Shalom!
So the line is out, and it's just a quick one today to let you know how the removal went. Initial thoughts are... good. Bear in mind that is initial, and once the anesthesia wears off it could be a completely different story. Naturally there's a couple of crushing disappointments to talk about, which I'll get to in good time, but first let me tell you a little tale.
And it will be little.
We arrived at the hospital around mid morning fully expecting to be given a hero's reception, complete with being whisked away to a spare bed to have the procedure start bang on time. Of course this didn't happen, and we were complete clowns to think that a hospital would even run to schedule, let alone treat us like royalty. So there we sat, for about two hours. Standard really. I got stuck in to a recent issue of SFX magazine, which was a surprise inclusion on the reading pile, and I laughed at the absurd magnitude of general geek on show, yet also cried over how much it resonated with my very being. Maybe I should take up lacrosse when I go back to Sheffield. Fucking lacrosse.
At about one I was told by the 'Line Doctor' (her words, not mine... I do wonder if her bachelors was a proper medicine degree) to get topless and get comfortable. Thinking this could go anywhere, I nervously plonked myself upon the bed and worked through piece after piece of Wrigley's gum. The doctor, meanwhile, produced - one by one - her vast array of cutting tools - scalpel, enormous scissors, hunting knife. With the curtains drawn, it was clear that the ship had long sailed for bailing on the twisted game that was about to be played, so I lay back and thought of England.
Turns out, the procedure was mostly painless. Once the local had gone in, it was just a case of hacking away at the skin that had grasped onto the line whilst it had been inside of me. All in all the whole process took about half an hour, and I was astounded at how thick the cartilage and skin was that was wrapped around the line when it was removed. Think of how a nut screws onto a bolt and you've basically conjured up the image of what it looked like. Tasty.
Fully expecting to be striding out of the hospital with line in hand, I asked if they could clean it and stick it in a bag for me, only to be told that it was protocol for old Hickman's to be destroyed and thus, I was not allowed.
...what?
Fuck! Now I can't hang it on the wall, or wave it around for everyone to get grossed out at, or even do a celebratory shot out of. What good is that? Instead my dear plastic companion of nine months was unceremoniously tossed into the chemo bin, where it would stay until incineration at a later stage of the day. What a tragic end to a beautiful partnership.
Oh well.
With that as well as maintenance starting today, things have been good. My mood is improving day by day, and I'm really looking forward to what is going to be a ridiculously busy but jokes October. Cheeky trip to Sheffield this weekend is on the cards, which will mark a nice start to proceedings. Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
Big love,
Ryan.
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