Silly Brain Syndrome

Phew…a bit longer since my last post than I thought! Suffering from SBS or Silly Brain Syndrome.

I have a pathetic tolerance to drugs – in fact I’m basically intolerant to them. I opted to have my op by spinal block (yup, watched the whole procedure on the theatre monitor with a detailed and comprehensive commentary given to me by my charming anaesthetist…all quite fascinating!) thereby avoiding the biggy – a general aesthetic. Unfortunately there’s still a plethora of chemical junk on hand just itching to ooze its way into your system the minute you take your first breath of intoxicating hospital air; a throng of attentive nursing staff fall over themselves to offer you an array of spectacular sunset cocktails brimming with copious quantities of opiates and anti-inflammatories – ‘Don’t let the pain get on top of you’ they admonish ‘You’re written up for a morphine pump if you’d like one’ – I smile wanly ‘Actually I’m…’ but they’d disappear in a breeze of bristling efficiency; enticing little jabs of blood-thinning formulae are administered into your abdomen…‘Just a sharp scratch, dear’ someone coos as you involuntarily double up, yanked out of the longed-for sleep you’ve only just managed to lure your bruised body and confused mind into; plus antibiotics, strong enough to foil the irrepressible MrsA as well as rendering your body so totally unpalatable that even the virulent Norwalk virus stalking the nearby side-ward is certain to give you a wide berth.

So this, plus the minor inconvenience of a bone-drilling discombobulating right knee job left me with a serious case of SBS. My dreams of uninterrupted days tap-tap-tapping away on the keyboard creating screeds of amusing, witty, thought provoking writing; those golden hours (no longer stolen) spent catching up with friends, both earthly and virtual; languidly lounging on the sofa, fire-warming, ice-pack-knee-soothing, with a coveted hoard of delicious books by my side; and, last but not least, the pressure of mounting paperwork eased away into insignificance – all a what-the-doctor-ordered-wrapped bonus. But alas, phut…my dreams all just disappeared!

Unable to string a coherent thought or sentence together, incapable of even opening one of my cherished books, I reverted to day-time-telly…yes, day-time-telly! But no, not even Trisha or Dave, Kyle or Judy could penetrate the hazy disconnectedness of my mind. I was a no-hoper.

But slowly, over the last few days and after drinking a reservoir of water I’m returning to some semblance of constructed thought…and myself. And, as my GP muttered and tutted whilst removing the dressings from my leg ‘You’re too clean. Your system. Too, too clean. Needs a bit of dirt…’ I’ll remember to face any other operation real, real dirty!

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