Pond life

 So how's your 2020 going so far? Yeah, same here. 

Thankfully I have been able to continue working throughout lockdown(s) but Mr WithaY has had pretty much everything he does cancelled since February. On the plus side, the dog gets longer walks and the garden has had loads of work done on it.

We have a pond now. Get us. 

We built it last year just in time for our 25th wedding anniversary party, and peopled it (fished it?) with five little koi carp, each about 3 inches long.  

They seemed happy, as much as you can ever tell with fish. Ate their food, swam about, sometimes did acrobatic leaps out of the water for no apparent reason. 

And then, one day, the pond was much less peopled (fished?)  Only one of the five was visible, and he seemed nervous. As if some huge winged predator has swooped in and eaten all his mates. We kept a close eye on things for a week or so, until we had to accept that some bastard bird had been at the fish.

The four missing fish were replaced - the replacements were all about 5 inches long.  The remaining survivor had grown and we didn't want him to bully the newcomers.

All was well. The new fish settled in, the old fish joined in all their antics* and we enjoyed seeing them at feeding time, when they all poked their little noses out of the water for food.

There was an exciting event one hot afternoon when Mr WithaY glanced out of a window to see what he thought was a scrap of plastic flapping about on the gravel around the pond. 

He realised after a few moments that it was not plastic at all, but one of the fish, who'd jumped about in a frolicking manner and fucked it up so badly that he'd landed completely out of the water. 

He** was scooped up and dropped back into the water, apparently unharmed and with a good story to tell his mates.

The original water fountain thing we installed has been replaced with a much larger waterfall, attached to a filter and UV light source to keep the water clean, so we can now see the fish much more clearly.

Unfortunately, so can the herons who live on the nearby river.

A juvenile heron started hanging about, landing on the edge of the pond one day until chased away by Mr WithaY, who immediately found all the fruit netting that used to protect the raspberry bushes from next-door's chickens*** and covered the pond with it. He then found sticks and string to build a complex anti-heron system guaranteed to prevent any fish stealing.

I ordered two large fake herons online (I love the Internet) which stand guard around the pond, probably traumatising the fish every time they look up.

Herons are surprisingly large, and seemingly fearless. If it landed on the back fence, the better to eye up fish for snacking purposes, I would open the back door and try to chase it away. 

It would look at me, clearly thinking "Oh yeah? Come on then, Spartacus," and not move until I was within 3 feet of it. Then it would flap its giant pterodactyl wings and bugger off a few yards into a nearby tree to watch from there. 

This went on for about two weeks, Mr WithaY and I taking turns to "chase" the heron off the fence. The dog refused point blank to go near it, obviously realising that her small soft snout was no match for a massive dagger of a bastard bird beak. 

Finally, having rejigged the pond netting and moved the fake herons around several times, the thing which put it off coming back seems to be the rotary clothesline. I think maybe it takes up valuable flapping space, or limits the amount of landing space or something.

Anyway, the heron seems to have moved to a neighbour's garden (and pond) where he avoids limited space issues by landing on the land outside and sauntering in through their gate.

Other news: Still enjoying my job, still buying far more books than anyone realistically needs.

Our planned road trip to France to visit mother-in-law WithaY had to be cancelled, so we're going to try and arrange something next year instead. All dependent on The Situation, of course.

I've been able to see my lovely sisters a couple of times over the summer but pretty much only in the garden, or in very very small groups, so no family get-togethers, which is sad. Yes, I know that the curtailing of family social events is a very small price to pay, and if that's the worst I have to deal with, then yay, but even so. I miss seeing everyone.

Dog walks have been remarkably sociable, because when you run into a neighbour walking their dog in a field you can stand two metres apart and have a conversation. 

The village pub has been doing its best to stay open, but we haven't ventured in. In fact, apart from work, I think the only places I've been since February are the hairdresser (once), the supermarket, and a fabric shop in Salisbury (once).  I found that so stressful that I've been buying dressmaking supplies online. 

And the petrol station, but only about once a month instead of every two weeks or so.

Life is odd. However, Mr WithaY are both healthy, as are all our families, so we are counting our blessings.

I'm very aware that I am in a slightly higher-risk category due to age, fatness and being female, so I have been perhaps more cautious than some. The winter will be interesting.

I have mastered the fine art of dough cookery! I can now make bread, Chelsea buns and Lardy cake. Hurrah. Also Chinese steamed buns, and wontons, although I bought the wonton wrappers for those.  

Chin up, best foot forward, nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel etcetera etcetera etcetera.

Oh, and today (or tomorrow) hopefully the US election results will be announced and (fingers crossed) at least one part of 2020 will start to feel more positive. 

*swimming, mostly

**The fish. Mr WithaY is too big to scoop.

***No, it really didn't.

Surgical intervention

Before I begin, I want to make it clear that I am well aware how fortunate I am to be living in a place and at a time where (a) surgery is a viable option for so many medical conditions and (b) it is unlikely to involve buckets of boiling tar.

At no point in my story do I have to bite down in a piece of wood, leather or bone, or quaff home-made moonshine in an attempt to reduce the agonising pain.

There is no sawdust.

As I mentioned in a previous post I was on the waiting list for surgery - gall bladder removal - and was sent to Salisbury Hospital for my pre-op back in September (2018.)  According to their website, there's an 18-week waiting time for surgery, so I assumed that I was due to be called up fairly soon. When they do the pre-op they take MRSA swabs, for one thing, which have to be re-done after a few weeks, so it seemed likely that my operation was scheduled within the next few weeks. 

I asked the surgeon whether I was likely to be seen before Christmas, and she said oh gosh no. I was pleased, as work gets very busy around Christmas, so taking time off then would have been inconvenient.

Christmas came and went.

January (2019) came and went.

At the end of January I worked out that the 18-week waiting period was almost over, so I rang the hospital to find out when I was going to be called in.

The helpful receptionist checked and told me that there's an 8-MONTH wait for this surgery, placing my operation slap bang in the middle of May.  Which is when Mr WithaY and I were planning on being on holiday in Uzbekistan, celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary.

Well, bollocks.

The holiday was booked and paid for over the Christmas holiday, as we had (foolishly) assumed that the 18-week hospital wait was realistic, and that I'd have been operated on and fully recovered in plenty of time by May.

To add a delightful frisson of pressure, we were booked on the last possible trip for that year, as it gets too hot to travel after then.  No opportunity to reschedule except to 2020.

I rang the doctor to ask if there was any way to speed things up, given that I had been waiting for months, and she advised that we start the whole process again, but selecting a different hospital to Salisbury "as it has a really long waiting list for elective surgery." 

Given that originally I was told that I could pick either Bath RUH or Salisbury, it came as a revelation to learn that in fact there are multiple available hospitals, some with much shorter waiting times.  Live and learn.

I also contacted the Circle Hospital in Bath to find out how it might work as a private patient.  Several friends and neighbours have been there for surgery and had very positive things to say about it, and I thought there was no harm finding out what all the options were.  The answer came that it was going to cost almost five grand, BUT that the waiting time was in weeks not months.

And the reason for this unseemly haste, other than the increasing frequency and severity of my gallstone attacks (biliary colic, look it up, it's fucking excruciating) was that there must be a window of minimum elapsed time after surgery otherwise your travel insurance is not valid.

That window for me closed at the end of February.

After a lot of checking available options, calculating timescales and considering worst case scenarios, we decided to bite the bullet, opt for the private hospital, and pay for surgery. It was the only way to ensure the operation took place outside of the insurance-invalidation window, thus allowing our booked and paid-for holiday to go ahead.

I met the surgeon - charming and reassuring - and was told my operation should be "very low-risk" and would take place within a couple of weeks. He commented that the only possible risk was linked to the fact that I am overweight ("but you are very tall as well.")  All my stats were normal, so there really shouldn't be anything to worry about. Hurrah.

I went back a few days later for my pre-op appointment, having already filled in and posted back all the forms they sent me - height, weight, next of kin, allergies etc etc etc.

The nurse who carried out the pre-op checks hadn't received my paperwork but she said there would be no problem, I could just quickly re-do the form - height, weight, next of kin, allergies etc etc etc - which I did while she sorted out the blood tests and MRSA swabs.

As I sat there waiting to be told I could leave, she announced "The only issue is that the anaesthetist might refuse - the hospital doesn't operate on anyone who has a BMI of over 45."

Say WHAT?

"Are you telling me that they might refuse to operate one me? But the surgeon said I was really low risk!"

"Ah but it isn't up to the surgeon. If the anaesthetist thinks it's too dangerous they can prevent the operation."

I was, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking mortified.  The surgeon had specifically commented on my weight, and then assured me that there wouldn't be a problem because my general health was very good.

The nurse finished her paperwork and cheerfully said "We'll let you know on Friday." And I was out into the cold, cold snow, appalled that after all that, I STILL  might not get my operation.

Friday came, I rang the hospital, spoke to one of the senior nursing staff and was told that yes, everything was ok, I would be operated on the following Wednesday.  No, no problems at all, see you then, bring the five grand with you.

Hurrah!  Finally we could relax, and start thinking about the holiday in a more positive way.

BUT.  WAIT. On Tuesday evening Mr WithaY and I were preparing to go out for dinner with some friends when the phone rang.

It was the senior ward sister from the Bath hospital, calling to apologise "but the anaesthetist is not prepared to go ahead with your operation tomorrow, as you are too high risk."

What the actual fuck?

She explained that the hospital lacked the appropriate "hoists and lifting equipment" should there be a problem, and that the nursing staff were not able to cope with a giant freaky killer-whale sized person like me.  I was DISTRAUGHT.

She said there was the possibility of moving the operation to a different location in Bath on the same day, she would check and call me back.  Mr WithaY rang our friends to let them know we'd be a bit late, and I sobbed uncontrollably for 20 minutes.

Then I had a bit of a think.  I know I am overweight - I have been since I was about 22 - but I have NEVER been told that my BMI is so incredibly, dangerously high.  The BMI calculator I found online said that my BMI was high (in the fat bastard category, for sure) but not anywhere near 45, as stated by the pre-op check nurse.

So how did she arrive at that figure?  Why, dear reader, by calculating my BMI for my weight, but for a height of 5'1" rather than the statuesque 5'11" which I actually am.

Fuck's SAKE.

The senior ward sister rang back.  No, sorry, the other hospital wasn't scheduling surgery tomorrow.  I'd have to speak to the admin team and get a new date for my operation.

"Do you have my paperwork there?" I asked her, still a bit sniffly.

Yes she did.

"And how tall does it say I am?"

She checked.  "154cm, so 5'1"."

"Well I'm actually 180cm tall - 5'11".  My BMI is significantly less than 45."

There was a long, very pregnant, pause, after which she apologised profusely, absolutely furious that:
(a) she'd been messed about
(b) I'd been messed about and
(c) she was going to have to go back to the anaesthetist and explain that they'd been messed about because one of the nursing team couldn't convert inches to centimeters.

We went out for dinner - our hosts politely declined to notice my swollen eyes and shiny red nose - and I was off to Bath the following morning for surgery.

All went well, I was released back into the wild the following day, made a full recovery, went to Uzbekistan in May as planned.  The only minor side-effect is that I have to eat meals at regular intervals or I get a hellish upset stomach. No skipping breakfast for me any more.

I'll talk about Uzbekistan another time.

And all this happened last year, but who's counting?