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Maybe years of being too curious, asking lots of questions and sticking my beak in where it wasn’t wanted caught up with me in the end.
Whatever the cause, my nose has taken a hammering over time and last year I was diagnosed with a deviated septum. Someone I know very well said it explained much about my behaviour, which I prefer to call – high spirited.
Straightening a wayward septum is not a nice procedure and is one case where the less detail the nose owner has the better. But long afflicted with a crooked and stuffy one, a breath of fresh surgical air seemed the logical solution.
I can’t remember the op. Drugs are useful that way. But I do know those gowns certainly haven’t improved. At least the surgical stockings kept my toes warm and in a nice bright white, they didn’t resemble Auntie Maud’s winter leg wear.
| "I was imagining the Hilton. Boy was I wrong." |
The thought of “going private” was the only cheery aspect to my appointment with pain. On admission I wanted to be taken straight to my room so I could lay out my skin care, hang up my gorgeous robe, tuck my nighty under my pillow and place my book beside my bed so I’d be all organised for when I was wheeled back to my room, somewhat drowsy, demure and looking dreamy in my new negligee.
I was thinking Hilton style here; restful, calming neutrals and clean sleek lines without appearing clinical, plus some original artwork. Boy was I wrong. Instead, I was confined to an ante-chamber, asked to change into my theatre outfit and place my civvies in a big white paper bag and wait for the party to begin.
Neil Young was playing on the theatre sound system as I arrived to take my place on the operating table. I was told the disc would probably change to ACDC when the operating team really got into the swing of things. Certainly not my cup of tea but I’d hardly be able to protest.
Post op, I knew I’d be in the recovery room for half an hour or so before finally being taken to my hotel – I mean, hospital – room.
“Coming round” was comforting and distressing at the same time. “Firsty,” I gasped. Luckily nurses understand anaesthesia-speak and some water was placed under my new and battered nose before I expired from dehydration.
Coming round even more, I asked to be taken to my room. The recovery room was way too hospital-ish for my tastes and I needed HOTEL, NOW!
“You’re already in your room,” the nurse replied.
“Wha?” I mumbled. “Ith thith it?”
“Yes,” the nurse replied briskly, as nurses are apt to do.
Even in my dazed state, I knew not to mention décor, aesthetics or comfort, so I focused (hazily) on functionality. It felt like I was still on the operating table – a narrow vinyl padded platform with a steel bar at the bottom to prevent wayward, slippery patients falling through and on to the floor.
“But the bedths too small,” I said weakly, my feet sticking through the metal bars.
“You’ve just slipped down, dear. I’ll prop you higher on the pillows,” said my little joy germ dressed in white.
“Thanksths,” I said, barely audibly.
While my boudoir wasn’t up to expectations, the surgical and nursing care was exemplary. Even so, I was outta there the next day quicker than you can say “pay up.”
I’m stretching my convalescence out as long as I can. I mean, why wouldn’t I? I can lie in bed all day and read, the husband does the cooking and I can’t vacuum for six weeks. I need to be very careful not to over do things. And let me tell you, I’m working very hard at taking it easy.