My dad had his operation today.
At around 2pm, he was wheeled into an operating theatre in Milton Keynes and had one of his kidneys removed, along with some of the surrounding tissue. I don't know if the removal of an organ can ever entirely be described as routine, but apparently it's an involved but relatively straightforward job.
I spoke to the old man last night to wish him luck. He seemed fairly cheerful and reasonably relaxed. He's been a doctor in that neck of the woods for much of the last 30 years and I think he knew that he was in good hands. He didn't actually know his surgeon personally, but he had heard good things about him and he knew that he was the only booking in the theatre that afternoon and that there was going to be no rush. I also spoke to my mum, and she was laughing about how daft my dad is. He'd been told that he could have some tea and toast for breakfast as long as he had them before 7am this morning. Rather than risk that, my father in his wisdom had decided that he was going to have his breakfast cereal before he went to bed. Makes perfect sense, right?
I was nervous this afternoon. I knew I wasn't going to hear anything until at least six, but even though I was relatively busy at work, I couldn't stop my mind chewing over the "what ifs".
I got the call from my mum at about 7pm this evening. Apparently he's being wheeled onto the ward and is moaning about how he feels a bit sore. No shit! Who knew that having an organ surgically removed from your body would hurt?
Mum's gone to visit him now and I should know more later on. There are more hurdles that will need to be jumped before this is all over, but the main thing for now is that he's up and awake.
In queso emergency: Cocktails
1 day ago