Oddly enough it wasn't the actual scrape (despite the archaic image that conjures) but the general anaesthetic that was causing me the most fear.
I imagined being strapped to a hospital trolley whilst a large rubber mask piping sleep-gas half suffocated me, or maybe cotton wool soaked in ethanol would be administered from behind whilst I struggle to free myself.
It is possible I have read too many Agatha Christie's.
I confided my fears to the husband who
(Although now I am imagining tranquiliser darts.)
But now I have a new worry. The girl (and yes, I do mean that in a somewhat derogatory way) who went through the pre-op form with me today was less than helpful.
She checked my file and confidently wrote down the procedure I was due to have ‘Hysteroscopy and Mirena Coil insertion’.
I gently pointed out I have had this. In August.
I tried to explain the procedure I was due to have but came up with an unforeseen problem. How the hell do you pronounce ‘curettage’? I tried three times before resorting to womb scrape.
She crossed out the Mirena Coil bit.
We continued the pre-op questions. At the end of the appointment I wasn’t happy. Call me pernickety but I was really quite keen to establish that they would perform the right operation.
The girl disregarded my concerns with a, “You haven’t signed the consent form so they won’t be able to do anything without you checking it is the right procedure.”
I countered with a “But do you have my up-to-date notes? Do you know what the surgery should be?”
“Your notes are all here” she confidently tapped the pile of notes from which only moments earlier she had extracted the wrong information about what procedure I was due to have.
“Yes, but, why then did you not have the right information about what procedure I am supposed to have tomorrow?”
She looked at me with utter incomprehension, her expression for all the world like my dog’s when I explain why he can’t eat any of my pizza. Eager to please, hopeful, but really very, very little going on behind the eyes (I leave it to you to decide whether that last sentence referred to my dog, the pre-op nurse, or both).
In one last desperate attempt to get her point across she reiterated that I’d be signing the consent form the next day so could check then.
Next I asked her what time I should get the husband to come and collected me after surgery. She was on much happier ground here stating, “Obviously we don’t have the list of appointments yet, so we don’t know when you’ll be finished.”
The use of the word ‘Obviously’ irked me. Is it ‘obvious’ that you wouldn’t have a list of operations happening tomorrow morning in your hospital. I mean I get there can be emergency admissions and not everything is set in stone, but a ball-park time, maybe?
No, clearly not.
So tomorrow I will be up earlier than a child at Christmas [see, keeping it topical] to go for an operation apparently of my choosing. What shall I go for? Designer Vagina? A bit of Christmas Vajazzle? (That last link is not suitable for work, if any of you are still at work.)