Trading graces

It's been a little over a year since I had the lumpy thing under my right ear removed. I have to reiterate that the lump was benign, and that I was in no real danger from it, save for the possibility that it would one day begin pressing on a nerve. The operation came only a few days after I found and bought my flat in Edinburgh, so that time was one of mixed emotions and extreme ones at that. I still harbour a considerable amount of hostility towards my surgeon. Oh, I can appreciate what he did for me, but the manner in which he prepared me for the surgery was lacking. For instance, telling me that there was a small risk of permanent facial paralysis, without considering to inform me that there was a considerably higher risk of temporary paralysis. You can imagine how I felt after waking up that afternoon to discover that I couldn't feel or move half my face. And as the surgeon didn't back to visit me until the following morning, there was no-one who could tell me what would happen next. That afternoon, and the sleepless night that followed was easily one of the lowest points of my life. And it didn't have to be. A few brief words are all it would have taken. Or that's what I thought. But even after I finally saw the surgeon, it didn't really help much.

I was told I might recover feeling in my face in hours. Hours passed, and things didn't improve. I was told I might recover feeling in my face in days. Days passed. Weeks, perhaps, he said. Weeks passed. Months then. Months passed. And more months after that. To be fair, I've at least regained most of the movement to the degree that I suspect the only person who notices that things aren't quite as they were before is myself, but even now, there's still a large chunk of my face which feels like pins and needles when touched. But it's good enough.

I have other frustrations with the surgeon still. I remember him telling me afterwards that the operation had been more difficult than he'd anticipated, since the lump had turned out to be larger than he thought (he memorably described it afterwards as being the size of an orange - I didn't see it, didn't want to see the damnable thing, so I can only take his word for it). It was only meant to be a couple of centimetres across. He even showed me the note that said it was only 2cm in diameter. I sat back and nodded, and didn't say much. But the thing of it was, even I knew it was larger than that. All you had to do was reach around and touch it and you'd realise it was larger than that. But I said nothing, and instead let resentment well up inside of me.

But it's far enough in the past now. It's over. No real lasting harm was done and I can be thankful for that.

Shortly after my op, whilst I was moping around feeling extremely sorry for myself, Jonathan sent me a link to Jules' site. For all the regrets I may harbour about the past year, my experiences are nothing compared to what Jules and Alan have gone through.