That's 48 hours out of the way since the lumpotomy, which apparently takes me out of the period in which the remains of my brain were most likely to slide out of the new hole. So the bandage is off, the dressing has been changed, and I'm generally feeling much less restricted about the bonce.
And I no longer have to tie my glasses onto my face, which is nice.
I'm also still getting the kind messages - thanks for them - including the one question which seems to crop up most: "So… how was the morphine?"
I suppose this is only natural. I'm from a Scottish social segment which prefers to take its kicks from booze and Presbyterian smugness; it simply doesn't get itself smacked to the gums on a regular basis, but does see quite a lot of it about and then, when it sees one of its own getting medical licence to do the same, is a little curious…
Well, sorry folks, but I can't really recommend it as a recreational experience. Remember the paeans, exaltations and eulogies to the stuff in Trainspotting? Apologies, but the
nederati must have been
getting much better shit than me, because while morphine was undoubtedly an
excellent analgesic, it hardly flung open the doors of perception. Leith
Clare was in to see me within an hour or two of my awakening, and reckons I was lucid, or at least as I ever get. I remember being perfectly clear, although also very comfortable, and my blog for Thursday doesn't read like the diary of a drug fiend. So I suppose it was doing its job and nothing else.
Except for one thing. I dozed quite a lot on Thursday, and while I was asleep I was very aware of my brain being in an uneven dual state, with a much larger, intact left side containing 100% of me, and a small, damaged, right part containing a wound and, for some reason, Facebook. This wasn't a one-off dream, but more the apparently natural basis for all the short, ten or 15-minute snoozes I took through that day. Until actual bedtime, obviously, when sleeping ceased to be much of an option… but I went through all that in yesterday's blog.
I think it's fair to say that the sleep deprivation of Thursday night was more of a mind-altering factor than the Class A drugs of Thursday lunchtime. Yesterday's blog, as I'm sure you've guessed, wasn't written at a single sitting but in stages as time wore on, and I deliberately didn't go back to change much – partly because touchscreen tablets provide a horrible editing environment, but mainly because I wanted to leave it as a record of my mood changing throughout the day. It didn't work that cohesively, but hey-ho. You try these things.
Today has been quite different. I was moved to a new room last night, one with a collective commitment to kip, and slept soundly and comfortably, with the occasional unironic rousings to check for natural slumber no more than a minor disturbance. As a result, I've felt great today. Sore head, obviously, but not that bad. My steroids have been cut back again, and apparently my wound is fine. It all seems pretty good.
I'm told I'll be out on Monday, and that seems about right from how I feel myself. I wouldn't be entirely happy to be away from professional care just yet, but in another 36 hours, I reckon I'll be ready to go.
So the door in my head was opened on December 1, but only in a physical sense, and the choccy was crap. I'm not out of the fire yet, but all the messy potential for internal bleeding, necrotising bone-flaps and creeping abscesses seems to have been kept at bay by slick, professional care and plentiful tax-funded medicines, and I'm feeling great. I'm not going to say high on life, because then someone would have to come round and strike me sharply and repeatedly around the head, and that wouldn't be good for the wound.
And, besides, I still don't know if I'll need chemo and all that entails.
But the buzz is back, and it's real.