It was one year ago, Friday 16th December 2016 9.15am when I was being prepared for my laparoscopic operation at Preston hospital. Just one of 44,000 people in the UK every year who are diagnosed with Prostate Cancer. Although according to the British Association of Urinary Surgeons they did about 14,000 prostatectomies in 2014. Of which only 3000 were Laparoscopic, 9000 Robotic and 2000 open.
For the op there was a team of 3 surgeons plus 1 anaesthetist, 2 nurses and a student as far as I could tell. I was knocked out in a preparation room and woke up there 3 hours later, never seeing the surgeon or the theatre. The staff were very competent, warm and caring.
The bed wasn't available in the ward so they woke me briefly at 12.15 and then kept me unconscious till 4pm when I was moved, awakening with a thick head and my wife looking over me. After lying awake most of the night next to a very sick person with tubes coming out from all over I had breakfast. They removed the drip at some point and I started walking round the ward with a urine bag and a pelvix area blood draining bag. The blood draining bag was filling more than I thought reasonable so told the nurses that I'd changed my mind and thought I should stay in for the second day. I wasn't sure they were going to let me go anyway.
In our room of 4 there was the very ill person, 1 who they couldn't find anything wrong with and who snored like a lion, luckily I had earplugs, they're important. The very ill person had a machine that beeped very loudly just before he was sick. Plus another old gent who seemed to be waiting to leave. I've often wondered what happened to the ill person, he was about the same age as me and seemed a pleasant sort. I spoke to him briefly and to his daughter, and knew he lived fairly close to me. Strangely I've met 3 others who live in our area, some way out of Preston, which seems disproportionate.
Every morning and afternoon they came round with drugs and seemed surprised that I didn't want pain killers. But I had no pain at all. They kept injecting anti-clotting drugs and I took home a months supply. It wasn't as bad as I thought injecting myself although it was a relief when it was done. It was also a relief to pass the test without catheter 2 weeks later, Dec 30th. So it was an odd Christmas 2016 and I told no-one. Not that we go out much.
I've written this off the top of my head as I woke up thinking about it.