The biopsy

I get to the hospital at 8:30 and try to effect an air of casual indifference about the whole thing, there's always a chance the governor will call with a last minute reprieve or maybe the whole thing will turn out to be some wacky practical joke for MTV.

A stern looking nun type weighs me, measures me, cuts off my South American wrist bands (they were a bit wanky anyway) and ushers me into a change room to put a gown on (suggesting I put a second one on backwards over the top to cut down on the amount of arse I'm showing). The one size fits all policy of hospital gowns is always a bit uncomfortable for me, although I'm not overly tall the gown stills ends a long way above the knee which is touch and go while standing but creeps a little higher in the sitting position. In the waiting room I'm concerned that the slightest movement and I might end up recreating that scene from basic instinct.
I make small talk with a woman who's having a catheter removed and we pass the time chatting about the lack of rain, David Koche and the downside having to carry your wee around in a plastic bag. The conversation trails off when a bloke (who'd apparently decided against a second gown) comes in and bends over to peruse the selection of 90's women's day magazines.

Eventually an orderly calls my name, sits me in a wheel chair and we set off. He stops along the way to chat to a nurse about the weekend (I pass the time trying to keep my tackle out of view of the public).

Down in the radiology department I have a chat with the doctor who explains that due to the proximity to some blood vessels the operation is going to be a little tricky and asks for my consent should one of us sneeze at the wrong time to give me a blood transfusion.I sign it but I don't really feel like I've got much choice. He'll probably hit me with a phone book if I refuse.

The procedure starts with a scan and the radiologist marks my stomach with a texta then decides the area could do with a bit of a shave. So friends, there I lay stretched on a guerney thinking happy thoughts while a nurse enthusiastically dry shaved my short and curlies with a disposable razor, halfway through she says "Sorry mate, but this is going to be bloody itchy in a few days", unable to think of an appropriate response I just give her a thumbs up.

After a few local aneasthetic injections and the doctor asks how I'm feeling, I want to come off as brave but I'm pretty nervous and can't seem to say proper words anymore so I give him the thumbs up too. He decides that a shot of Miazipan might be in order which he says will relax me and make me feel like I've had a few drinks.
I'm not sure what kind of crazy shit this doctor drinks in his spare time but I suddenly find my mood improving immensely the roof swirls in an exceptionally pleasant way and I become quite conversational and even the gown seems kind of wonderful.

The rest of the procedure goes smashingly he inserts the needle, clips a couple of bits out ( In my high spirits I ask him if I can have a look at the bits and he obliges) then I'm wheeled out to the recovery area where I spend the next couple of hours coming down, eating sandwiches and reading New Idea.

And so here we are (that is if anyone has made it this far) unfortunately the biopsy didn't actually yield any results and the next step seems to be to open me up so everyone can have a good look at the problem.

Yikes!

Jez