There have been studies (not a hope I’ll go to the bother of finding the references) that show that heart surgery significantly increases your risk of developing the kind of pervasive low mood that us doctor-types tend to label as depression. As in, your heart is actually broken. It’s a real thing.
I’ve been thinking about what the equivalent might be when your bowel gets surgically re-adjusted, and I think I’ve figured it out.
You lose your guts. Your courage. Your bravery.
I wept like I’d had seven vodkas the other night when I thought there was a rat in our house. I am convincing myself, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I am going to end up with some horrific complication of the surgery and find myself back inside Multi-Occupancy Hell with Nora and her cronies.
I’ve lost my mojo.
I said when I came home from hospital that I felt unfamiliar with the world. Now I kind of feel unfamiliar with me. I don’t know this scaredy-cat. She’d want to get herself sorted soon because we can’t be doing with a snivelling sap in our midst.
I have been comparing this Major Abdominal Surgery with my three previous experiences of something similar, when my babies were cut out of me. I’ve been trying to work out why this seems much harder, but of course the reason is simple. I didn’t get a delicious-smelling tiny fleshbomb out of this, that needs to be cuddled and fed and looked after and looked at. I did suggest to the theatre nurse that they should swaddle the tumour in a towel and present it to me after the operation, but strangely she wasn’t too keen on the idea.
So I am left with just me, but less than me. My new name is <Sarah.
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