Letting the Devil out


They drilled four holes in my skull. Not one, not two, but four, with a little drill, right there in my skull. Apparently my cranium is a damn sight thicker on the left than it is on the right, which is odd: I thought both sides of me were equally thick. The surgeon gave up drilling holes after the third attempt to get through to my left frontal sinus in case he ended up puncturing my brain. Which is nice -- I like not having my brain punctured, it barely works as it is without any extraneous holes.

But this does mean that I've got a fetching big rectangular white dressing in the middle of my forehead. I suppose I could rent it out as advertising space -- 'Your company name HERE!', but I doubt anyone would be daft enough.

Other than that there's no sign of my having been back under the knife. Not externally anyway. No excessive bleeding this time, and no ulcerated uvula either. It's a funny word 'UVULA' sounds all... gynaecological. Like a cross between a vulva and a uterus. And the reason my secret lady bit isn't ulcerated? Because the biopsy has wheeched a lot of it away. Wheeeech! It's off to the lab for analysis and prodding, while I'm left with a strange sensation that something hard's been stitched to the roof of my mouth -- like a chunk of burnt steak. The nose didn't hurt at all, neither did the cranial trepanning, but the throat aches like a bastard.

The weirdest thing about the whole experience -- other than the fact it wasn't a complete sodding disaster this time -- is that I got a lot of thinking done about Book Number The Fourth. Well, there was little else to do in the wee small hours, unable to sleep till the latest batch of painkillers kicked in. I wrote it all down. Just have to hope it'll all still make sense when I'm not whacked out of my gourd on opiate-based happy-la-la pills.

And now I'm back from hospital with my blank advertising billboard, punctured skull, fixed sinuses (hopefully!), burnt-steak mouth, and enough pills and potions to open my own pharmacy:

I will rattle when I walk, with clenched buttocks: because the big bottle of Lactulose is for 'gentle, predictable relief' and I don't trust it. You know where you are with prunes, but this chemical stuff is just asking for trouble.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a large quantity of drugs to take.