We arrive in the dark, wheelie case in tow, and fail to find the right entrance. We find ourselves at the locked door to the operating theatre, and I realise I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go. Pulling my hand luggage sized case after me, I allow myself to fantasise that we are heading to foreign climes rather than wandering around lost in an unfamiliar hospital, unsure of where we are meant to be.

I faff around searching for a letter on my phone, feeling the panic rising in my chest, when it dawns on me that it won’t really matter if I am a few minutes late for my admission. It’s 7am, too early for the surgeons anyway, and they will wait.

Eventually we find the right place and I am taken down quickly. ‘Put these on, you’re top of the list so you’ll be going down first, the surgeon will be down soon.’ We exchange a look that acknowledges the sudden, stark realness of the situation and I momentarily lose my composure. ‘It’s scary isn’t it?’ – we hug and shed a tear.

Before I know it, the surgeon is there, polite and professional, marking my torso with what appears to be a sharpie. Once he’s finished with me, I have so many criss crossing lines, that it’s hard not to feel as if I am about to be butchered. Along with the nagging feeling that I am being processed, comes a strange calm, as my fears about dying on the operating table dissipate and I slowly realise that everything is going to be okay. I pull on my surgical stockings, don the hospital dressing gown and no slip socks and before I know it, it is time. We walk down to the operating theatre once more and with a hug, a backwards glance, and a wink at Nick, I am shepherded into a brightly lit room.

A team of friendly faces greet me and I am told to lie on the operating table which is pleasantly and unexpectedly warm. People busy around me, a kindly woman smiles at me when she notices my anxiety, and I am made ready. In some ways it is such a relief after so many weeks of anticipation – this is it, it’s finally happening. The faces are now surrounding me as I lie looking up at them and I realise they are waiting for me to fall asleep.

‘Are you feeling lightheaded?’

‘Nope’, and then more expectant smiles, some talk and finally darkness.

I wake up slowly, relieved that I am still here, knowing that the hardest part is over. In the weeks leading up to my operation, I couldn’t shake the idea that I might not wake up, and the thought that I could die under anaesthetic, however unlikely, haunted me. How would I even know I was dead? I recognise that my need for control meant that I would have been happier having an epidural, just so that I could be party to what was going on. I didn’t like the idea that people would be making such major changes to my body whilst I was unconscious, I wanted to know exactly what they were doing and how they were doing it.

A wonderful nurse eased me back towards full consciousness by engaging me in deep conversation about what I was now going to do with the rest of my life. ‘I’m the same age as you, and my moment came with working through covid. You’d turn people over and then they’d die ten minutes later. I’d never seen anything like it. I used to be a band 7, full time and now I’m a band 5, 3 days a week’. I was so grateful that he’d made that choice – he was clearly in exactly the right job. ‘Erm..write? Ride my bike more? Maybe I’ll finally get that novel done’. A moment of profundity that I will never forget.

The following days pass in a bit of a blur. ‘You’ll feel awful and you’ll probably faint when you get out of bed’, (I knew I wouldn’t, and I didn’t). A couple of days after my surgery a student doctor asks me to sign a form giving my consent for them to use the photos they took during my operation as a teaching aid, ‘Only if I’m allowed to see them as well’. She thinks I am joking.

Nick, my love and my rock, stays near by and faithfully appears every morning, bearing food and the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. We manage to snuggle up together on my hospital bed and I treasure the normality of the moment. I understand that my recent exercise in confronting impermanence means that the shit times will also pass. One day all of this will be behind me.