This week, I’ve gone from puking on myself to mustering the skill to turn on my laptop and write this blog (the former being the skilful part), all because i finally had a laparoscopy to start the operative treatment for my Endometriosis. I decided I would surrender my body to the doctors (believe me, this was no easy feat: I’ve spent years gathering 2nd and 3rd opinions if doctor’s responses didn’t fit my self-diagnosis).

This is a procedure that’s been on the cards for the best part of a year. The op was originally scheduled a few weeks ago, but got cancelled 24 hours before D-Day because my surgeon had a frigging accident. FFS.

I then waited two weeks for the hammer to drop and went through an incredible yo-yo situation where the op was on, then off, then on again – putting the “hokey cokey” in the NHS (you put your left ovary in…)

Basically, my Endo Nurse performed a small miracle by getting different specialist surgeons together for my operation. I needed a fanny doc, a poop doc and a wee doc. This involved Miracle Nurse chasing surgeons around in scrubs begging, stealing and performing all sorts of voodoo that she do so well – it worked!

I then found myself in the very strange position of buying a thank you gift for someone who had arranged for my body to be mutilated.

After staying with some of my besties the night before, Mama Bear and I headed off to the hospital. Mama Bear kindly kept offering me food and drink during my hours of “nil by mouth”, while refusing to eat or drink herself in front of me... for seven hours: this, coupled with her anxiety, caused her to get jittery.

She kept piercing my self-distraction tactics of watching Doctor Foster by reading me stories from the paper with such enthusiasm it was like she was giving me the latest celebrity gossip instead of updates on trains and house prices. These aren’t the best subjects to distract one when you are shitting your pants about an upcoming mutilation.

She then started worrying and asking me if I knew whether the surgeons had eaten enough that day and whether she should go get some takeout for them before they operated. She even began kicking herself that she hadn’t whipped up a few paratha that morning for them. I in return convinced her (to my amusement) that my hospital wristband could be scanned online and would show up my entire personal profile, including favourite food/TV shows, let alone medical history. She’s very wary of the internet, so you can get away with saying almost anything about it. My favourite moment of the morning was when she started fantasising about a possible recoupling with Wasband, somehow thinking that when he saw me post-op, battered, bruised and vulnerable, it might reignite his passion for me once more. Because yes, Mama Bear, that’s what everyone looks for in a partner: post-operative neediness, possibly coupled with incontinence and vomiting.

This torture was soon over (well, after seven hours) and I was finally invited to the scalpel show. Well, not before I had a porter explain to me in great detail how he’d gouged out his own appendix with a spoon (he kindly showed me the scar, too), because back in the Philippines an elder had told him to. WTF. He then winked and smiled and said, you know how in Asian culture we listen to our elders, right? Again, WTF – had Mama Bear got everyone on the payroll here?

The anaesthetist finally arrived after dashing out for a sandwich (I kid you not, Mama’s words ringing in my ears). He started debating about which anaesthetic to give me…

So off I went to Bye Bye Land. I didn’t even start the count. They had me at “take some deep breaths”. It was definitely the least in control I’ve ever been. I was unconscious and someone else was controlling when I’d wake up, even if I’d wake up. FFS.

I awoke from a lovely dreamless sleep (I was scared I would have a Hammer Horror operation dream) and was asked if I knew where I was – of course I did: Newcastle! (Wrong.)

After a while I began to remember what had happened to me. I looked down: I couldn’t see any blood or signs of severe damage. I looked beside me for the blessed morphine drip. NO MORPHINE DRIP! WTF! I asked for some relief, then they gave me some namby pamby painkiller (it was probably a good one, but I was too out of it to believe them). The doctor arrived to tell me what had happened – I focused with all my attention…and fell asleep before he’d finished the first sentence.

When I awoke I was slurring, hey, where’s the doctor? Is he coming back to tell me what he did to me? The nurse said no, he’s already told you. What? No one told me, I grumbled. Yes, he did – I heard it all, said the nurse. So, what did he say? I can’t tell you. WTF. Why do surgeons think that talking to a semi-conscious patient is an effective way to share information with them? Can you imagine any other profession where that would be acceptable?* I had to wait till the next morning for someone to actually tell me what they’d done. I’ve drawn a diagram for you below detailing the gruesome details.

The headline a blessed week later is that Mama Bear looked after me so well that I want to crawl back up into her uterus and live there. Cub cheered me up when I hit depression during day five of the recovery – giving me cuddles and saying, “don’t worry Mummy, it’s for the greater good”.

Wasband didn’t declare his undying love and tend to my poor wounds, but he did buy me flowers and a Twix, and made and carried a cup of tea for me upstairs (this is not an easy feat for him with his wobbly leg and is only rolled out for very special occasions): this was perfect.

Sadly, I still need another operation in three months because they only managed to unstick the organs on my left side.

Yippee!

Along the way I’ve learnt that you know you are over the worst of an operation and significantly on the mend when you find yourself:

Caring about how food is covered up in the fridge. I found an offensive punnet of olives unceremoniously dumped in the fridge with NO CLINGFILM. One of the worst crimes against a kitchen, I had to choke down the rage
Shaving your legs (even though your legs are on no one’s radar right now), though they remain pretty patchy round the ankles as that was a little too much of a stretch, but your shins and knees look great
Parenting badly, introducing ridiculous bans like no gaming for a week during half-term (seriously sister – banning any kind of screen time during the holidays is an own goal)
Missing your medication times by a few hours – the memories of the pain and discomfort are starting to fade like childbirth, so you start cutting corners again when it comes to self-care – what a genius
Without the warm embrace of Mama Bear fluffing up your pillows, feeding you three square meals a day, offering massages and checking you’ve taken your medication, you are on your own again with the wolves aka kid/dog/wasband
Texting/calling ALL your friends to update them on your recovery, saying things like, “I’m over the worst of it” or “I’m on the right side of this week”, so they all know you are now a FUN person again who wants to hang out, meet up, have visitors and be ENTERTAINED before the next life horror comes along and smushes you
Not locking yourself in the bathroom for two hours watching the new Star Trek show on your phone to distract you from the crisis emerging from your bowels – Bowel Trek

* I can’t think of another profession where it's ok to relay vital information to an unconscious person. If you can, please do share in the comments section below.