Prodded by a post in another thread, an update on my situation. This is a copy- paste from elsewhere.
This story begins a few months ago, with the dull thud of a plain envelope hitting the floor below the letterbox. I cannot recall the exact words, just a few phrases that stood out like found poetry. "Abnormal results" "Further investigation".
And so it was that a week ago, I found myself sitting alone in a brightly-lit windowless admissions room, wearing nothing but an open-backed surgical gown.
The room was empty, the walls blank save for a hand sanitiser and a clock. Every so often, the door would open, and some members of the surgical team would come in, and introduce themselves. Each explained the procedure to me again, and each had a sheaf of consent forms which required signing.
It had already been explained to me the range of possible outcomes, which included the possibility of being unable to rejoin my internal plumbing and thus requiring a stoma. The prospect of this was now playing on my mind more than it had previously done, and I had reached a point of almost acceptance. I was coming to the point of considering how I would be able to continue in the things I like to do under these circumstances. I already bore a large ink-mark on my belly, indicating the point where the stoma should be brought out if necessary. The consent form laid this out in stark black and white. I signed the form.
The door opened one final time, and I was beckoned forth. It was time. I was guided down a maze of windowless corridors, till we reached our destination. "Theatre twelve" he said, gesturing towards the door. "How many are there?" I ask. "Seventeen" he says. A curiously prime number for such a regularly shaped and symmetrical building I thought.
The room is brightly-lit, and clean. There is a reassuring hum of modern clinical equipment, and the staff are quietly going about their daily business. I am bidden to sit down and lean forward, to allow an initial injection into my spine. I lay back, and various electrodes attached to monitor my statistics during the procedure. A band is attached to my forehead to monitor my brain activity. "I hope it's sensitive", I say, a dull attempt at humour.
The last thing I noticed as I lay down was that behind all the modern kit, the room itself looked somewhat careworn and shabby, and I wondered how many thousands of others had lain here before me.
I am submerged a short distance below the surface. I can see the forms of people moving about above me, I can hear echos of distant voices although I cannot discern the language. I try hard to swim towards the surface, and after several attempts I just about break the surface. The room comes briefly into view, before fading out again. I am aware of myself, I can feel my own body. I cautiously move my hand down my front, feeling for the worst. But no; just my skin, still bearing the black spot. The sense of relief cannot be described. I stop swimming upwards, and allow myself to sink back a little; I can allow myself to surface in the fullness of time.
I am moved from the recovery room to the ward which will be my home for the next six days, until it is deemed I am hale and hearty enough to return home. In the morning, all tubes and tethers are removed from me, and I am free to move around as I wish. Looking at the others around me in this small ward room, it is clear that I have come out of this rather more unscathed than the others.
By the third day, I have grown restless, and have started straying ever further from the ward. I have found out that there are several oases within the ARI buildings. There is a small art gallery, a rooftop garden, and several small contemplative spaces. I made it my business to find them all. This quest led me down long narrow empty corridors, and into floors of the building that do not get mentioned in the lifts. I frequently got the impression I was in the subterranean underbelly of the building, not intended public access. From time to time, I would be approached by a kindly member of staff, asking if I was lost. "Lost? No! I may have no idea where I am, but I am not lost." I was fully expecting to escorted back to the ward like a truant urchin reluctantly dragged by the ear back to the classroom.
On the sixth day, the decide they have had enough of me, and I am sent on my way. Another bullet dodged, for the time being at least. The real recovery begins now.