On the second of September I went in for a hiatus hernia repair and a Nissen fundoplication — a torn diaphragm patched up, a large part of my stomach retrieved from my chest, and a new one-way valve built from the stomach itself. Two days in hospital, home on the Friday, feeling rather pleased with myself. By the Monday I was blown up like a balloon and in pain I still can't properly describe.
What followed was a nasogastric tube down my windpipe, a second attempt that came out of my mouth, a cornered patient issuing fair warning to the staff, and my first introduction to ketamine. I'll tell you what I experienced after that — watching my own body being wheeled down a passageway from somewhere above it — with the honest disclaimer that I have no idea whether it was a near-death experience or the drug. Then it happened all over again on the Thursday, at a different hospital, with a doctor who refused me anaesthetic and a decision to tough it out.
So here I am, eight kilograms lighter, 59 years old and eating Purity, recording this from a chair in my bedroom despite the handsome background. Next gastroscopy on the fifteenth. After that, a hip replacement and the next round of treatment for the autoimmune diseases — now two of them, CIDP and dermatomyositis. Thank you for every WhatsApp and message. I'll keep you posted.
