I popped into hospital for a scheduled check this morning - no dramas, good results, nothing to see here etc. But I did have a general anaesthetic for the first time in my life, which was kind of exciting.
I am very lucky to have an innate attitude of trust towards doctors. To still have that at age 43 I must have dodged all the experiences that seem depressingly common, and which have generally made people wary and weary of doctors, or pushed them off into acai-berries-and-rainbows world.
So anyway, as I was being wheeled in head first, not yet sedated, I already had that "Wheee - someone else is in charge" feeling that I associate with going down the steep twisting bend in Regent St sitting in a backward facing seat on a bus.
The anaesthetist apparently nicked the edge of my hand when trying to get the cannula in, and there was a bit of blood. I was looking elsewhere and as they fussed and apologised I said to them quite honestly that I had already uninvolved myself in proceedings, so not to worry. Then they put a mask on me […] then I woke up, feeling a bit woozy but fine. A few years ago they didn't even anaesthetise people to do this business.
I had taken the day off and I was really looking forward to being picked up and dropped home by Sally, and spending the hours until the end of school just dozing. While I was in Recovery (a crowded narrow room of blue armchairs) the school called me to say Michael had a sore tummy and wanted to come home sick. Sigh.
Sally picked me up, then we got Michael and I had an afternoon awake and keeping an eye on him instead. His tummy improved instantly. I had just fasted for 36 hours so I was reasonably happy to stay awake and just eat, eat, eat.
Speaking of which; here is a little form they gave me at the hospital telling me what I was allowed to eat on being discharged. Some nutrition-conscious nanny-state modernist has updated it by hand. It's a shame – there's something very Tasmanian about the carefree attitude to diet that the original implies.