Recovery

OK, so it's 03:30 in the morning and I can't sleep. Not that I haven't slept, just that when I woke, I was caught by a surge of adrenalin, and my thoughts conspired to ban any chance of gently rolling back to sleep. So maybe writing this will help restore some order, or at least bore me back to sleep!

I suppose the first thing to note is that I am not really in pain, though a forensic analysis of the sensations coming from my nether parts has revealed one or two minor observations which are possibly worth mentioning. Just as the surgeon predicted with ominous certainty, the overriding sensation after the surgery was one of an overwhelming desire to pee, coupled of course with no possibility of relief, because my bladder is connected to the outside world by plastic pipe and logically there isn't any pressure in there at all. It's just an illusion, possibly, and forgive the hyperbole, a bit like the sensation amputees must have when they feel pain from the non-existent extremities of a lost limb. Modern surgery tricking the ancient brain... But this early morning, already the sensation has abated. I am much more comfortable. Drugs or time? Does it matter?

Even so there is stuff going on down there. I reflect now on the look in the eyes of one of my urologists when he warned us that this is a “serious” procedure. I suppose I couldn't help being seduced by the idea of the “constructive interference” of the ultra-sound waves into thinking of this procedure as less invasive than old blood-and-guts surgery. On reflection though, he was in effect frying the cells in my prostate, albeit with exquisite precision, in a manner not unlike using a microwave to cook a piece of steak; just using ultra-sound waves instead of electro-magnetic waves. Hardly unintrusive.

Still, on with the journey. On the surface, not too much discomfort at all. I had rather dreaded that with pipes coming out of me, every time I moved there would be pain, but they trussed up the interface with such a welter of dressing work that nothing much moves at all, and so no problem there; at least not yet! But as I journey much deeper, I can certainly feel that a battle has been waged! There is a sort of lump of sensation right in my core; not pain, not heat, just discomfort. I'd have difficulty locating it in 3-D, but it is there, despite the absence of nerves. I can easily live with that and no doubt it will anyway pass.

The nurse came by in the middle of the night to empty my bladder-bag. She told me I had passed one and half litres which was “good” and that the colour was much “better” (i.e. less bloody). It amazes me how quickly one's dignity descent allows one to talk so pragmatically about such intimate things, but then again, this isn't the first time. And it hardly compares with having a baby. In every sense that I can imagine, this whole procedure is trivial by comparison, with the exception of novelty. Perhaps that is the only reason that writing this makes any sense at all.

That and the characters. I do find it interesting that there are these little pockets of expertise building up around the various centres, where intrepid surgeons are exploring ever-newer techniques. Always I am struck by the relative youth of the consultants, as if they cannot possibly have the experience to deal with the uncertainties implicit in the novelty of their trade. But then again, that is of course why they can do it. I warmed to the fellow who did this operation; so much less James Robertson Justice and much more  a cross between Jude Law and Johnny Depp. He has a slightly naughty sense of humour, which is engaging and reassuring, though on reflection, I can't think why.

Which brings me back to the start of this reflection. I suppose the source of my sleeplessness has little to do with physical discomfort. It is clearly much more related to the unpredictability of this novel procedure, coupled with the dawning realisation that what they were doing down there is fairly brutal. More Flanders' trenches than shock and awe, no matter how modern the equipment. And so, what is the collateral damage, and how much accommodation will be required in my thinking and way of life? And beyond all that, there is still the issue of the ambiguous, potential hot-spot on the bone scan, which, if real, may render all this peripheral, after all.

But those are dark thoughts, and they are to be banished with irritated vigour. One step at a time and now I'm going to listen to something stimulating on internet radio. After all, the good thing about being tied to a bed is that I can sleep when I feel like it, not just when it's dark!