“Er, no …” I responded, somewhat alarmed.
“I usually have them removed under a
general anaesthetic.”
The surgeon asked me why I needed to
have a general anaesthetic! I was
dumbfounded. At this point, obviously
seeing my look of panic, the registrar came
to my rescue and suggested to the surgeon
that with so many excisions to be performed,
the effects and levels of the local
anaesthetics would probably wear off and
perhaps be too risky, and therefore a
general would be advisable. The surgeon
rather grudgingly agreed as he took his
leave. Soon after, the registrar popped back
in and with a sympathetic look suggested
that I mark-up my ‘top ten’ lipomas.
Around 11am, my care nurse reappeared
with a pair of compression stockings, a
couple of plastic identity tags and a syringe
containing a blood-thinning agent that the
surgeon was keen for all his patients to have
administered before surgery. This was duly
injected into my abdomen. Ouch! Since the
surgery would be performed on my
forearms, the ID tags were attached around
my ankles, over my fetching sage-green
compression stockings. And then I waited.
And waited. And waited.
And then I had some more visitors: a
succession of third-year medical students.
Word had obviously spread, as it always
seems to do whenever I go into hospital for
the surgery: “We’ve got a Dercum’s sufferer
just come in. Quite rare, but a perfect textbook case. You’ve got to go and see him...”
They asked me loads of questions about the
male side of my family’s genetic predisposition, and they positively jumped at
the opportunity when I offered them the
chance to examine my lumps. After they left,
another young woman appeared.
“Oh! Hello! Are you a third-year too?” I
enquired.
No! She was a qualified junior doctor who’d
come to supervise a third-year taking some
‘bloods’ for testing.
It was now around 12.30pm, when finally my
care nurse appeared to escort me on foot to
the operating theatre. Surely, they wouldn’t
expect me to walk back again after the op,
would they? Anyway, I hopped up onto the
surgical table thingy, while a team of four
theatre staff readied me for the surgery. I
recognised at least three of the staff as
having been among my earlier visitors.
“Oh dear! You’ve got rather wriggly veins”,
exclaimed one as she tried unsuccessfully
to insert a cannula into a vein on the back of
my left hand. “Let’s see if we can do any
better in the other hand …”
Yes, but only after another failed attempt.
“I think we’ll just give you the sedative to get
you off to sleep, and then we’ll put a cannula
in your foot for the operation”.
I came round, back in my cubicle and still on
the operating trolley thingy. Well at least I
didn’t have to walk back … After a bit of a
doze, I finally came fully awake and looked
at the wall-mounted clock. 2.45pm.
“Ah, you’re awake” said my care nurse.
“How are you feeling?”
“Rather sore. I could do with some pain
relief, please.”
“Yes, well you’ve got quite a few dressings
on you, I see. I’ll get you something.”
Time ticked on. Throb, throb, throb. The
cannula in my foot was feeling just as
uncomfortable as the ten stitched incisions
on my arms and stomach. Where was that
pain relief?
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