosy things (fluffy dressing gown, pillows, and blankets). Five days later all my dressings, tubes and needles were removed and I was able to go home with my new designer tummy to sleep and start preparing myself for a proper recovery.
Womb to Manoeuvre 