I was up and breakfasting at six thirty this morning, then preparing a hospital bag for my surgery appointment this afternoon. Then at ten fifteen I walked to St John's to celebrate the Eucharist with half a dozen regulars. Clare arrived early while I was drinking tea afterwards, nervous about traffic congestion on the drive to Llandough hospital by midday. We set out early enough to visit Penarth Tesco filling station en route, as the car announced it was running low on fuel. Even then, I checked in a quarter of an hour early, and began the wait.
After getting undressed, I went through the routine interrogations with two nurses and then a houseman, who asked what I had last had to drink. I mentioned the cuppa I had at St John's and he frowned, and disappeared to check with something. He returned with bad news. The op had been vetoed by the anaesthetist as there was not enough time before the end of the afternoon's procedures for the tiny amount of skimmed milk I'd ingested to be digested.
Being in no position either to question or understand the clinical science behind this decision and knowing how risk averse they have to be, it was a matter of accepting that in one thoughtless moment I'd screwed up.
I was upset with myself and feeling desperate, but a few moments later, Mrs Cornish the surgeon came on to the ward, and spoke with me before I left. She agreed it was bad luck, especially as I've been dairy free for a year. She graciously undertook to book me in for her next surgical session on the 19th, two weeks today, the 50th anniversary of my diaconal ordination as it happens.
I took the bus back and walked home from the stop near Ninian Park station. Clare had just started lunch when I arrived, and she'd cooked for me, thanks to my message from the hospital. And now I have to endure the humiliation of telling everyone who is likely to ask how the op went what an old fool I've been. At least the sun shone when I went out for a walk along the Taff late afternoon.
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