F is for faint

It's D day. Or rather H day. Hospital. I feel curiously indifferent. I've been here before so my expectations are low.

I start to feel a little edgy as I walk through the disinfected green corridors the colour of pain. A nurse checks me in and attaches my plastic bracelet. Thankfully I am near the top of the list and I only have to wait for half an hour before my name is called. I change into my gown and I'm wheeled to theatre by a tiny but hard as nails Scottish nurse. We chat about Liz Hurley's wedding pictures that I've just been scrutinizing (we agree the dress is too much of a meringue. Money doesn't necessarily buy you good taste she tells me).

I'm wired up to endless machines and Dr M arrives all calmness and smiles. He begins by injecting local anaesthetic to numb my skin. He's already told me that he could puncture my lung, so I'm concentrating on lying VERY still. The procedure doesn't take long - it's uncomfortable and slightly painful but nowhere near as bad as last time. As soon as he's finished I perform my usual trick of trying to faint and I have to wait for my blood pressure to stabilise for 20 minutes. My left arm has gone weirdly limp and translucent - apparently this is good. I'm reassured that I will only look like an extra from Star Trek temporarily. I'm hooked up to a drip and wheeled back onto the ward.

X sits by me and holds my hand, chin resting on the metal rails at the side of my bed. "It's all rock and roll with me" I tell him "You don't get crazy Friday afternoons with just any girl you know". He smiles, puts socks on my cold feet and leaves me to sleep whilst going in search of magazines.

After waiting for the drip to run through for an hour, the obligatory tea and toast and double checking that I'm not going to keel over, I'm discharged.

Back home I try sitting on the sofa but Dolores is wailing like a banshee and I have to retire to bed. I lie with tears streaming down my face, terrified that I have aggravated rather than erased her. I take lots of drugs and drift into a light sleep. I come round in the dark of early evening and distract myself listening to Pete Tong.

I call home to see how my Grandma is - she's been in hospital today too but the news is positive. Her consultant told her she must keep drinking to stay hydrated - "Does that include red wine?" was her first question. That's my girl.

I get up around 9pm but there's no sign of Dolores. Not even a squeak. Nothing. I daren't say anything out loud in case I break the spell.

Katy

(Fact or fiction?)