We spent today packing bags and delivering them to family around town because our kids are spending tomorrow night having sleepovers. Tracey and I will be away for night (me) or four (Tracey).
We had cuppas and, obviously, chatted about Tracey’s operation to remove her final stoma bag. Everyone is a bit excited and a little anxious.
Well, almost everyone.
Tomorrow, Tracey and I scoot down to Brisvegas and settle her into hospital.
If you asked me if I’m nervous about Tracey’s operation on Tuesday, I’d say I wasn’t.
My logic is if her surgeon, the great and powerful Dr Jason Brown, thought there was an unreasonable risk in this operation, he simply wouldn’t do it. Tracey would keep her bag and go on stinking up the house occasionally. Wouldn’t bother us at all. In fact, the leaky bags have given us more laughs than any of the comedies we’ve watched on the telly since she came home from hospital last Christmas.
So I’d say, with absolute sincerity, I wasn’t nervous.
But I’d also be lying.
I’m on edge. I’m easily annoyed. I’m sullen.
The kids are being exceptionally frustrating and I haven’t wanted to leave the house and mix with people.
And my eyes have started leaking again.
This is in stark contrast to Tracey.
“It’ll be fine,” she says whenever she thinks she catches me thinking about it. The ‘self medication’ this week has been a bit of a giveaway.
To be honest, Tracey’s been annoyingly blasé about the whole thing. Flippant even. If it wasn’t for me, I don’t think she’d dwell on it at all. Probably end up missing her appointment at the hospital and everything because it slipped her mind.
But the chance of her not having to change a bag every night or two, or risk a blowout whenever she bends or sits down, is a little bit wonderful. But this op? Tracey sees it as routine and simply another hurdle on her way to full recovery.
“It’s nothing,” she said to her Mum and sister today. “And if I’m not back by the end of next week, I’ll see you at Charmaine Wilson.” You don’t know who she is? Look her up. Guarantee, despite the inference, you’ll laugh. “On the bright side, I’ll get in for free.”
How are you supposed to stay a little bit miserable when there’s that sort of an attitude coming back at you?
8:25am Tracey called to let me know about her night. She hasn’t slept at all. Wants me to put off coming in so she can nap.
10:20am Arrived at hospital, intending to sit in a waiting room. Poked my head around the curtain to check on Tracey and she looked very peaceful – playing Hay Day. Her excuse? “The crops aren’t going to harvest themselves.”
10:25am Nothing is going the way I thought it would today. Firstly, Tracey’s op has been bumped to after lunch – although I must say it’s nice to not be considered urgent. Secondly, Tracey’s spent the night prepping for her op and it was awful. Not for her, though, because it’s all come out her bag instead of her bum. It’s so unfair because I was looking forward to her finally knowing how horrible it is for me before a colonoscopy.
10:35am Tracey asked me to look after her ring. Given my track record, though, I don’t know I’m the man for the job. A nurse just walked in, saw it and said, “She’s trusting you with it, is she?”
The latest Tracey Updates.
Raising a family on little more than laughs
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