Hernia op all done

Many of you will have found out, directly or indirectly, that my hernia operation went successfully yesterday.

I didn’t get much sleep last night. The wound made it difficult to push myself up the bed far enough so that my feet weren’t pressing against the end of the bed. Fortunately it was possible to raise the middle of the bed independently of the top section. This raised my knees a bit, which took a lot of pressure off the feet. By the time I fiddled around with this, however, I had woken up, so I had to go through all the business of sitting up again. Laughing was the worst thing for the wound — I had to press on the wound site to avoid straining it too much. (Of course, trying not to laugh at something that is bloody funny is next to impossible.)

I felt a lot better after breakfast this morning, and was able to get up, shower, and dress myself independently. (These always seem like major achievements after surgery!) Kudos to the nursing staff at Knox Private Hospital, who were kind and attentive. I was sent home with painkillers and anti-inflammatories, and strict instructions not to lift anything much, or strain the site in general. Today when I stand up, the wound is a bit painful. When sitting I can still feel it, but there is only a mild discomfort.

Fortunately I had taken in a few things with which entertain myself. Among these was Night letters, by Robert Dessaix. I hadn’t read this since it came out in 1996. It had a lot of extra resonances for me this time through. I gather it was written after his diagnosis as HIV positive. (Fortunately his Wikipedia entry only has a birthdate after his name, so I gather he is still with us.) Dessaix vividly describes how receiving a diagnosis of a serious medical condition throws one’s values and plans into disarray.

One of the nurses was interested in it. I tried to explain that the book purports to be a series of letters written by a character strongly resembling Robert Dessaix, who is travelling through Italy and Switzerland after receiving a life-changing diagnosis. Night letters is both an epistolary novel and a memoir, and a great example of both genres. It has some playful mock-academic apparatus in the form of a “translator’s” foreword, and three lots of end-notes. If this all sounds bit drearily post-modern, have no fear — the narrative pulse beats strongly throughout.

My tablet is running out of charge, so I am going to press “Publish”.

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