h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

After nearly two weeks, I have now reached the actual limpidly lying on couches making faint 'Tea?' noises and generally enjoying being ill stage, thank goodness. Or I would if I hadn't run out of books to read. Except I landed back in hospital this weekend as the wound started oozing. Luckily, when the doctors who are allowed to do stuff turned up on Monday, they decided it was good oozing and I was out within 5 minutes having had a large syringe stuck in my neck and lots of grubby liquid extracted. Still, I am now so awash in antibiotics that I can withstand a direct strike from anything antibiotics are designed to keep at bay, so go on I dare you to stand next to me with flu.

I was actually having a fun time trying to work out the hirachy of the hospital. Guessing the status of nurses before I looked at their badges and clocked their uniforms, and trying to work out who all the doctors are. Obviously the nice young lady who was looking after me over the weekend must be someone fairly junior: you can tell this mostly because she never seemed to leave the hospital and was the one stuck with me when A and E finally let me in at 1am.

The consultant (I've seen him twice: once as the anesthetic kicked in and once as they were kicking me out before) is obviously the top dog. Who are registrars then? I've got a registrar surgen who seems to be the mouth pice of the surgical separtment, and who keeps wanting to cut me open again (to drain the wound) which, I assume, proves he's definitely a surgeon. Then I've got this chap who I see in the clinic, who seems to be allowed to send me on to have tests and operations, and who got to overule the whole 'lets slice her up again' thing, but although he came and prodded at the neck this weekend it wasn't him who did the needle thing. I decided that might have been a hematoma expert (that being the reason for the swelling) and therefore outside the foodchain, but then he got to go and prod at the other ENT casualty on the waqrd as well.

Then there were a whole bunch of people I saw after surgery who moved in packs and were anoyingly breezy about everything and who kept getting overuled by the surgical people (from afar): I assumed these were the ent department doctors (rather than surgeons) but then they weren't the ones I've seen before or since.

Sorry, you can tell I've been bored, can't you? But it's very interesting. Still, it looks as though I'll be becoming intimately acquainted with most of the ent department over the rest of my life, as they've decided not to do radiotherapy to mop up any cells they missed when the surgery went a bit complicated, but to haul me in at regular intervals instead and prod a bit more until something happens. I might actually have to try and remember their names.

So that's that. Huge scar, which I'm assured will fade after a year or so. No feeling in the skin on the whole of the left hand side of the face, which I gather is normal at the moment. A large lump, which I'm told will (eventually) dissipate. I can chew again and the nerves of my face have apparently escaped radical harm, which the doctors are unanimous about seeming more relieved than they really should be about, which tells you just how hairy it was, I suppose.

I'll tell you what though, and that's I had no idea how trolleyed I would feel after this. Not sure whether this is a good thing or not, but there you go.

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As antibiotics are terrific against bacteria but about as useful as a perfumed hanky against viral infections like the flu, I don't think you want anyone to take you up on that dare. You could probably eat an e-coli burger, though. Leave some mayo on the counter all day if you're feeling really adventurous.

Trolleyed? Is that a British slang for something along the lines of "feel like I've been run over by a..."?

You know, I was beginning to suspect that I might have got antibiotics wrong given that I am feeling as though I might be getting a bit of a cold. Obviously the universe decided to take me up on that dare. Drat.

Actually, I think 'trolleyed' usually means 'drunk'. As in "I went out last night and drank sixteen pints before closing. I was absolutely trolleyed". Binge drinking culture has produced such great expressions though, that I don't see why such a disreputable aspect of British life should get to keep a monopoly.

Quite possibly when you are that drunk, it would be possible to get run over by a supermarket trolley, which is the rather splendid image I now have in my head.

*Thinks anti-viral thoughts, sprays air with eucalyptus oil*

Isn't the post-surgery numb thing weird? I had a major abdominal operation when I was 18. It was all a bit of an emergency and no one had time to explain anything much and when I woke up - where's my tummy? Where is it? I can't feel it! I can't feel my own hand touching it! ARGH! Call the nurse call the nurse they've taken my entire tummy!

The feeling did take a few months to come back properly. I still have a little numb patch 3 inches below the navel - numb only to touch, it's fine on being prodded.

*Thinks about supermarket trolleys in a now slightly nervous way*

Well they had plenty of time to tell me that half my face and neck would be numb for moths afterwards but nobody got around to it... They did tell me I could probably kiss goodbye to the left earlobe though. They are very good, I decided about listing all the things that could go wrong, but a little reticent about telling you the (unpleasant) things that are definitely going to happen.

At least I don't have to learn names though: apparently all the registrars, which I've decided means all the doctors who are post probationary but not consultants, are disappearing off to another hospital next week and I get a new set to play with. The good thing is that now hopefully I won't be greeted by cries of recognition by a succession of doctors I don't recall saying 'oh yes it's you...', although I wouldn't put it past the consultant to show me off as a spectacular example of his handywork to the new intake. He does seem a little proud of me.

He dropped by today to reiterate _again_ what an epic struggle saving the facial nerves turned out to be while I was having a check up. Poor thing. I see him so infrequently that I'm generally all gratefulled out by the time he gets around to me and sit there with this very polite smile on my face saying brightly, 'yes, well, thanks!', trying to inject a few extra exclamation marks into my voice.

I also find it slightly wierd that there is this whole set of people who seem set to be telling drinking stories for the rest of their lives about four hours of my life which I know nothing about at all.

It sounds like you definitely dodged a bullet. I'm really glad your facial muscles are going to be ok. And that the recovery is sort of on schedule. Are you still going to be able to go to Moscow? And can you get royalties on all the doctor's drinking stories? And don't let them give you too many antibiotics or you'll feel like crap.

*gives Sol more ice cream and a big *

See: now that's another thing I didn't know. I've been on antibiotics for two weeks and will be for another week. I was wondering why I feel so tired this week, when last week I felt rawer but more energetic. Oh well. I really need to get back to normality. I am obsessing about my health. I would definitely be one of those Victorian ladies who lay on sofas clutching smelling salts for the rest of their lives after a mild bout of flu if given half a chance.

Still going to Moscow. After 'When can I wash my hair?' that's the question I've been firing at the medics on the most regular basis. Actually it's great from here on in: I've got two of the next three weeks off for various reasons, and the course in Moscow is timetabled to be a lot kinder to the tutors than ours over here are, not to mention the fact that my mother in law will insisit on spoiling me the whole time I'm there. No housework! So probably a much better environment for The Neck all round really.