My mother has been waiting for her heart valve replacement operation like an inmate on death row. The fact she’s a nurse and knows this sort of business has added a few death sentences I’m sure. She kept telling me that she was going to die on the operating table, and I kept telling her to not make promises she’s unwilling to keep.
Realising my flippant remark would cause me no end of bother if my mother did actually die on the operating table, I hot-footed it to Wales when the call came and spent the end of last week at Morriston Cardiac Unit. I’d say it’s a lovely place but it’s a hospital, full of beeping, sickness, and overworked people. If you want to get in those steps to beat the bulge, though, all you’ve got to do is park up in the car park and walk the 27-miles to the ward. If you’re lucky, you’ll get lost because everything looks the same.
She didn’t die on the operating table like I knew she wouldn’t, but she did look like absolute shit once she was sewed back up and wheeled into recovery. It was sobering seeing her as doo-lally as grandma, but knowing it was the meds made that more viewable.
My mother is currently recovering like an inmate on death row. This tells me that she’s going to be a’okay and soon back to business as usual.
After hot-footing it back to Portsmouth, I met up with Shaun. We had a few drinks, came back to mine, played cards, and I got thrashed. Drinking rules shit head when played with a cheater always gets me wasted. I’m feeling a little delicate.