Ninth bit of stuff - The op, 10 days on

The past 10 days has been rather different to say the least, not life threatening or even particularly life changing - ok maybe life changing to a degree - but more than anything it has been different to anything I had experienced before, so I thought I'd do a blog entry of my visit to the hospital, it's not as if I haven't got the time on my hands is it?  Excited about this aren't you?

It has been well documented over the past few weeks, on numerous occasions, that I had been due an operation, (the removal of my right kidney) and by Sunday morning the time had come for me to make the call to the hospital to see if a bed was available for me.  As instructed by the Royal Gwent I phoned them at 11am to see if they were able to accommodate me later on that day, but they told me they would call me back later that afternoon to confirm whether they could or not.  I didn't mind the delay too much, I appreciated that they wanted to make sure there was room for me before asking me to come, but I'll admit the waiting wasn't nice and left me slightly on edge.  It felt as though I was on death row, only in the way that I knew it was going happen, but wasn't quite sure when, it didn't, of course, feel like I was going to be executed.

Sure enough, later on that afternoon they called back with the news I would now have to come in early Monday morning rather than Sunday afternoon and to be honest that suited me, I mean who wouldn't prefer a night in their own bed rather than in a hospital bed before an operation?  I was instructed not to eat or drink anything from midnight onwards, which worried me more than the operation itself, sure 12-7 would be easy enough, but what about when I wake up? I'm always hungry regardless of how much I ate the night before and I hate being hungry, even for such a short period of time.

So I got up at half 6, had my last shower at home for a good few days, said tata to my mum and was chauffeured to the hotel by my dad.  We went to the ward I would eventually be staying after the op and I noticed straight away that the clientèle was rather old and as pointed out by my dad, it stunk of piss.  But really, what else could we have expected from the urology department?  I was told there wasn't yet a bed on the ward but I could wait in the day ward until the operation - fine by me.


So there I sat in a nice quiet room, reading my book for the next two hours, I was a little apprehensive, but my nerves were calmed somewhat after I had met the anaesthetist and surgeon, they seemed very sure of themselves, which is what you would expect from people in such important occupations.  I was also told I would need to give a sample of my blood, this is something I'm usually very relaxed about - I've had blood taken from my arm countless times - but I was slightly more anxious this time as I had embarrassingly collapsed a month earlier during this procedure.  This time, however, it went fine, such a brave soldier aren't I?

The time eventually came for the operation, it was about 12 o clock, give or take 30 minutes when I was wheeled, in a creaky old chair, into the operating theatre wearing my rather unflattering gown, with a blanket on my lap and for the first time I had begun to feel like a real patient.  Nerves kicked in, but it was kind of exciting too, I was now stepping into the realms of the unknown.  I was put onto the operating table and the anaesthetist and the surgeon's helpers relaxed me, they asked me my favourite holiday, to which I replied Kenya and then answered what my favourite animal was (Lions and Elephants).  I was now in a talkative mood, these people seemed great to talk to, "I've also been skiing a few times, that's pretty good too and..."

...and then I woke up.  Jesus, where was I, what the fuck was happening.  "Gavin, you've come out of theatre, everything's fine, if you feel any pain press this button and it will relieve it" said someone or other, I have no idea who, but the important bit there is what was said, rather than who said it, self controlled morphine? Interesting.  To be honest there is little to write about the rest of the day.  I vaguely remember being visited by my parents and also trying to watch Coronation Street on one of those small TV screens, but as the anaesthetic was still making me very sleepy and morphine was being pumped into my veins at 10 minute intervals, I can barely remember a thing.


Tuesday morning I wasn't much more with it, but I did start to make progress as I was taken out of my bed and put in a chair which was approximately eight inches from where I had been laying.  I managed to stand on my own two feet for about 15 seconds, before being put into the chair, where I would stay for the best part of four hours, drifting in and out of consciousness.   Although still not compos mentis I did begin to get some baring of my surroundings and indeed who I was surrounded by.  From what I could gather I had a 93 year old man to my left, a (white) 68 year old South African (who, by the way, bared all the traits you would expect from someone of that nationality) to my right and 3 other men over the age of 60 opposite me, 2 of them probably 80+.  At the age of just 26 I was experiencing my first taste of life in a nursing home for the elderly, nuts.


The rest of the day/evening/night was spent back in my bed, I was visited by various family and friends and happily tucked into jaffa cakes, chocolate eclair (sweets), wine gums and grapes (mandatory), whilst still happily pressing that little green button, which was firmly attached to my right hand.


Wednesday came and I felt a whole lot better.  My medication was downgraded slightly from the intravenously injected morphine to the trippier, less drowsy tramadol, taken via tablet.  I also had the catheter removed, I'm not going to explain what this is, if you don't already know then search in google, you will probably find a picture of one in action as well if you look hard enough.  So with the catheter removed I was now free to wander the ward on my unsteady pins, in all there were 4 wards of 6 people, 2 male and 2 female and there wasn't a person under the age of 60 in sight, barely any under 70.  It's hard to imagine quite how lost I must've looked.


After an entertaining Wednesday night, when the ward was introduced to it's latest patient - a 77 year old man from Bishton who fell out of an apple tree - Thursday soon came and it was time to go home and recover, it was a shaky drive home and one which made me feel nauseous, but it was a journey worth making, as I knew where I would rather be. 


As the last week or so has passed my state has gradually improved, I weaned myself of the tramadol as the pain subsided and have started to move more freely and although I've picked up an unwanted habit of waking up at 5am each morning, I'm at least sleeping pain free.  I am, however, beginning to go a little 'stir crazy' and have fallen into a daily habit which, from 9-6 goes a little like this: get up, watch a film, read, eat, sleep, watch another dvd, play xbox, eat.  It's not great, a little boring, but lest I say, it's still not quite as monotonous as working life - yet.


So that's the end of this particular chapter in my life.  As I stated earlier, it will change my life to a degree as I will now, hopefully, be able to start drinking alcohol again without feeling that dreaded pain.  I probably won't drink quite as much as I did pre pain as I like to feel that my lifestyle has changed somewhat over the past 6 months or so, but I'm not one to rule things out.


As I type this up I am sat next to my Gran, explaining about the blog and how it works.  "Who can look at this then?" she enquired "anyone, if they really wanted to" I replied "so they can find you're address then" "not on this no, but it's not hard to find anyone's address anyway, if you really wanted it" I answered.  "Even from America then?" she asked "why would anyone from America want to know my address?" "In case they wanted to come over here and shoot you."  Second thoughts, I wonder if I can start work again tomorrow morning?

Eighth bit of stuff - Last day of work...for a bit

When one finishes work for two weeks, or a week, or even a weekend (if you detest your job that much) there is usually a feeling of joy, elation and relief, for you are about to spend an amount of time away from the stress, or boredom of your day to day life.

Obviously I've had time off from work before, I know these feelings; the joy, the elation, the relief.  As you shut down your computer and walk towards the door you smugly say your goodbyes to your work colleagues, knowing that they will have to plug away whilst you go and live.

Today was different, yes, the weekend is ahead and yes, I will be having two, three or maybe more weeks away from the building I seem to spend the majority of my conscious life.  But the circumstances are different than normal, I'm not going on a holiday, to a festival or even spending the week relaxing and playing golf - if, indeed, the two can be embraced simultaneously - but I am going to the hospital, the Royal Gwent one to be exact.

As mentioned both on this blog and in real life many times over the course of the last few months, I will be having a laparoscopic nephrectomy, which, when translated into English means the removal of a kidney via keyhole surgery, obviously I didn't know this before I knew I was having one, why would I have? So I'm having keyhole surgery to remove a major organ, amazing isn't it - how they can remove a major organ using that method - doesn't sound true, but it is, Monday morning.

Yes, Monday morning, and the day seems to have come round incredibly fast since I was given the date five weeks ago.  I'll be honest, I haven't really thought about it much, talked about it yes, many times and to many different people - far too many to recall - but talking is completely different to thinking.  Only these past few days have I started to think about it, mainly in the shower - when there is nothing to take my mind off it - apart from washing of course, I mustn't forget to wash.

Thinking isn't always good and it's not something I've always necessarily endeavored to participate in, but sometimes it's impossible to avoid and like I say, I've started to more recently as my fears and nerves which were once deep in my subconsciousness have started to surface.

I understand I'm not the first person ever to have a kidney, or indeed any other organ, removed and that each day there are hundreds of people across the country facing much bigger and 'important' operations than I am. But in my world this is pretty big, the whole idea of being put to sleep and then have my skin cut open is foreign to me and only when I say it out loud, or type it (as I have just done), do I begin to panic, just a little.  My main fear is the anesthetic wearing off before it should, the thought of waking up mid operation is enough to strike fear in even the bravest of people let alone a country bumpkin mummy's boy like me.

That said, when the surgeon has finished cutting through my flesh and removed then organ, I am looking forward to the rest.  My body, which seldom gets a rest from various sporting activities, has recently began to feel more and more tired, suffering from years of wear and tear, after all, people who exercise for fun rarely get any rest, as opposed to professional sportsmen, who are able to treat their body with more care.

So the rest will be good, I've got plenty of books to read and films/TV series to get through over the coming weeks/months and that's not to mention championship manager - the 2000/2001 edition.  I will also, without doubt be updating the blog detailing past accounts from the golf course, cinema and hotel rooms in Stockholm.

So that's it for now, I just wanted to post an entry before the operation and take the chance to thank you, my fans friends for your support, cheers.

Seventh bit of stuff - A new galaxy

I traditionally dislike buying new mobile phones, I find it quite a stressful procedure, and it's one which normally ends up with me feeling like I've had my pants pulled down over the deal I have accepted.

I knew that I had been due a new contract for a while now, but strangely I hadn't had the barrage of phone calls I normally get from phone companies when my contract is running out.  So when I found myself in Cardiff centre with a few hours to kill I thought there would be no better time to sort myself with a new phone and contract. 

I'd needed a new mobile phone for some time now in truth, in fact I'd needed one about for about 17 months after I had dropped the last one and cracked the screen in the process having owned it for just 4 weeks.  Normally when phones are dropped nothing happens to them, they are at worst scratched and you give a sigh of relief and vow to be more careful with it.  Not on that occasion though, the glass screen was cracked in three places, but fuck it, I was pissed and it didn't matter as I had taken insurance out on it anyway.  Well, I thought i did - I hadn't.  Dickhead.

So with my usual scepticism I wandered into the 'Orange' shop, wondering what sort of deal I would come out with in about an hours time.  Would I, like the previous few times I had bought a new phone, show it phone to my friends a few days later only to find I was paying twice as much for a phone half as good?  Probably.

But to my surprise and with much relief I walked out just 10 minutes later having easily struck up a new deal.  The phone I chose was a Samsung galaxy S19000 (based on a quick conversation with Bec's boyfriend Marc), and with it I got what seemed like a fair enough deal and it didn't feel like I had been at all ripped off, or taken advantage of - result.  I left the building feeling more happy that it had been an easy 10 minutes or so than I was to pick up a state of the arts mobile phone.

But it wasn't my new phone/contract combination I was thinking about, but the way I was spoken to by the lad who sold me the deal.  It wasn't that he was rude to me, or offensive, it's just the manner was, well, different.  

After queueing for a couple of minutes I explained to the lad I was due a new contract but no-one had phoned me. 'Don't do that any more, what phone do you want?', 'dunno, Samsung Galaxy? (recalling conversation with Marc) how much will it cost though?' 'up to you, how much do you want to pay.'  This seemed too easy, 'erm, £20?' 'ok well take a seat, I'll be over in 2 mins,' shit, why didn't I say a fiver?

This process was new to me, on every other occasion I bought a new phone it had been a case of being offered a phone and a contract and me just accepting it for the sake of it, but was I getting reward for loyalty? did it flash up as VALUED CUSTOMER when they typed my details on the computer I wondered?  Possibly.

So he came over with said phone and whilst I had a 'play' with it he informed me it was quicker than the Iphone and that the screen wouldn't scratch even if you put a key on it, fascinating stuff and then he casually said 'you don't give a shit do you?' as if we had been best mates for 15 years.  It threw me to be honest and although he had quite correctly observed I didn't give a shit it didn't detract from the fact I was actually a customer.  I wasn't bothered, it didn't offend me, it was just odd, a different way of customer service I suppose, I guess he didn't speak to all his potential customers like that, I wish I could, perhaps I will.  

In the next few minutes he twice repeated his remark about me not giving a shit, it felt as if he was trying too hard trying not to look like he cared if he got a sale or not.  I was going to go with the deal no matter what he told me anyway, I just wanted to get away from the place.  I didn't give a shit.

So there it is, I got a new phone.  I don't love my phone, I'm not that shallow and don't believe you should become too attached to an inanimate object (unless it's a guitar) but I'll be honest, it is quite sexy, for a phone anyway.

Sixth bit of stuff- E-mail to the 3am girls

Got annoyed reading the Daily Mirror earlier, so thought I'd give those 3am girls a piece of my mind:


I don't often read your column, but when I do you always make me feel quite annoyed and get me wondering how people so ridiculous as yourselves can get a section in a major newspaper, albeit a tabloid.  Whilst having a look at today's (Saturday) double spread I saw a photo of Liam Gallagher and, being an Oasis fan, hoped there would maybe some information on a his new music project, ok I don't hold much hope for his new venture, but I am willing to give it a go all the same, but that's by the by.

But what did I read?  A story about him not wanting to pay over the odds prices in some upmarket restaurant.  Fair enough, Liam Gallagher can, at times, undoubtedly be one of the biggest idiots in rock, everyone knows that, it's a fact and his foul mouthed rants are hardly 'news' and are unlikely to cause shock.  But seriously, is there anything wrong with him not wanting to pay over the odds for food?  Although a millionaire, Liam is from a working class background, having been raised up in Burnage, Manchester and judging by this story at least, still maintains at least some working class values.

We constantly hear from the Daily Mirror that they are the peoples paper and are always willing to stick up for the working class, against the big bad stinking rich Tories, so to slag someone off in your piece for portraying the kind of morals the paper you 'write' for is quite embarrassing.  It may only take up a few lines, but surely you should be setting some kind of example to your many readers?

Fifth bit of stuff - Road Kill

It may or may not surprise you to know that - to my knowledge at least - I have never, be it by accident or in an act of cold blooded murder, killed an animal (insects don't count) before.  Well not until the early hours of Sunday morning anyway.


In school there were always stories of ill-fated fated incidents involving man and animal.  There is the well known story of one lad in my form who quite innocently dropped his dog down the stairs causing instant death.  Another lad in my class used to catch frogs from his old primary school pond, true he would let them go, but rather than placing them gently back into the water where he plucked them from, he would send them as high in the air as he could first.  I don't know how flexible frogs are, but it couldn't have been too nice for the little amphibians.  The third story that comes to mind, and by far the most appalling of the 3 is of the lad who used to catch fish and chuck them against a wall.  There may have been more to it than that, but thankfully I never witnessed this act of cruelty.  Lastly and fast forwarding some 15 years, as recently as last month a friend of mine, Philip Mackenzie, apparently attempted to kill his girlfriends dog only for the mutt to get away with a broken leg, I can only think he did it out if pure jealously.  Cruel bastard.


It had been a long - albeit worthwhile - Saturday at Reading festival and by 0315 hours I had been driving for the best part of 3 hours having been on my feet the day before.  Suffice to say I was feeling a little tired and looking forward to a few hours in bed before I had to get up for what was to be a typically arduous round of golf just 7 hours later.  Anyway, I digress, I'm not here to talk about my problems on the golf course, that's for another day and could probably fill a book, let alone a quick blog entry.


So, driving home at 0315 hours just 300 yards from home after over 200 miles of calm, uneventful road, there I was, hardly about to fall asleep at the wheel, but very much looking forward to my bed.  Not for the first time in my 8 years of driving I noticed a creature run across the road, it's never been a problem before and anyone who has driven for a reasonable amount of time can vouch that the beast will usually escape unharmed.


There it was in front of me, the proverbial rabbit in headlights, hopping helplessly ahead of two tonne of steel.  I'd normally slow down to let the little creature pass, but this, as I've explained, wasn't normal circumstances, with home so close I was already halfway into my bed and the furry little bunny didn't give me adequate time to dodge it.  So rather than do my usual slowing down tactic I stepped on the gas as I thought I would attempt to drive straight over it with both front and back wheels missing the bunny, in theory this (at the time), seemed like a good idea.


Alas my quickly devised plan failed and after successfully missing it with the front wheels I heard a series of bumps as the car itself went over it.  I knew what had happened and also knew there was little to no chance that it had escaped unharmed, although I told myself it was a possibility, perhaps it had somehow bounced off and got away with a broken toe or tooth or something.


I was now wide awake, having to be up in a few hours for said round of golf, thinking of the poor rabbit I had probably just killed.  I swear it had looked me in the eye just before I sent him/her to meet its maker too, we definitely shared a moment.


As expected, when I drove past the next day the rabbit had hardly moved from the spot where I first saw it only now it was considerably flatter and unrecognisable from when we had first met.  So there we have it, my first taste of killing another mammal, my first case of road killing a rabbit.  Road kill.