I actually have been.  I am now missing 8 inches of small bowel and several pounds of scar tissue, which has been dissolved.

All this happened on the 9th, this is the 24th and the first time I am strong enough to write.  I’ll tell you the occasionally horrific tale in small doses and will not post the photo of me with 25 staples holding my stomach together because it is awful.

Must be special medical staples?   Must be a special medical stapler?

No and again, no.

25 staples is quite a lot.

Picture it.

A hot theatre.  A tired surgeon who has just spent three hours taking out the trash.  He does three staples, starting at the top, fires the next one, nothing.  He checks the gun and because he is a surgeon, does not fire it experimentally in his face.

No staples.

Everyone looks at the junior doctor at the back of the room because they know he has a bicycle and the roads are being resurfaced all around for the Commonwealth games and many are shut.

The lad sets off for Rymans.

People look around the walls and whistle.  Enquiries are made about holiday plans.

The boy returns with a box of number eight staples.

Sadly the machine takes number elevens.

He leaves, the theatre grows hotter.  No whistling, everyone is picturing ice lollies or beer.

The lad returns with two boxes of elevens and a doughnut in his pocket, for later.

They haul me off for a few hours in high dependency, of which I recall nothing.

The surgeon removed scar tissue from my appendix scar, Christmas 1959.

I am now so old I qualify as archaeology.

But I am still here.

Thank you to everyone who emailed.


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