On October 25th 2017, a surgeon apologised to me. Not just any surgeon, but my surgeon: the one who’d been tasked with removing my Angry Internal Organ. The day after the operation he arrived at my bedside clutching a small sheaf of papers, and began to say he was sorry.
I’d presented at A&E at the beginning of March with a set of symptoms which I was swiftly told were “impossible” because they didn’t spit out an immediate answer from the computer. I’d then run the gamut of tests: bloods, ultrasounds, cameras in the belly. The guy who did my first ultrasound said things didn’t look good, that I should be taken in for surgery as soon as possible. He sent me downstairs to follow up with the person responsible for admissions, and somehow in the 20 minutes it took me to get down there in the lift (I could only walk very slowly, being in too much pain), his concern had been translated into “stick her on a waiting list and hope for the best.” Continue reading “Ask Me About My Uterus by Abby Norman”