My surgery had been scheduled for a Friday morning, which I had quietly prayed would not mean the last one before a round of golf, or a big lunch for the surgeons. I arrived at Leeds General Infirmary the evening before, and made my way to the ward. I was showed to a bed which would be my home for one night - a ward specifically for pre-op people. Visiting hours meant that I was going to be on my own for most of the evening, with only the stretched nursing staff for company. I made myself at home (as much as I could), and was allowed to use my phone and laptop. I had taken an internet dongle with me, and was connected to Facebook for most of the evening to pass the time. I received many messages of support, and despite most of the communication being to do with the forthcoming operation, I was able to keep my mind off the event that was rapidly darkening my door.
During the evening, I was visited by one of Mr Ross' registrars - Ryan. He was a confident, well spoken younger man, probably in the twilight of his twenties. He seemed positive, and for the want of a better expression, 'well up' for the surgery ahead. I had the feeling I was in for a long night, and was happy to see someone who was going to be in on my op who could answer my lingering questions, and allay my fears about the prospect of my head being shaved (a look that many of you will know, does not suit me, although I had bought a hat in case of the worst case scenario). "Will any pictures be taken of the inside of my head?" I asked. Ryan told me that the microscope they would use to see what they were doing would take photographs as it went. My response, "Can I get copies?" Ryan was a little taken aback by the prospect of providing me with photos...as any normal person should be. If anything, this man was accommodating. "Well, the photos are difficult to get off the hard drive, but I'm sure I can get something sorted", he replied. Think of me what you will, but if someone else was getting a look inside my skull, I wanted in too. They say that curiosity killed the cat...I say, I'm not a cat. I wanted to see it, so I could see what I was getting rid of. My tumour had taken on a persona, and people had become quite passionate about giving its demise, so I wanted to see the enemy.
The main purpose for the registrars visit was to mark me up for surgery, and to complete the administrative aspects of the surgery. He had come armed with a purple marker, and seem a bit too happy about drawing a big arrow on my left temple. Strangely, this all seemed to make it more real. This was happening, and if the rest of my body was going to allow me to forget this, my stomach wasn't.
Ryan produced a bundle of self-carbonating paper from his file. He explained that I needed to sign a consent form, and he proceeded to take me through the contents...
"Name of proposed procedure: Interhemispheric approach for excision of left frontal parafalcine meningioma", it read.
"That sounds serious", I thought to myself, as my stomach wobbled again.
"Significant, unavoidable or frequently occurring risks: Bleeding, infection, stroke, seizures, paralysis, limb weakness / numbness, incomplete excision, recurrence, death, general anaesthetic risks", it continued.
My vocabulary failed me, "Shit", I said to myself. If I had managed to avoid any negative thoughts up until this point, this document fuelled my biggest and longest standing fear. My greatest fear had never been death, it had been disability. I have always taken such pride in my ability to function physically, the thought of having this taken away is my worst nightmare. Even now, when I see the words written down, the feeling of panic is mimicked.
"Can I get a signature here, please", Ryan uttered. I was dwelling on the text, and it barely registered.
I had pondered the thought of seizures and epilepsy, as I was well aware of the pitfalls of tampering with the delicate tissues of the brain, but the other outcomes of the surgery hadn't registered. Unavoidable. Frequent. These were not words I wanted to see, and they successfully put a dent in my positivity. A significant one at that.
The registrar left, and my one-man mission to amuse myself had been seriously affected. I had prepared myself physically for the surgery, and had prepared myself mentally up until this point. I had to get myself back to this point if I was going to have any chance of getting the sleep that I needed. I have long been able to think myself into a positive mood, and this was one occasion where I desperately didn't want to let myself down. I read the pink carbonated copy of the consent form over and over. Each time, trying to rationalise one of the risks. I took myself back to the echoing words, "Technically brilliant". I couldn't let this piece of paper affect me - not having come this far, and told myself that they wouldn't happen to me. I was young, fit, healthy. Mr Ross was an expert. I repeated this to myself again and again. It did the trick, or I bored myself to sleep...in either case, I was able to drift into sleep.
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