I was diagnosed with a hernia about a decade ago. It was a strange, puffy bulge in the lower abdomen that didn't hurt but seemed like it shouldn't be there. My GP at the time advised that the state health system would not stir itself to fix anything so trivial and referred me to a private surgeon who named a fee that would make Bill Gates think twice. I chose to live with it.
Mid way through 2012 something behind the bulge started distributing actual pain. I then realised that it was very low in the abdomen, and I could not possibly rub it for relief in a public place, such as while presenting a seminar, without exciting ribald comment.
My Nelson GP was not optimistic that the taxpayer would now pay for the surgery, but felt it was worth asking anyway and referred me to Nelson Hospital. In the hospital an astonishing event took place - I was seen at the exact time of my appointment. The surgeon herself was not available and I was seen by a deputy who must have left school no more than 12 months earlier. Despite her youth and beauty (I did not stress the latter to Eve) she had a confident, professional manner and, best of all, a kind heart that agreed to put me on the waiting list.
Her expectation that I would be operated on before Christmas 2012 was a little off, but I was awarded a fixture in late January 2013. With that news came a little card sternly demanding that I submit to a pre-admission check at 9:40 on 25 January. I telephoned to ask what would be checked and if I needed to bring anything with me. "It's because you're high risk," the admissions nurse stated flatly. "Don't be late." Me? High risk? I was a 60-year old with hardly any grey in his hair - a picture of healthy, early middle age.
Somewhat perturbed, I presented myself at 9:35. Again I was seen on time. What is wrong with Nelson Hospital that they don't keep you waiting? The nurse who was to check me explained that I was high risk because of my age and because I'd had a stroke. That was 10 years previously and it seems that no-one but me believes the specialist who said it was a random event and there was no likelihood of a recurrence. According to the nice young lady who carried out the tests I have "the blood pressure of a 20 year-old". My pulse was 67 (I understand that is also very good) and my ECG was "text book". I must avoid being re-tested so these stellar stats are never overshadowed by anything sub-optimal.
The operation itself was a breeze. I simply lay on a trolly and a smiling anesthetist put me out for the count. It was keyhole surgery, so I have 3 tiny scars and no puffy bulge in the lower abdomen.
I didn't have any nasty reactions to the anaesthetic. Indeed, I woke up feeling hungry. Poor Eve had to suffer me grumbling about wanting something to eat instead of saying how lovely it was that she was there. It was a nuisance having to go through a routine of a glass of water, wait 15 minutes, cup of weak tea and wait some more before I was brought a plate of sandwiches.
After that, the next rule was that I had to wait until (i) a big bag of saline solution had all dripped into my vein and (ii) I had peed before Eve was allowed to drive me home. So I did the puzzle page in the Nelson Mail and read a book.
I didn't feel too sore, but I was discharged with prescriptions for 3 kinds of painkiller tablets. I could spot the hint here that it may hurt before it got fully better. In fact, it wasn't too painful at all. Well done, the surgeon. I foolishly read the information leaflet in one of the boxes of painkillers. The potential side effects were so unpleasant that I vowed I would rather have any agony than take one. But the situation didn't arise.
Mid way through 2012 something behind the bulge started distributing actual pain. I then realised that it was very low in the abdomen, and I could not possibly rub it for relief in a public place, such as while presenting a seminar, without exciting ribald comment.
My Nelson GP was not optimistic that the taxpayer would now pay for the surgery, but felt it was worth asking anyway and referred me to Nelson Hospital. In the hospital an astonishing event took place - I was seen at the exact time of my appointment. The surgeon herself was not available and I was seen by a deputy who must have left school no more than 12 months earlier. Despite her youth and beauty (I did not stress the latter to Eve) she had a confident, professional manner and, best of all, a kind heart that agreed to put me on the waiting list.
Her expectation that I would be operated on before Christmas 2012 was a little off, but I was awarded a fixture in late January 2013. With that news came a little card sternly demanding that I submit to a pre-admission check at 9:40 on 25 January. I telephoned to ask what would be checked and if I needed to bring anything with me. "It's because you're high risk," the admissions nurse stated flatly. "Don't be late." Me? High risk? I was a 60-year old with hardly any grey in his hair - a picture of healthy, early middle age.
Somewhat perturbed, I presented myself at 9:35. Again I was seen on time. What is wrong with Nelson Hospital that they don't keep you waiting? The nurse who was to check me explained that I was high risk because of my age and because I'd had a stroke. That was 10 years previously and it seems that no-one but me believes the specialist who said it was a random event and there was no likelihood of a recurrence. According to the nice young lady who carried out the tests I have "the blood pressure of a 20 year-old". My pulse was 67 (I understand that is also very good) and my ECG was "text book". I must avoid being re-tested so these stellar stats are never overshadowed by anything sub-optimal.
The operation itself was a breeze. I simply lay on a trolly and a smiling anesthetist put me out for the count. It was keyhole surgery, so I have 3 tiny scars and no puffy bulge in the lower abdomen.
I didn't have any nasty reactions to the anaesthetic. Indeed, I woke up feeling hungry. Poor Eve had to suffer me grumbling about wanting something to eat instead of saying how lovely it was that she was there. It was a nuisance having to go through a routine of a glass of water, wait 15 minutes, cup of weak tea and wait some more before I was brought a plate of sandwiches.
After that, the next rule was that I had to wait until (i) a big bag of saline solution had all dripped into my vein and (ii) I had peed before Eve was allowed to drive me home. So I did the puzzle page in the Nelson Mail and read a book.
I didn't feel too sore, but I was discharged with prescriptions for 3 kinds of painkiller tablets. I could spot the hint here that it may hurt before it got fully better. In fact, it wasn't too painful at all. Well done, the surgeon. I foolishly read the information leaflet in one of the boxes of painkillers. The potential side effects were so unpleasant that I vowed I would rather have any agony than take one. But the situation didn't arise.
There was a post-operation check. The surgeon seemed well pleased with her work. It's a common procedure and she doesn't normally bother but my hernia was "a very large one". Well it's now wrapped up in plastic mesh and not bulging or giving any other kind of trouble. And my part was easy.
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