The evening before the operation, my husband and son come to visit me. They bring flowers, and I hope they can be kept for me until after my 24-hour stay in the Intensive Care unit.
We watch the X-Factor on TV, and I recognize one of the contestants, Michael, who is a regular at Cabaret Live. He sings extremely well and makes it through the audition process; on to "boot camp". I cheer loudly for him.
They leave, taking the lap top with them, as I won't be able to lift it after the operation.
I've been given two sleeping pills and I hope they really do knock me out. If I'm semi-comatose in the morning, that will be great. I gulp down the pills.
But at 6 a.m. I'm awake, bright and alert. I shower, and as instructed, swab every inch of my body with an antibiotic sponge from a sealed packet. Then I put on the hospital gown. Min comes in and tells me I've got it on back to front. This one opens at the back. This seems strange, since they're going to operate on my chest.
She gives me another two sleeping pills, and I swallow them gratefully.
They wheel me into the operating theatre, and I say "Hi" to the team.
And that's it for a while. No dreams; no white lights; no revelations.
Then I hear my surgeon speaking. He says "We were able to repair the valve; we didn't have to replace it".
I feel overjoyed and start to cheer. But when I open my mouth nothing happens, so I cheer with my hands. The surgeon isn't speaking to me, though. He's describing the operation to some other people, perhaps a group of students.
But now I know the news. It's very good news.
I can't swallow, yet I need to, badly. They wrench the tube out of my throat. That feels better. But now I can't breathe. Now they get an oxygen mask onto me. I still can't speak. My husband is at my side, encouraging me.
The nurses haul me into a semi-sitting position, make me hug a folded towel and command me to cough, to re-inflate the lungs that have been flattened.
Then the deliveries begin. First, a "Get Well" card. Then, as if by magic, Julie from Cabaret Live appears at my bedside with a bouquet of flowers from the cabaret group. Then some flowers from some other friends.
Flat on my back, I constantly demand crunchy ice chips to slake my thirst.
I hear someone say "It's too soon to know if she'll have a stroke".
Note to self: Don't have a stroke.
Then they cart me back to the ward to begin my one-week "holiday".
We watch the X-Factor on TV, and I recognize one of the contestants, Michael, who is a regular at Cabaret Live. He sings extremely well and makes it through the audition process; on to "boot camp". I cheer loudly for him.
They leave, taking the lap top with them, as I won't be able to lift it after the operation.
I've been given two sleeping pills and I hope they really do knock me out. If I'm semi-comatose in the morning, that will be great. I gulp down the pills.
But at 6 a.m. I'm awake, bright and alert. I shower, and as instructed, swab every inch of my body with an antibiotic sponge from a sealed packet. Then I put on the hospital gown. Min comes in and tells me I've got it on back to front. This one opens at the back. This seems strange, since they're going to operate on my chest.
She gives me another two sleeping pills, and I swallow them gratefully.
They wheel me into the operating theatre, and I say "Hi" to the team.
And that's it for a while. No dreams; no white lights; no revelations.
Then I hear my surgeon speaking. He says "We were able to repair the valve; we didn't have to replace it".
I feel overjoyed and start to cheer. But when I open my mouth nothing happens, so I cheer with my hands. The surgeon isn't speaking to me, though. He's describing the operation to some other people, perhaps a group of students.
But now I know the news. It's very good news.
I can't swallow, yet I need to, badly. They wrench the tube out of my throat. That feels better. But now I can't breathe. Now they get an oxygen mask onto me. I still can't speak. My husband is at my side, encouraging me.
The nurses haul me into a semi-sitting position, make me hug a folded towel and command me to cough, to re-inflate the lungs that have been flattened.
Then the deliveries begin. First, a "Get Well" card. Then, as if by magic, Julie from Cabaret Live appears at my bedside with a bouquet of flowers from the cabaret group. Then some flowers from some other friends.
Flat on my back, I constantly demand crunchy ice chips to slake my thirst.
I hear someone say "It's too soon to know if she'll have a stroke".
Note to self: Don't have a stroke.
Then they cart me back to the ward to begin my one-week "holiday".
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