I’m supposed to be flying off in 4 hours time and what am I doing? Last minute things as usual. Sigh..

But I console myself that I’ll be able to sleep all I want in the next 1 week.

Yup. Am going off om a holiday.

Anniversary cum birthday cum recuperation cum I don’t know what.

Who cares as long as I’m going away.

I’ll be chilling out here

Looks good right? hehe! I hope so.

But no bikini.

Got scars on my tummy……

Sigh….

Ok people. ‘see’ you all next week.

Be good.

A very happy Tiffany… ^^

How do I eat thee, my fish?

Let me count thy ways…

Fish porridge
Fish noodle
Fish bee hoon
Fish mee ta mak
Fish soup
Fish thin bee hoon

Alas, I fear I cannot eat thee anymore as I grew weary of fish at every meal. Though I knowth thoust good for my body but others are calling out for me.

Ice cream, chicken wings, laksa….Oh how I miss them

Goodbye, goodbye, fish.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.

*If any of my literature teachers are reading my blog, I sincerely appologise for the abuse of the beautiful poems that you taught me.

Hmm…. basing on the traffic, guess quite a number of you are interested in my little experience. Sorry, couldn’t post last night much as I would have like to. I’m still not totally ‘normal’ as I do tend to feel waeker and more tired than usual. ^^

Anyway, back to my experience.

After I don’t know how long, I was being awaken by sentences like: “It’s done.”, “How do you feel?”, “We’re going to push you back to your ward.” etc. Frankly, I could only remember vaugely what they were saying and all I remembered doing was shaking or nodding my head slowly.

As I was wheeled back to my ward, I saw my aunt. Boy, it sure feels nice to see someone familiar. It was 4pm and she had been waiting for 4 hours… Oops, well that was partly my fault as I was so sure I would be out about 12+. I found out later that my operation that was supposed to be only about 1 hour, took about 2 hours in the end as ‘it was more difficult’ than expected. Oh dear, I hope there wasn’t anther patient waiting for an hour like me.

I was put on the drip as I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink. Sigh…

Personally, I find being on the drip more painful than going for the operation. Especially when they have to do what is called ‘flushing’.

What’s that?

Well, that’s when they have to clear the tube of the blood that had clot.

Eg, when the drip runs dry and there’s no more glucose water running into my veins, the pressure flows the other way….ie, my blood is being sucked out, upwards. Sounds pretty gross? Well, it’s a little less scary than it sounds but yes, a small part of the tube had my blood in ti. So anyway, the blood has to be cleared and are thus vacummed or sucked out.

Let me tell you, that’s when I almost cried.. it was so painful. And it happened a few times. My hand still feels bruised where the drip was.

And bed pan.

Gosh…. it’s really awkward using this little pan. (wonder why they call it a bed pan and not a urine pan? Of course bed pan sounds better than urine pan. Hmmm….). I only used it twice but each time I had to use it, I felt as if I was going to wet the bed. Plus, it’s pretty difficult to do it when the nurse is hovering around, asking: “Are you done?” and lifting the bedsheet to take a look. Most undignified. Utterly no image at all. Sigh… and double sigh…

I managed to speak to my hubby over the phone and mumbled something (can’t remember what) and then sent my aunt home. I slept till nearly 7pm when hunger pangs woke me up. Yee Lee was so kind. She insisted on coming over to visit even though I told her not to. She even offered to buy me some food but alas… no food allowed. (I did ask the various nurses a few times, in hope).

And then I had to go toilet again… because of the %43@*&^% drip.

Abd that was pretty much the rountine for the whole night.

Hunger pangs.

Toilet urge.

Followed by occasional ‘flushing’ of the drip.

Luckily, they sorted out the drip rate later and I didn’t have to go toilet so often. Speaking of toilet. You know it’s quite a feat to do it whilst on drip? Trying not to get entangled with the tube whilst trying to err… ‘drop one’s pants’. And trying to draw one’s pants up as well. All the little things we take for granted. Maybe the Japanese should invent a little machine that will do it. Hmm… an idea right?

Of course I didn’t sleep much lah.

Anyway, hospital life begins very early.

I figured I ought to be able to loose some weight through this?

Q: What is the difference between a spa treatment and an operation.
A: In both instances, you lie near naked on a bed, covered by bedsheet. But you wait to be poked and kneaded in one and wait to be poked and needled in the other.

Which is is which though?

Actually, I’m pretty pleased with myself for having coming up with the above…whilst lying near naked on a bed, covered by a bedsheet and waiting to be poked and needled.

Obviously, it was no spa treatment.

On Wednesday night, I checked into the hospital for what I naively thought would be a minor surgery. (Well, in relative terms, a laparoscpic surgery is minor). I supposed I should have find out more what it entails but I figured I’d get even more frightened that way. So I decided I should leave it to HIM. I packed a small bag as I thought I would be out the next day by lunch time (optimistic right?), went for dinner at my favourite prata shop and then went to get myself admitted.

The whole thing was very surreal.

I don’t think I was really frightened but I certainly felt every alone as I watched hubby drive away and I had to take the lift up to the ward by myself. This would be the first time I’m in a hospital…unless of course you count being there when I was a baby nearly 40 years ago.

There was nothing much to do except watch TV and read my magazine. The joke was that I had actually brought my laptop along, thinking I could use the ‘spare’ time to catch up on some blog reading. The nurse quickly dispelled that idea from my head and hubby had to lug my laptop home.

I eventually fell asleep at about 1.30 in the morning. My surgery was at 8.30am.

Needless to say, I woke up a few times during the night, twice to some PA announcement abotu a code red and a code blue in some ward.

At 6am, the lights were switched on and there was a bustle of activities with the nurses coming in. I was told to take a shower. Bleah…. I hate taking shower in the morning.

And then strangely, the lights were dimmed again and so I went back to bed after my shower….

I was woken again later by lights and noises. Ahhh… seems the hospital is really awakening this time. Nurses came in and out, checking temperature, blood pressure and names. Hospital helpers (?) came in and out, bearing breakfast and medicine. Workers came in and out offering to change the bedsheet and sweep the floor. Teams of interns made their round. Doctors made their round.

That’s when my doctor told me that my surgery would be at 10.30am instead of 8.30am.

Sigh…. so much for my plan and hope of going home that day… as I was duly informed that I would only be discharged the next day.

So it was back to bed again. Hey, don’t blame me. What can I do when I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink? I had been fasting since midnight. Good way to loose weight and catch up on my sleep.

By 10.15am, I kept looking anxiouly at the clock. Surely, they haven’t forgotten about me? Maybe they assumed I have already had my surgery. I conptemplated calling one of the nurse to find out but just at that moment, one of them walked towards me and said: “Time to get ready. Change into this and I’ll bring you downstairs into the operating theatre.”

Well, that was it.

Wearing pretty much nothing except for this flimsy gown that was tied round the back, I sat in the wheelchair and I was wheeled out.

It was most strange. I wanted to tell the nurse that I was very capable of walking on my own and if I could just walk down together with her but thought the better of it.

Once downstairs, I was transferred onto a bed in the ‘waiting room’, whilst I wait for my turn.

And for the umpteenth time since the night before, my name was verified, drug allergy checked etc. Well, these was normal.

What I did find strange was the question if I had dentures (I found out that this was important as a breathing tube would be inserted into my mouth and they had to be careful not to pull out my dentures or crown. Horrors!)

And if I had any nail polish on (apparently doctors checked to see if you are ok my seeing if the nails have turned blue or are still a healthy pink. Hmmm… interesting).

From the waiting room, I was wheeled out (on the bed of course). Along the way, I passed by some pretty colourful corridors and saw staff having conversation along the corridors. If sitting on a wheelchair was strange, then being wheeled into a operating room, on a bed, whilst conscious of everything was even a stranger sensation.

Finally, I arrived in a small room, but it was not the operating room. It was the room before you enter the operating room.

It was 11.15am.

And there I would lie in wait near naked, twiddling my thumbs under the bedsheet as I waited and waited for the next hour and-a-half. I couldn’t get up, so all I could do was stare at the ceiling, look at the walls, check out the doctors and nurses who were coming in and going out and tried to think of something cheerful. It was no use.

Seems the patient before me got rather complicated.

The nurses apologised to me.

The anesthetist apologised.

My doctor apologised.

All I could do was smile sweetly and weekly and mumbled something like ‘it’s ok’. Which of course, it’s not ok but really it’s not their fault right? It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just one of those things.

At one point, the anethetist, noticing that I was staring rather blankly at the wall, said: “Take a little nap. Relax.”

Right.

I’m sure she meant well. It’s meant to be comforting.

But err… Relax????

You know what? Strange as it may seems, I actually did fell asleep.

The white ceiling and walls do get a little monotonous after a while.

Suddenly, I was woken up.

“Ok, it’s your turn.”

And then I was wheeled into the operating room.

A couple of tubes were hooked onto me (hey, just like hospitl drama). And then a breathing mask was put over my mouth. I was told it’s oxygen and to breathe deeply.

I did.

But they bluff me though.

Coz I started smelling some chemical and before I can count one-two-three, I was gone.

My friend asked me how was my anniversary dinner the other night. I had told her earlier that we had booked a table in a nice restaurant.

‘Well, I had Campbell Cream of Mushroom soup at home and he had pizza in the office. He had to work OT last minute and didn’t come home till 12.30am’.

So much for planning.

Oh well, there’s always another time but I think I’ll have a different soup the next time. Campbell soup a little salty.

In a post office today

PO staff: Where are you sending this parcel to?

Me: The Netherlands.

PO staff: What’s inside? You have to declare.

Me: Err… Oatmeal and seaweed (I was a little embarrassed telling him)

PO staff: Don’t they have oatmeal in Europe?

Me: Yes, I’m not sure but I guess they are different? They are for my friend and she always buys them here ro bring back there.

PO staff: Hmmm… they are very strict with foodstuff over there especially with milk related products.

Me: She always brings them back, I’m sure it’s ok. (frantically thinking- oatmeal has milk in it????)

PO staff: Is it airtight? It’s not going to burst right?

Me: I bought it from the supermarket. It’s not opened yet and is in it’s original packaging (is he afraid that the airplane will be filled with oatmeal?)

PO staff: You sure it’s not going to burst? It’s not opened?

Me: No, it’s not opened and I don’t think it will burst. (How would I know? I didn’t pack the packet of oatmeal in the factory)

PO staff: Is it dry? It’s not wet right?

Me: (Very patiently) No, it’s dry. (wet oatmeal? did he think I cook the oatmeal and send it all the way over to the other end of the world?}

PO staff: You sure it’s not going to burst right?

At the point, I was about to take back the package and give up sending the food stuff to a very homesick friend for her birthday present.
But he seems to be satisfied finally that I wasn’t sending any contanminating bomb exploding oatmeal.

PO staff: Ok, that will be $20 please.

Sigh.. the postage is more expensive than the packet of oatmeal and seaweed.

C, if you are reading this, I hope you appreciate the gruelling I had to go through to send a innocent packet of oatmeal to you.

Come to think of it, why am I sending Nestle (which is a Dutch company I believe)oatmeal to The Netherlands????