The appendix who ghosted me

Rambling about the past few weeks

I had emergency surgery two weeks ago for appendicitis. By the time I got to surgery, my appendix had burst, which made it a trickier thing all together. 14 days out of surgery and it’s still the thing I think about most of the time, so I’m writing this down in the hopes of getting it out of my head a little. Bear with me…

I went to A&E at lunchtime on a Thursday because my GP told me to. I’m a hypochondriac at the best of times, alert to my body in ways a person should not be, but even I thought he was overreacting. Maybe it was period pain, or gastritis, maybe it was just anxiety. Anxiety makes bodies do odd things all the time. It was none of these things, and my GP was spot on. My appendix, a tiny worm of an organ whose original purpose nobody seems to be 100% clear on, was angry. Angry enough that they kept me in overnight in case it got worse.

At 3pm the next day, my husband came to visit. Finding me in a lot of pain and barely able to walk, he went straight down to A&E, found the doctor who’d admitted me, and told him I’d not been operated on. I eventually had surgery at 4.30pm, after a junior doctor told me breezily my appendix wouldn’t have burst because “I wouldn’t be talking to him if it had.” I’d waited over 24 hours, most of which I spent alone. I didn’t see a doctor at all that day, apart from the surgeon who operated on me when I was unconscious.

A nice doctor I know told me by text that the drain coming out of my stomach meant my appendix had burst, something confirmed by the surgeon who visited me the next morning on rounds. I promptly had a panic attack, which I filmed, oddly enough. I’d never seen myself in the midst of one, and thought it might be interesting. It was emphatically not. A video of me pale, sweaty and shaking would never go viral.

Four days later, I was sent home with the parting words of the consultant ringing in my ears “you might get another infection and I’m only telling you this because people complain and then I have to do extra paperwork.”

Apart from this man, the doctors and nurses were really wonderful. Working their arses off in an NHS which is underfunded (https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-64190440.amp) and in crisis (https://www.bma.org.uk/advice-and-support/nhs-delivery-and-workforce/pressures/an-nhs-under-pressure). But if not for Greg pushing for a surgery update, and my mum who realised I hadn’t had the blood tests I was supposed to have (the request had gone to the wrong ward) I think things might have been much worse. Many people on my ward had no visitors and nobody to advocate for them at their most vulnerable, despite the nurses truly doing the best they could.

What’s the point of this? I don’t know. Something I feared the most happened (illness, emergency, surgery) and I guess I coped ok. People are so fucking kind it still makes me want to cry. Family, friends, strangers on Instagram who checked in constantly. Doctors and nurses I’ve never met who messaged me advice and put up with me messaging them back with stupid worries. If you were one of them, thank you. Truly it helped more than you know. The NHS worked, saved me, despite the wobbles. As I sweated away in the ward, I think I imagined I’d be different afterwards, ready to cope better with life after facing something I’d feared so much. But in truth, I feel like I’m made of glass now, liable to shatter the moment I walk out of the house. I’m sure this will dissipate as I recover, leaving the shock of it all in the past and regaining a hide made of something more durable but for now, I’m oddly fragile.

Convalescence is a funny thing. Your brain wants to get going and your body resists, and the two parts of you fight it out until inevitably, your body wins. There is a very good book called “Recovery, the lost art of convalescence” by Dr Gavin Francis, which I read a few years ago and picked up again this week. He writes “self compassion is a much underrated virtue, and the rhythms of modern live are often antithetical to those of recovery.” I’m lucky I don’t have to rush back to work, or juggle a young family. Instead I sit lie on the sofa like a consumptive character from olden times, and try to reassure myself it’s allowed.

I started this by saying I wasn’t sure there was a point to all this. I’ll end it by reluctantly conceding that I was right. I hoped by writing it down I’d find some lesson learned or be able to look back and see some sort of personal growth but alas! Apologies for the ramble, if you got this far, here are some recommendations:

To watch: I’ve started Sex Education far too late, but it’s immensely watchable if you’ve got nothing to do but lounge around. I also rewatched Ang Lee’s sense and sensibility, which I’ve watched 8 million times and quote in daily life constantly and in the wrong context. “Wearing her country fashions, I see.”

To read: I’m going through Charles Booth’s London poverty maps, which tell the story of the city in a fascinating and comprehensive way.

And my amazing friend Rebecca Nicholson who does a lot of brilliant tv reviews for the guardian now has her own Substack called the zapper which you should subscribe to -

Skip it real good

Here’s a story about a dog farting on a plane - https://www.independent.co.uk/travel/news-and-advice/couple-flight-refund-farting-dog-singapore-airlines-b2408949.html

To buy - I’m only buying second hand now. Instagram pals kindly gave me their recommended sites -