Friday 19 Nov
Following three days of isolation (mostly reading and cooking) at my friend Rachael’s flat, last Thursday I had bilateral hernia repair surgery under general anaesthetic. I was lucky to have the procedure carried out in a private hospital in London due to overloading of Lewisham hospital, and our NHS paid for everything (even the mozzarella, tomato, pesto panini I had upon regaining consciousness). Despite my move to Derbyshire, my new GP agreed that keeping my arrangements in London would ensure no further delays and prevent starting on a new waiting list. In my pre-op assessment I was told it was a routine operation, and that the surgeon had performed six the Wednesday just gone, and that it’s very common, though most men leave it for years until they get it seen to. The operation went well, thankfully, though my stomach does look and feel like it’s taken a beating.
Once I’d returned to the flat after the op, my prior work commitments meant I only had one day of full rest before getting an 8am train to Leicester with two heavy bags and a bike. The work had been organised a long time, and I had been given permission to rearrange if I needed. In retrospect maybe I should have. I led two guided tours about wild plants on private land for Leicester Art Week, took myself for pizza prosecco, had a pint with the Two Queens crew, then struggled through a sauerkraut workshop the following morning. Everyone enjoyed it except me, which is sad, but I was desperately masking my discomfort. Knowing there was no teleportation device to get me home quicker, I resigned myself to a delayed train and treated myself to a cab at the other end to minimise the boredom and pain.
Now –still– I am well and truly beaten.
For three days I hardly moved other than to piss or brush my teeth. I’ve binged Sopranos, but am lacking the concentration to read more than a few pages of my book. All my organs are swollen and pressing against my bladder. On thursday I got up to make lunch with Dudley who was visiting, and stupidly did way too much –picking garden salad, chopping veg, putting the drying up away, sweeping the floor. By 3pm I was back in bed in agony, my whole abdomen bruised like Paulie Gualtieri had cracked me with a bat.
Rachael and her partner Rory showed me compassion and kindness, not only in opening their door and allowing me to stay a week, also in their book recommendations, key-lending and cups of tea. I felt really calm about the looming operation, very peaceful within myself, knowing that I had no control over what would happen. I’ve made a breakthrough with my anxieties. I know that anxious Roy would have been stressing for days about going into hospital, about going under anaesthetic, about having copious rest (either because he couldn’t financially afford or didn’t deserve the right to), and about inconveniencing other people. I know that stressed Roy would have been procrastinating, rushing around, mood-swinging, taking up space and feeling guilty about it. An ex used to tell me that they hated I was somehow in every room of our flat at the same time.
I’m now back at DARP, in full rest mode and horizontal since Sunday. I accept that I need rest beyond what I’ve ever allowed myself. For a former-serial worrier and self-esteem avoider, three consecutive days in bed is unheard of, but five is miraculous. Being someone who historically listens to their ego over their body, I usually can’t sit still too long in case someone thinks I’m being lazy. In the past, this dissociation has been so consuming, it often became me; Guessing what other people are thinking and assuming it’s negative. It’s actually incredible how far I had to twist my internal logic to make their every thought concern my labour output.
Things are changing. I don’t feel like my insecurities right now.
I am supremely thankful for the DARPlings, who have listened, fed and entertained me all week. Struggling to fully comprehend the casual yet thorough care bestowed upon me by friends– years old and days new. I’ve had extra blankets and cups of tea dropped off, breakfast, lunch and dinner deliveries, check-in texts. Learning to accept help, to receive kindness, is new to me. Not believing that you are deserving of love is a result of trauma that many hold with them since childhood way into adulthood, some never shake it. I understand the good nature of the people I’m lucky to be surrounded by is of abundance and collectivism, and that my time will come when I can pass on the hot meals, soft words and extra pillows to someone who needs me.