Very nice what there was of it

Well, it has been quite some fortnight.

Not last Thursday but the one before, I had exercise class as usual at 11.30. My beloved came to lunch afterwards with a couple of the guys. After this I drove us to the first in-person meeting of our book group at 2.00 pm. The latter was a rather sombre affair in that we were all masked, and spread out around a large U-shaped table. Afternoon tea, which used to follow the meeting, was cancelled on health grounds. In spite of these rather no-fun aspects, and the fact that most people (including me) hated the most recent book, it was a really good discussion.

The real drawback was that the book kit for the March meeting was not waiting for us at the library as usual. Meetings of the book group take place at a community centre, which also houses a branch of the library service. Normally, at each meeting, someone picks up next month’s books before each meeting. These copies can then be distributed at the meeting. The fact that this arrangement had fallen through made the distribution of the March book much more of a hassle — see below.

The day or so after the meeting the book kit was sent to the branch, whence I collected it. I had hoped that group members could pick up their copy individually, but this wasn’t possible. Book group kits are only loaned out in one transaction to the authorised person, i.e. me. Rather than make everyone come to our place to pick up their copy, I undertook to distribute them all the following week. I notified everyone of the date and approximate time of the the drop-off. When the appointed day rolled around I entered everyone’s address in the satnav of the GT, and set off on a mini-trek around the eastern suburbs of Melbourne.

It was a hot day again — thankfully, the air conditioning was working fine. The satnav turned out to have a handy feature by which one could sort addresses by their distance from one’s current location. This made dropping the copies off considerably more efficient. Even so, with Melbourne’s traffic, it took a few hours to distribute eight copies. I did stop for a chocolate ice-cream at mid-morning. This turned out to be a very generously-filled single cone, and gave me quite a boost. All except one person was at home, and everyone was thankful for the delivery. (I should add that my beloved, and another group member, had gone through the same exercise a couple of times last year.) Everyone just hopes normal service resumes from the March meeting onwards.

The following Sunday was a 4.00 pm performance of Das Rheingold, at the Capitol Theatre in Melbourne. This was the first opera that had been staged in Melbourne since lockdown began last March or so. (I crossed my fingers when I booked the tickets for this late last year.) Good on Melbourne Opera for giving it a red-hot go! For anyone interested, they are planning to do the whole Ring cycle over the next four years. After the performance, one of my oldest buddies (a fellow Wagner tragic), my beloved and I repaired to Southgate for a Chinese feed. Like the opera, this repast had a strong finish, in the form of deep-fried ice-cream. I think I have eaten more ice-cream in the last seven days than I did during the whole of 2020!

The only downside of the outing was that, on our way home, the headlights of the faithful Camry seemed occasionally to go a bit dim. I dropped it off at the garage the following week for a checkup. This found a fault with the alternator, requiring a replacement unit to be fitted. Given that the car is 17 years old, one has to expect that things will need replacing from time to time. Fortunately, this operation will not be affected by the latest lockdown — garages are considered an essential service. I am just glad that these two excursions are all done and dusted before we are all confined to barracks again.

This morning I awoke a bit before seven — a real lie-in for me. We were running short of some essential supplies, so I grabbed a coffee and a piece of toast, and whizzed out to the supermarket. This turned out to be a good time to go — there were only a few cars in the car park when I arrived. Some shelves looked a bit depleted, but not many. Everyone knows the drill by now! Keep calm and go shopping — in whatever form this exercise is possible.

Carry on in remission

We saw Dr P this morning. The news wasn’t great, on the face of it: the PSA is up from 2.3 to 3.7. However, Dr P continues to be happy with where I’m at. He referred to the scans I had had in December, which showed neither “clear evidence of bony metastatic disease”, nor indication of “local soft tissue recurrence”. He said while the PSA scores showed that there was something going on biologically, I was still in remission radiologically. He wants me to have scans now every three months, adding “I’m probably just being paranoid”. (He can be as paranoid as he likes as far as we’re concerned!) He doesn’t intend to change the treatment I’m on until something shows up on the scans.

As Dr P pointed out, we have been coming to see him for three years now, something that surprised us. During this period I have had adjunct chemotherapy and hormone treatment — the latter of which is continuing — and spent two years in remission, i.e. with an undetectable PSA score. It was welcome news to me also that I remained in any kind of remission — I thought this had finished when my PSA score started climbing. Being in remission doesn’t change anything, of course, it just makes me feel that bit better. Physically I still feel fine, thanks to the exercise classes and lots of walking.

The last lot of scans was bulk billed, so the only drawback of having more is the time required. There is a gap of an hour or two between the two scans. By the time you arrive, get prepped, have scan #1, then wait until you can have scan #2, the day has a fair sized hole in it. Last time I came home for lunch during the gap. Next time, however, I will just walk up to Whitehorse Road, buy a sandwich, and go and sit in the park across the road from the hospital. If it is a hot day I will renew my community membership in the RSL and have lunch there — the food is pretty good, and they even have a senior special menu!

A glimpse of eternity

To the Finnish composer Rautavaara, “music is great if, at some moment, the listener catches ‘a glimpse of eternity through the window of time’”. I heard this comment a short time ago on ABC Classic before they broadcast his Missa a capella, an extremely beautiful and tranquil work. This comment crystallised a few thoughts I have been having recently about music.

For many people, classical music means music that is calming and zones them out. Everyone will have their favourite pieces that do it for them. Works that come to mind for me are mostly slow movements: those of the “Emperor” concerto and the Seventh and Ninth Symphonies of Beethoven, the Piano Concerto no. 21, K.467, of Mozart, the piano concertos of Brahms, and so on. Piano concertos figure a lot in my list, but the experience can come from any type or genre of music. ABC Classic had a regular segment in its morning programs, which they named Swoon, for music of this kind.

Musical works that make time stand still like these have an obviously calming and slowing-down effect. There is something more subliminal that is going on as well. Moments like the examples I have listed are also moments of community: what used to be called togetherness. Like tapestries, music is made by groups. Whether you are an instrumentalist or a singer, your contribution is a strand in the fabric.

In times of anxiety and isolation, like the year we have all just had, music can remind us what cohesion is like. But to be part of the ensemble, you have to be able to play or sing your line. Making music can lift you a mile high. Wanting to be part of the magic, and being unable to do, so can leave you feeling lonely and ashamed.

This came to mind recently in a scene from the wonderful series Unorthodox (currently on Netflix). Esther (Etsy) has had a sheltered upbringing in an ultra-orthodox Jewish community in Williamsburg, New York. Her marriage to another member of this community doesn’t work out, and she travels to Berlin to track down her mother. Before she manages to contact her mother, she wanders into a conservatorium, where she is befriended by a group of students. Etsy learns that the conservatorium has scholarships for students from disadvantaged backgrounds, and applies for one to study piano. Before her audition, her new friends inveigle her into playing something for them. When she does, it clear that she is nowhere near the standard required to enter the conservatorium. She is so far behind, she will never catch up. One of the students tells her this, plainly. Life as a musician will obviously be impossible for Etsy. Worse, she will not be part of a group which accepts and likes her. Etsy is shattered, and flees to consider what options might remain to her.

Those who know me will know I learned the cello for about ten years. I decided to stop, for a range of reasons, a few years ago. The years I spent learning the cello gave me a taste of both the highs and lows of making music. Because I started so late, and for other reasons, the former experiences were much less frequent than the latter. Over the years of struggle, I fell out of love with the instrument. Deciding to stop was like realising that a marriage or relationship you were in was just not going to give you what you wanted — no matter how long you have persevered with it.

People I talked to about my struggles with the cello would say “Can’t you just enjoy your playing?”. But no-one can enjoy doing something badly, with no realistic prospect of doing it better. Like Etsy, I realised I would never catch up. A professional musician’s performance sits atop a mountain of grinding, repetitious, incessant practice. And once you reach this rarefied altitude, you need to practice to stay there. After I sold my cello, I used to console myself with Groucho Marx’s comment that he wouldn’t want to be a member of a club that would admit him.

Everything implies its opposite. There are no sweet harmonies without dissonant ones. The company of those we love is doubly delightful to one who has experienced loneliness and rejection. Without those times when the universe seems a bleak place, music would never open its window for us. For those in the cheap seats, their fingers twitching surreptitiously in time to the cascade of notes, eternity reserves a special place.

Best Xmas present yet!

I mentioned previously that I was scheduled to have a CT scan of the thorax, abdomen and pelvis and an isotope bone scan. These were done about a week ago. This morning we duly trooped off to Dr P to see what (if anything) these had revealed.

Basically, they found nothing new. To quote from the report, the bone scan found “[N]o clear evidence of bony metastatic disease”, and the CT scan found ” … no features at the level of the pelvis to suggest local soft tissue recurrence”. So, nothing to see here. The PSA has crawled up to 2.3, but Dr P wasn’t worried by that and said he was very happy with how I was going. I will continue on the Zolodex for the time being, depending on future tests. (I had another Zolodex as scheduled, after seeing Dr P.) Appointments were made to see the good doctor and for my Zolodex implant in March, 2021.

I will send this off now and rescue a load of washing from the machine! I hope everyone has a safe, unmemorable and uneventful Christmas.

Staying in touch

Yes, it’s Christmas again. As well as red bows around street trees, incessant carols in supermarkets, and gift catalogues, you know the season is under way when the first Christmas card appears in the letterbox.

In earlier decades, my intolerant, black-and-white younger self couldn’t see the point of sending a bunch of cards each year. Either you’re in touch with someone anyway, I thought, or you’re not. If you’re not, sending them a card every year isn’t much of a substitute.

It’s a mark of maturity (or selling out, whichever you prefer) that the annual ritual starts to make sense. Some people that you would like to be in more frequent contact with are just not close enough at hand for that to happen. As those people get older, as well, they acquire families and other appurtenances that push everyone else into second or third place. This is all inevitable and just the way things are. So getting a card each year provides that particle of reassurance that someone is thinking of you, even though you haven’t spoken to or laid eyes on that person for a while.

Australians move house, on average, every seven years. Our increasing mobility, new communications technologies, and the increasing demands of paid work all contribute to the fragmentation of relationships. (Recent events like a couple of bouts of lockdown only amplify this tendency.) The absence of social connections has been identified as a risk factor for an impressive range of physical and psychological ailments. A few dozen cards on a mantelpiece, the top of a piano, or wherever signify that, in spite of all the things separating us from our families and pals, we remain socially plugged-in.

There is, of course, a reciprocal principle lurking not too far beneath the surface. As that great philosopher and baseball coach Yogi Berra remarked, “You don’t go to their funeral, they don’t come to yours”. So it is that my beloved and I gear up for the annual Christmas card sendathon.

Our modest effort pales by comparison with my parents’ yearly communication blitz. Writing their Christmas cards seemed to take them the best part of a day. The bridge table was set up, cards, envelopes and stamps stacked in piles, and a serious list was worked through. Names were culled, and others added when, after several years’ silence, these lurkers sent them a card. Of course every one of the cards Mum and Dad sent was hand written — none of this wimpy Christmas Letter stuff! (I must confess we have resorted to that for the last few years, family members excepted. I think of it as our Annual Report.)

Unlike HMQ, I don’t have a Christmas Message. (No offence, but I will know I am really past it when I start looking forward to that!) I just hope that everyone reading this gets what they want, not just on Christmas Day, but as often as possible. Not too much, of course — just now and then.

Post for 23 November 2020

I am pretty tired after an eventful morning, so I am just going to write the basics.

I saw Phillip P, my oncologist, this morning. The PSA has gone up slightly, now 1.4. (The previous reading was 0.5.) He said it is still very low, he is happy with how I am travelling at present, and that I shouldn’t worry. He is focused less on the quantum of the PSA than on the trajectory of the rise. A steep increase would be concerning, but a gentle increase like this is not. Nevertheless, he wrote me a referral for a couple of scans (CT and bone) to be conducted before our next appointment. These will reveal if there is any spread of the disease.

(After I came home from a walk this afternoon, I got a call from the scanning centre at Epworth Eastern. The scans are booked for 17 December. It is a convenient location in Box Hill, being where I go for the Zolodex implants. Speaking of which, the next consult with Dr P, and the next Zolodex, are booked in for 23rd of December. This is a bit better than the original appointment, which was scheduled for the 30th of that month. There are lots of places at which I would prefer to celebrate my birthday than a day oncology centre!)

Dr P was running quite behind, and I had a consult booked also later that morning with my GP. I did make the latter on time. Unfortunately, it was a bit jarring. After having discussed a few alternatives for sleeping tablets, he wrote me a couple of prescriptions for some new ones. I quizzed him to make sure I understood how I was to take them — alternating one with the other, or both at once — the latter was the case.

He then said I had had my fifteen minutes and I couldn’t have any more time. If I had further things on my list (which I did), I should have outlined them at the start. I did get one more prescription out of him, for the blood pressure medication. Anyway, I will be changing GPs. I get that medicos are stressed. They need to manage that stress, though, in ways that don’t involve taking it out on their patients.

Positive points to the day included sitting down in a cafe for a coffee after the GP consult — I needed a lift by then! Another was going to the local library, picking up my hold, and taking out a few other books as well. These were both things I had missed doing for most of this year (cafes and libraries having been closed in Melbourne). Op shops have re-opened as well, so things are really getting back to normal.

Last night I took out a monthly subscription to Netflix. This will allow us to watch some more episodes of Emily in Paris, previously mentioned, and a favourite of my beloved. We will also be able to bring ourselves up to date with The Crown. The Netflix Android app works well with the Chromecast, and we were able to switch on the closed captioning without difficulty. One can just renew the subscription monthly. Entertainment is welcome at present, particularly in the leadup to The Festering Season (as I grumpily think of it).

Broken out and washed up

My beloved and I returned on Thursday from a couple of nights away, which we spent in Daylesford.

The end of lockdown has brought an exodus from Melbourne into country Victoria. I wasn’t sure that we would get anything in the rush, even though we were going mid-week. We ended up with a place called Lake Orchard Villas. The main draw with this property was its location, walking distance from the lake. You could also, theoretically, walk to restaurants and shops on Vincent Street. This would have involved a couple of fair size hills, though, so I have to ‘fess up — we drove.

The villa had two bedrooms, a spa bath, and a kitchen. The last was essential in allowing us to make breakfast for my beloved, ensuring that she got at least one “safe” meal a day. Being weatherboard, it was all very charming in a Chekhovian sort of way. The only really startling thing was a whistling kettle. (The first time I boiled it, I thought I had set off a fire alarm.) There was even a bowl of chocolates, of which I had one. One could sit on a little balcony out the front, and there was a bigger area at the rear with a barbecue and a large dining table. We are planning to go again, when I will definitely be looking to fire up the BBQ one evening.

An unexpected feature of the place was Netflix. We watched several episodes of Emily in Paris, a rather anodyne series about a young American woman suddenly sent to Paris for her work. The whole thing is really an excuse for some gentle cross-cultural comedy, and to show off the leading lady’s wardrobe. (That of her boss, with whom she has a fractious relationship, isn’t bad either.) It is all quite fun and totally undemanding — just the thing for a holiday.

We returned on Thursday via Clunes and Ballarat (where a modest-looking restaurant yielded a cracking Chinese meal). The next day the dishwasher people arrived (early) to put in the new dishwasher. I had been a tad nervous about this. Old dishwashers tend to leak: if the guys removed the old one through our place, I could see the carpet getting stained. Fortunately they had a trolley with soft tyres, allowing the appliances to be brought in and taken out via the courtyard. Once up the steps, everything happened on a tiled floor.

The installation was mostly uneventful. The old dishwasher had started leaking, and this moisture was mopped up by the installers before putting in the new appliance. Dishwashers sit on adjustable feet; if these are jacked up, the gap which this creates underneath is hidden by a kick plate. The Siemens was not quite as high than the old Dishlex, so I had to choose between having a noticeable gap at the top (between the dishwasher and the underneath of the bench) or a bigger one underneath it. I chose to even them out and have some gap top and bottom. The new kick plate is a lot more recessed than the old one, and this exposes a grout line in the floor tiling that we had never seen before.

The kitchen floor is tiled in a diamond pattern. Underneath the cabinets, for some reason, this changes to a square grid pattern. The grout line from the second pattern is what is now exposed, along with a gap of 1.5 cm or so underneath the dishwasher. It is possible to have the old kickplate trimmed and fitted back underneath the dishwasher. That will mean that it matches the cabinet underneath the sink, but not the dishwasher door (which is stainless steel). Anyway, all these things can be fiddled with at our leisure. The installers ran a test load, and the Siemens is certainly incredibly quiet compared to the Dishlex, which used to groan, gurgle, and thump away.

I had a bad moment reading the warranty leaflet, which mentioned a factory warranty of two years. This was a surprise, as the store had advertised a five year warranty for this brand. I got on the blower to the salesman, who knew straightaway what I was ringing about. The leaflets are printed overseas, and reflect the warranty offered in other places. Siemens dishwashers in Australia have a five year warranty. He sent me an email to this effect so that I had it in writing.

Having taken what will probably be the last trip in the Camry, I read with interest a road test of a Mercedes Benz GLC 300 PHEV. (PHEV, as you will no doubt know, is a plug in hybrid electric vehicle.) This was the same model that we had hired over a year ago when I won sixth prize (!) in the 3MBS-FM radiothon. (That one, though, had a diesel engine.) The GLC is a big vehicle, to be sure, but I really enjoyed punting it around the Dandenongs for a day. $80,000-odd is out of our range, though, so we will probably end up with another Camry. The last one is still going strong after sixteen years, just getting a bit elderly and cranky — like one of its owners.

Rest & recovery

When I started writing this post, I was trying to remember when I had had the hernia operation. According to an email message in my inbox, this took place on 9 October. I came home the following day. By now I am therefore well past the four week mark in my recovery. According to what the nurse told me, I have a couple of weeks to go.

The wound site was never really painful, and over the last few weeks has become gradually much less sensitive. It was always a bit worse in the evenings, when I generally felt more crummy. Now I am only conscious of the wound if I do something it doesn’t like. Yesterday was one of those days.

Sweeping the courtyard was one of the jobs I had been putting off. This procrastination isn’t unusual for me, but in this case I was conscious of all the bending down this job would involve. (Bending from the waist is better for me at the moment, as it puts less strain on the wound site.) By now, though, I thought that I could probably handle a little task like this. Sweeping the courtyard always makes it look neater and more inviting. Afterwards, I pictured myself sitting out there in the shade of the umbrella, enjoying my handiwork.

This was pretty much how it transpired. The sweeping, picking up all the debris into the big garden bag, putting some of that into the compost, and the rest into the green waste bin, all took about an hour. Along the way I re-fixed some shade cloth I have rigged up over the daphne in the front garden. I interspersed these with hanging out a couple of loads of washing, including the towels. (All these little tasks took me over my step target for the day, without having gone past the mailbox.)

I did notice the hernia wound after a while. It wasn’t painful exactly — just enough for me to think, okay, that’s about as much as I can manage right now. But I enjoyed being outside, getting things looking a bit better, and having a closer look at the garden.

The main problem I’ve had over the last few weeks has been my sleep. I think this has to do, at least in part, with my not being able to exercise as much as before the operation. (I did resume a modified exercise class just last week.) Consequently I have been getting, on average, an hour and ten minutes less sleep than I was having before the operation. I have also been waking several times a night, and getting up in search of something that will knock me out for a while. So the sleep has been both shorter and more fragmented.

The other reason is to do with my sleep medication (Stilnox), to which I have been gradually becoming habituated over the years. I really need a new one. Whatever I take, however, has to not interfere with the Zolodex — while I remain on that treatment. I will be seeing Dr P on Monday week to discuss all this, together with my most recent blood test.

I have had insomnia for about 25 years now. Over this time I tried most of the sleep treatments around. None delivered a cure, so I just learned to live with it. The last four weeks has been an extremely sustained patch of sleep deprivation, however, and I have been finding it pretty tough. I hope that gradually getting back to my full exercise program will help.

I am also going to investigate contactless shopping for groceries. In this scenario, I drive to the supermarket, open the boot of the GT, and send a text to the effect of “I’m here”. Someone will put the bags into the boot of my car, I drive home, and at this point my beloved will bring the bags inside. This way I will get a mini-outing, and she will have the chance to catch up on her work a tad. From each according to his ability, to each according to her need.

We did some old-style shopping over the weekend. Our dishwasher packed it in last week. (I think the noisy, thrashy thing is about 20 years old.) I read lots of reviews, and measured the recess in which it sits under the kitchen bench several times. Yesterday we headed to one of the nearby big box stores to kick some tyres. Did we want a two or a five year warranty? Would a cutlery drawer be a good thing, or would we make do with a basket? All the alternatives were worked through, and we chose a German make with which to replace the tired old Dishlex. The credit card was unfurled to good effect, and the new dishwasher — a Siemens — is being delivered on Friday.

In the meantime, my beloved and I have had some slightly nostalgic times handwashing our dishes, and drying them with a tea towel. I seem to remember Mum and Dad having sotto voce arguments while doing this. Like them, we have fallen into gender roles — my beloved washing, me drying up. We haven’t had any arguments so far, though, even when I queried her practice of putting the cutlery into the sink first. I will remain a cutlery-last man to the end of my days! (I hope this preference will soon revert to being a theoretical one.)

Kleines bissen

As all of you know, Kleines bissen are just “little bites”. (OK, you do now.) Mozart lovers will recognise a near relative of the adjective “Kleine” from the title of his most done-to-death piece, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, K525. Anyway, those still reading by now are way ahead of me — this post is just bits and pieces.

I don’t know if John Silvester’s article Just hang on: the A to Z of pandemic politics appeared anywhere other than in The Age. If you haven’t read it, please do forthwith. I laughed so much that I literally (not virtually) had to wipe my eyes. Twice. It was both extremely funny and slightly sobering: the latter because nothing in it was either invented or exaggerated.

I had a small win a day or so ago. My vintage FM radio tuner had difficulty receiving ABC Classic. I listen to the radio a lot, so this was what polite people call a PITA. Trouble receiving ABC Classic was unusual, though; this station has a strong signal. I cursed extensively, and looked up where I could get a decent new tuner. The prices of possible replacements gave me pause. Maybe I should go for digital radio or streaming radio instead. These would present fewer problems with reception; unfortunately, to me, they sound processed and harsh.

My research, however, turned up a couple of simple things that could improve my FM reception: elevating the antenna, and moving it nearer a window. The antenna was already up on top of a cabinet, about 1.5 metres above the floor. The second suggestion seemed a good idea, though; what was to lose?

I needed a longer coaxial leads. Generally long runs of cable are not a good idea because they increase the potential for interference. I decided to give it a crack anyway. Fortunately, I had several coax leads down in the garage. The longest one turned out to be a monster; maybe 10 metres. The hernia wound was feeling pretty good, so I went through the steps necessary to disconnect the antenna, move it closer to the window, arrange the new cable around the corner of the study, and re-connect everything. Take ‘er away, Boris!

Well — my little Technics tuner sounded pretty happy with a lot more signal to munch on! 3MBS-FM was particularly improved. My antenna has a gain dial, giving some variable boost to the reception. When I moved the tuner dial to 3MBS, and boosted the gain on the antenna, I could see the signal strength meter zoom up from 4-5 to 8-9 — just about the max. (Not being a Marshall, it doesn’t go up to 11.) The stronger signal significantly reduced the hiss, as well. ABC Classic was similarly improved. Cost: 0$.

I came across a story in the Green Guide, I think, about a TV show showing celebrities reorganising their closets. Caviar to the general, perhaps. However, my beloved is very interested in a) fashion and b) closets. (Her wardrobe is organized to a T.) I therefore adjudged this story to be of strong potential interest to her. Her tablet needed charging, so I gave her mine on which to read the story. Being unused to my device, in attempting to scroll down, she accidentally opened an image. I reached over helpfully (not to say patronisingly, even patriarchally) to close the image for her. My hand was swiftly batted away. The moral — never get between a fashion maven and a fashion story!

Mr B sees it through

[Apologies — I have corrected the first sentence to remove various solecisms. Some changes further down are too trivial to mention. So no need to read further if you’ve already read it.]

Yesterday I went with my beloved to see Michael B, the surgeon who carried out the hernia operation . This follow-up consult was one week after the operation had been carried out. Mr B pronounced himself satisfied with how everything was looking. My main question was “When I can go back to exercise classes?”. He thought another couple of weeks’ recuperation should do it .

Just before Michael came in, the nurse removed the dressing that had been put on the wound after the operation. This dressing was transparent, allowing any bleeding or anything else undesirable to be identified. According to the notes with which we were supplied on discharge, this dressing could be left in place, absent any leaking, oozing, or other indications of the wound not healing. We had seen no reason to change it, however. (Several spare dressings had been included in the sample bag I took home on discharge.)

Before yesterday’s consult, I had imagined the dressing being ripped off in enthusiastic Nurse Ratched style, perhaps preceded by a bracing “This won’t hurt a bit!”. However, it was just gently peeled off, with zero discomfort. I was lying on an examination couch, with my shirt and jacket pulled up a bit, so I couldn’t see exactly what the nurse was doing. On our way out my beloved and I asked ourselves “Did she put another one on?”. I checked when we got home — she hadn’t. But the wound still seems dry, and neither tender nor inflamed .

A few stitches are holding the edges of the wound together. These stitches will just dissolve by themselves, so there is nothing further to be removed. Because I seem to be healing well, a second consult date wasn’t set. Of course I can ring and report any problems or complications that might ensue. Based on how things have gone so far, however, I am not expecting any.

Hospital admissions are bit more protracted, in Victoria at least, because of a compulsory temperature check, a digital form to be filled out on one’s phone, and other CoVID19 business at the point of entry. Even with these extra steps, we were in and out in less than half an hour. This period is the maximum for which Knox Private Hospital provides free parking: after this, their meter is on. Anyway, we must just have snuck under the wire — yay!

Yesterday’s visit featured another freebie: there was no charge for yesterday’s consult. I am not expecting any other charge to be forthcoming. Before we booked in for the procedure, I had requested a financial quote from the practice. According to this, Mr B’s, the assisting surgeon’s, and the anaesthetist’s fees were all to be sent direct to our health insurance fund. This seems to have happened exactly as promised. So, apart from a few dollars for some anti-inflammatories and analgesics with which I was supplied on discharge, the procedure cost has cost nothing.

We won’t (fingers crossed) have to pay anything for the costs for my overnight hospital stay, either. The hospital cover of our health insurance features a $500 excess. The hospital cover year runs from May to April. (Just to make things difficult, the extras cover corresponds to the financial year.) From May to April, the first two hospital admissions for either of us cost $250 a throw. Any subsequent admissions in that period come after the excess has been paid, and are therefore not charged.

This operation was preceded by a couple of hospital admissions during this period, each for a Zoladex implant (albeit this is only a day procedure). The lady at the cashier’s at Knox Private, by whom I was interviewed at admission and at discharge, did try to charge me $250 both times. She readily demurred when I pointed out I had already had two hospital admissions since May. No, I’m not having anything else done, even for free! I do believe in being careful what you wish for.