So for the last twenty minutes I have been procrastinating by watching 2 wood pigeons trying to fuck the life out of each other on my shed roof. Ahh if only life was that simple, eating berries, banging other pigeons, shitting on statues and avoiding teenagers with airguns. Good times
I had another shite nights sleep last night thanks mainly to these awful reoccurring nightmares I seem to be having where I’m having surgery and either something goes tits up and I die or they open me up and tell me I have some kind of horrendous terminal disease. I do love my subconscious self, constantly trying to fuck me over. I then woke up with what seems to be becoming more and more frequent abdominal pain, right where my stricture is. Hrrmmm not so good me thinks. However, I would find it fantastically amazing if my body decides to hold its self together until the surgery, I’ll even chip in with less drinking and eating shit.
To be honest though I am far from looking forward to the surgery, I mean I know it’s going to make me better and improve my day to day life but I definitely am not looking forward to actually being cut open on a fucking table. Nowadays with modern technology and medicine, this kind of surgery is routine for hospitals, not for me though, it’s about as routine for me as me shitting in the queens handbag as a jubilee present. I know that realistically there are miniscule chances of me dying on the table in the operating theatre, but I’d rather acknowledge the risk and prepare for it. As the old saying goes, “Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst”. I mean saying that, the drugs I’m on now, some of them carry a real risk of serious side effects from lymphatic cancers to serious irreparable nerve damage that can cause MS, but the benefits outweigh the risks. The fact is that these drugs keep me (relatively) symptom free until this utter wanksock of a stricture turned up, which unfortunately due to its size and location it can only be dealt with via surgery.
However, getting past all the being cut open malarkey which I think I can deal with, we come to my next issue. As a result of this unavoidable surgery, I am going to have a fucking bag attached to me for the rest of my life, an ileostomy. To say that I am less than impressed is a massive fucking understatement, I think in fact, I would rather be thrown to a troop of raging horny gibbons who’s morning fruit had been spiked with Viagra than have it done. BUT I keep telling myself that it’s going to improve my quality of life and once I can wrap my head round that fact I think I’ll be able to accept it more. Hundreds of people have the same operation every year but I still feel like I’m being hard done by and cheated out of a normal life, but at the same time, I’m now in the mindset where I just want the fucking whole episode over and done with so I can start trying to claw back some form of normality with everything from getting a job, to going out with mates. So the sooner this surgery is over and done with the better.
Remember, it could always be worse 😛