A couple of weeks back I had my pre-med assessment for DBS. The usual stuff – ECG, height, weight and the usual bloodletting. I was issued with my Hibiscrub body wash along with detailed instructions. Trust me it’s never going to take over from Old Spice (or Lynx for you youngsters). Still, it does its job. All of which is to render me as nearly aseptic as possible going into theatres.
I offered to get my hair cut to regulation marine/skinhead length before the operation on the assumption that they were going to do that anyway in order to drill the holes necessary. Rather surprisingly they declined my offer on the grounds that it ran the risk of damaging the skin and thereby allowing infection. Apparently they prefer to just tease the scalp apart. That shouldn’t be too hard – my hair is relatively short anyway. More Bobby Charlton than Laurence Llewelyn Bowen.
Nor was I to shave my chest – I can honestly say that that one never occurred to me. Not now, not ever. My brain is, after all, in my head not my chest. I’m sure my surgeon knows that. But in fairness they have to do a bit of slicing there as well to insert the battery pack. I don’t know yet or have been told and forgotten whether I’m to have a long life battery pack or a rechargeable unit. Either way they are about the same size as a pack of 4 AAs. As I understand it, the non-rechargeables last about 5 years or so but then have to be replaced – which means slicing you open again. The rechargeables have a longer lifespan but you have to recharge them weekly on average.
I was sent on my way with instructions on quarantine. “Just don’t catch anything between now and then” I was told “otherwise we may have to rethink”. I saluted and promised to stay out of trouble. I know full well what that meant.
I wasn’t worried. I don’t catch colds or flu. My childhood was largely free of the kind of snuffles and low-grade infections of childhood. Can’t think when I last caught a cold. No worries.
I thought no more of it. Until Tuesday evening that is, when the unmistakable tickleof a sore throat began to emerge. And here’s the rub – because of the effects on blood clotting, you can’t reach for the ibuprofen and aspirin. Strictly forbidden. All of which left me with vitamin C and paracetamol, hardly heavyweights in the analgesic arsenal. Still, I thought, it’s probably just a feathery tickle.
By Wednesday, the experience was less one of feathers being gently played over my tonsils than of my thoat being addressed with an orbital sander. Explosive sneezing and the beginnings of a chesty cough completed the symphony of symptoms. If it stopped there I could have written it off as side-effects of the seasonal flu jab I had on Monday. It didn’t. And the more it evolved it became clear it was a chesty cold. Or trying to be one. I did a couple of lateral flow Covid tests just in case. Both negative.
By Thursday, I felt rough enough to stay in bed all day. Plenty of fluids, paracetamol, vitamin C and throat lozenges. Not exactly a balanced diet. But then I was hardly hungry. I emailed the hospital DBS nurses to get their thoughts. Pretty much as I might have anticipated, they emphasised that this was less than ideal preparation for an operation in a fortnight. It needed to be gone and soon. They set a deadline of Monday (it’s Friday now) for recovery or they would have to consider rescheduling.
Oh yes and the latest HbA1c value needs to be a lot lower than it was in July when last measured. It’s a double whammy. Failure on either count next week will mean an automatic ‘no go’ decision. Throw in the current exponential rise in Covid cases nationally with likely pressure on beds and there is a further tier of uncertainty.
How do I feel? Hard to say. I don’t want them to conduct the operation if I’m not fit enough for it or there is a much higher risk of Covid infection. Nor do I wish them to turn away some poor soul with Covid in order to do my op. That would be horribly unjust. But nor do I wish to be put on pause indefinitely. We should at least know by Monday.
My friends tell me I’m a worrier. They’re right of course, always have been. Too late to change my spots now!