What a funny, strange feeling to give your child over to a team of doctors to be anaesthetised, even if he is a big strapping chap, and only just eligible to be under the care of the paediatric ward, with the cheery octopus wall mural. What absolute trust one must have; what total reliance on their skill and training.
He’s precious cargo, I said, as the nurse did some checks before the surgery.
Of course he is, Trudi! she agreed, seriously. We will take care of him.
And they did, so well, and the odd looking lumpy bump was removed from his eye, even if it was more complicated than they first thought. Let’s hope the histology report turns up a blank. (It’s totally meant to, but I’m not thinking about it.)
I’ve lost both my parents. I am acquainted with the fact that healthcare’s not always perfect, and that things go wrong, or that systems fail, or are fundamentally flawed. I’ve seen this both in chronic, complicated, long term care involving many disciplines, and even on the high adrenaline Intensive Care ward.
Even so, you’ve got to hand it to medical professionals, and then some. They are amazing, dedicated, calm and brilliant. I’d love to be a surgeon, I said, over a nervous coffee in the hospital cafe while the operation was in progress. Alex said, You’d be rubbish. You’d faint in the first five minutes (and indeed, a few moments before, as I watched the anaesthetist finding a vein, I *was* desperately trying not to keel over).
Anyway, my precious cargo made it through to the land of the living in one piece, and despite (or because of?) my
fussing diligent nursing in the last few days, he’s looking more normal today, and feels much more like himself.
Thank you, NHS!