Everything comes back to losing Al

It’s been a tough old week. My first hurdle happened just over a week ago when I went into hospital as a day case; just as a reminder of my creeping towards old age, my varicose veins needed fixing. They’d appeared after I lost half of my body weight. “Not fair,” I’d said with a wry smile to my GP. “They’re supposed to be a complication of obesity so it’s a damned cheek that they’ve waited until now to appear – do you think they were hiding under all that fat?” “It’s possible,” she said. We laughed about it. There are worse things to go wrong and if this is the worst that can happen now – a few lumpy, unsightly, aching veins -  I’m doing OK.

Anyway, on Tuesday of half term, I got a call offering me a cancellation just two days later. I grabbed it. Using half term week meant less time off work – and as my contract is renewed annually, the last thing I want to do is to take time off work. If I’m going to draw attention to myself, I want to do it when I’m being amazing - not when things are anything less than perfect.

At the pre-op appointment, I said that I’d already asked about the possibility of a spinal block (as opposed to a general anaesthetic) when I’d had my initial consultation with the surgeon. He had told me I would be able to discuss that at my pre-op appointment. I was given an information leaflet on general and local anaesthetics and told to discuss it with the anaesthetist on the morning of the surgery but that I must starve from midnight before the surgery anyway. I felt a little uneasy but agreed.

On the morning of the op, I told the surgeon I wanted a spinal block. I was told to discuss it with the anaesthetist. He arrived and I repeated my request. He wasn’t happy and wanted to know why. I explained that apart from a few trips to the dentist as a child, my only general anaesthetic experience (just two years ago) had been particularly unpleasant and I’d been told that I’d reacted poorly to it and should be given a different type next time. I added that I was aware that a general anaesthetic carried a greater risk than a local did and I didn’t want to take the risk. He started to talk about the difference being negligible, how it would involve a longer hospital stay (perhaps overnight), listed several potential complications, and suggested I reconsider.

I knew that although I was referring to risk management, this was really more of an emotional choice so I explained that my son had died and I was terrified of not waking up and leaving my daughters without a mother as well as a brother. He was unmoved.

Until that point, I had politely requested a spinal. At his reaction, I dug in my heels and said that if a general anaesthetic was the only one available then, I was happy to leave it to another day. He left to discuss with others, returned 10 minutes later and said I’d be the first in theatre. Within another 10 mins, I was in theatre being prepared. An hour later, I was back on the ward – a textbook case. Everything ran like clockwork. On discharge, I was provided with a 2 week Fit for work certificate but, given my rapid recovery, my GP replaced it with one that allowed me to return to work after 6 days.

All in all, a good outcome. Except ... all that thinking about the possibility of leaving the girls has reminded me to change my will. It still lists Al as a beneficiary.

On discharge, I was told to neither sit nor stand for too long, and to take a gentle walk every hour or two. The day after, I thought about taking a short walk around the block – only I couldn’t do it. The last time I did that was after my last surgery when I leaned on my boy for support. I couldn’t bring myself to go alone and couldn’t ask my daughter to come with me as it felt as if I was merely replacing him. Instead, I paced up and down my living room.

It was just another insignificant day. I just had some minor surgery. And even that reminded me of losing my son. Everything comes back to losing Al. His loss permeates through everything – everything! It never stops. And yet I feel guilty - embarrassed even – that I might want to not think of losing him. Because if I don’t remember my loss, I might forget him – and I don’t want to forget him. I just want it to hurt a little less.