I was quite proud of myself that I didn't over pack for my day admission to hospital; I threw in one small book to read, didn't wear a watch (to take off and lose track of), and just threw in an iPod and small am/fm radio at the last minute.




When Bob and I arrived at the 12 noon appointed time, and were shown up to my shared room on the surgical ward I didn't bother about settling in, as I would be out in a few hours.




No one came around to see me, so I tried to tune in Radio National on my radio by sitting as close as feasible to the window. It was scratchy, poor reception. I half read by book, before a nurse (?nurses aide . . . her responses to my answers to medical questions and her atrocious spelling indicating a distinct lack of clinical training). She 'left me' with a theatre gown and tossed me a betadine scrub ("you've shaved down haven't you?") with no further explanation.




Still dressed, I made my way into the bathroom to scrub my knee, thankful that I had indeed had a wax to smooth my legs the day before, due to an awareness of the practicalities of getting around post-op, rather than any direction given to me beforehand.




I reluctantly changed into the all-too-revealing hospital gown, sat by the window and waited. My nose badly needed blowing and I found that I was out of tissues. The bedside cabinet, usually such a good source of tissues, pens, telephone books and a Gideon bible, was completely void and empty. I crab walked my way to the nurses station to grab some tissues from the counter twice to provide relief.




Without any warning, a single wardsman appeared to take me to theatre - I felt so sorry for him having to manoeuvre me on his own. More questions, name, date of birth, serial number, and more waiting, this time giving me time to do little else other than examine my cuticles.