I don't remember leaving for the final trek but I do remember gratefully leaning on a chest high windowsill at the end of a queue in a cool corridor at 0650. There were about a dozen in front of us and by 0700 there were many more behind.
An office opened and each in turn handed in their letters which were scanned and further instruction issued. Yellow room, directly ahead was ours. Gratefully I sat and was so far gone that I didn't even notice the ubiquitous and iniquitous subtitled BBC decrying everything even vaguely deemed ill fitting to their directors worldview.
We didn't wait long. A surgeon informed us that we would process my case as if the operation was going ahead although there was only a 20% chance of it as there were no beds. This was the lowest point I think I reached. Tears were not far away. I couldn't imagine the alternative.
Across the corridor a nurse asked questions, took details, swabs and blood. Others were gowned up but not me. Back to the yellow room. I think I dozed.
Next, another surgeon in a room at the end of the corridor sat us down and talked. I can't remember much but he looked intently at me before summoning another surgeon, the third who would be involved in the op, if it happened. A brief conflab and more blood was taken whereupon the most recent surgeon offered to rush the samples to the lab and wait for the results. Stay here awhile and when you feel able wait in the yellow room.
Two hours or more had passed and just after 10 we were escorted into the room of surgeon number four. Except this wasn't surgeon number four. This was The Man. Tall and thin he carried the weight of authority and the calm of deciciveness like a mace and sceptre.
He was logged on to me on his computer the blood test results were not good and for the first and only time I was shown the tumour. It wasn't very impressive but it woke me from my stupor as did his next question, when did the jaundice return? Saturday, I thought or that's when my brain was out of gear more than in. My wife was invited to look in my eyes. Saffron yellow.
The stent had moved and I had an infection from it. This complicated matters and I was assured that complications would follow. My brain screamed, just do it.
We either have to accept the risk and operate or replace the stent. Just do it.
Numbers were mentioned, risks calculated and explained. Just do it.
What do you think, I was asked? Just do it, I screamed but only a whisper came out.
Now in total command he explained that the infection meant that an epidural was too risky but he'd talked to a colleague who had pioneered another process which involved a pair of needles being inserted in my back into the muscle sac of the muscle to be cut. These would be worked around to the front, terminate at each end of the incision and supply local anaesthetic for immediate post op pain relief. However, this process has never been used before in a Whipples procedure. Was I OK with that? I nodded as vigorously as I could which wasn't much.
Right he said over to Tugs. I'll see you in theatre he said. Overjoyed doesn't begin to do the feeling justice.
Outside the corridor was dominated by a young chap in green, about 5'8" tall, 3' across, 3' deep and extensively tattooed. When he spoke it was firm, gentle and so comforting. Opening a cubicle curtain a gown was folded neatly. I donned it and my wife took my clothes. Won't need them for a while he said, dressing gown and slippers will do and I'll make sure they stay with him.
My new dressing gown was a delight being a very recent gift from a daughter who was ashamed of the dressing gown that I'd worn all her life and longer. So, resplendent in M&S softness and slippers kept together with cable ties I was asked if I could walk. Oh, yes, said I with all the confidence I could muster. We walked along the corridor to a pair of combination locked doors where my wife and I said our goodbyes.
The other side of the doors opened into a locker space and a toilet in which I was encouraged to do my best. My best was pathetic but far worse was the fact that I was too feeble to get up. A large soft paw which took both my hands lifted me up and a strong arm guided me to the bright lights of the Theatre.
I was placed just so, stood by the middle of the table when two arms lifted me like I was a kid and placed me exactly where the surgeon asked. I hadn't even noticed him. A cannula was in my right wrist and I hadn't noticed that either. You'll feel sleepy but you won't go to sleep just yet said a comfortingly familiar voice behind me. Another voice explained what was going on with the ultrasound, this was the surgeons pioneering colleague.
I was asked my name, dob and if I knew what was going on. I saw the familiar diagram of my replumbing and began a description upon which I was complimented and asked to continue.
My hands were on Tugs shoulders and I was exhorted to push. Hard. My hardest was pretty poor so placing his hands on mine he leaned back as things on my back happened. Twisting me left, right, forward and back muscles were stretched and opened to allow whatever was happening to happen.
I think it was just after 1045 that Tugs said I'll lie you back and you'll be asleep.
I don't remember lying back.
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