Day 0: Find a Solid Rock and Focus on It - Not on the Blood Spot!

The day had arrived. Surgery day. My brain knew logically what was coming next. I knew what the surgery was going to be. I had looked at all the diagrams repeatedly over the past months. I had been in pain before so knew what to expect there too. I had mountains of liquid food at home and so many good people around me, that I was sure I could handle all of this process. So long as I simply woke up. That was what I wanted. Sure, I could assume it would be fine - it most likely would be - but there is no unwritten rule of certainty and sometimes, just sometimes, it's not fine. I have so much to live for, that conquering the fear my own mortality was difficult to say the least. So on the morning of the 8th of November at 7:30am after checking in and lowering myself into a hospital chair to wait for up to 5 hours, my hardest challenge began. Beating my head. Finding that place of Zen and accepting that what will, be will be. I have no control.

Now I suggest that if you ever go down the road of surgery, as weird as it sounds, you should categorise your friends - trust me, it will help you to do it in advance! Sort the control freaks from the mothers, the doers from the feeders, the rocks from the haters of hospitals, and the entertainers from the worriers. Work out the strengths of each and what they can give you and use each to your advantage.

Now whatever you do....DO NOT take your CONTROL FREAK friends to hospital with you on the morning of your operation! They may well sulk at being left behind and hijack your blog (which is actually highly entertaining Ms Scallywag) but leaving them home ensures your blood pressure remains calm and there will be no throwing you in the boot of their car hightailing it out of town when they call your name to pop on your backless gown! Be sure to take your ROCK. They will ride that roller coaster next to you without so much as showing a crack. They hold your hand when you need them to. Silently wipe your tears and give you a hug when it all gets too much. Offer words of wisdom and words of mirth. They'll distract you from the fact that you've not eaten for 14 hours and tell you the coffee is rubbish even when it smells amazing. They will simply explain that there is nothing more to be done. Encourage you to surrender to the process and get on with getting better on the other side. 

I am not sure where those 3.5 hours went (the power of the Rock) but soon enough I was off to don my pin-stripe backless gown, compression socks and wait in the 'comfortable' pre-surgery chairs. The info-mercials were doing my head in - a cunning plan I think, to lower your resistance to leaving the waiting room. Double jaw surgery sounds better than listening to another segment on those amazing steam mops that defy belief - Oh and they are so easy to use, see how they simply glide across your floor!

I met my anesthetist and after a quick last minute squeeze of the Rock's hand, I centred myself and walked to my future. A quick look back, a wave and the doors closed behind me. I wander into the Operating Theatre and am sat down on the operating table. They make me lie back and start asking about my veins. I notice a spot of blood on the massive lamp about 1.5 metres above my head. I point it out between discussing my prominent and hidden veins. She tells me not to worry, it's just an orange sticker. I say "No, just a little right of the sticker". I wonder about that poor girl who went in before me and how her blood made it 1.5m off of the table onto that lamp. Maybe my surgeons are just a little enthusiastic? The anesthetist sees it then and commands someone one to remove it as she puts something into the back of my hand, "You'll just feel a scratch!". I blink. The blood spot is gone. Then I am gone.