Rather than trying to catch up on the past two weeks -- I'll do that later -- I'm going to start blogging each day as it happens, as long as I can.
So, it's Tuesday morning, and I wake up wrapped in my lovely wine-coloured chenille throw with a view of dawn slowly lightening the sky from my lovely window.
The view doesn't *sound* inspiring; I can see part of a multi-storey 1960s style car park, half of an old fifteen storey yellow brick building and, thanks to the decrepit roof of a one storey building between the two, a whole raft of surprisingly substantial weed trees that sway in the wind and manage to look fresh and green amid the traffic and fumes. It occurs to me that my spirits have risen considerably since I moved into this room, with its natural light and view of the sky. It even has tiny grilles at the bottom of the windows, so I can open them at night and sleep in the cool air. Heaven! I wake in the mornings relaxed and rested and cheerful. (Well, I guess Atavan and Ambien don't hurt in this regard...)
So, it's eight already, and the night nurse forgot to come in and draw the three am blood we'd agreed on. Plus, they came in later than usual to draw blood (7.30 rather than 5am), and unaccountably, neurosurgery refuses to drill holes in my head until they have the blood results. Since even stat results take two hours in the middle of the evening, let alone during the morning blood work rush hour, I conclude that neurosurgery won't happen until at least 1.00pm. Sigh.
I'm already thirsty -- yesterday's general anaesthetic gave me a sore throat from the airway tube they stuff down your windpipe, and I'd love to soothe it with a trickle of ice cold water.... It's a saaaaad day, I tell you, when you look forward to your pills because they allow you a sip of water.
Poor, poor me.
Some of the whingeing is because thinking to yourself "Today's the day I have neurosurgery!" ain't one of those things you think with a frisson of joy and excitement. Even the alternative; "Today's the day they drill a hole in my skull and push a long tube down into my brain!" doesn't seem to offer much comfort.
Heigh ho. More later, after something has actually happened. As of now, I can't even discuss fascinating topics like the colour of today's JellO, because I'm npo.