Click on the following links to read Part One and Part Two.

PART THREE – Hold Your Horses

The first bag of pain medication did nothing. I mumbled and groaned about it in my drowsy state. Another bag was attached and released at high speed. I could see it dripping quickly, anticipating it would give the relief I needed.

It wasn’t long after this that I had the urge to go to the toilet. Not being allowed out of my bed for the first 12 hours, I was issued with a lovely bed pan, which Annabelle carefully placed under my nether regions. The gap in my Cami was coming in useful.

Nothing.

“Are you going?”

“No, I can’t. I want to. But nothing is happening.”

“Hmm, try again in a few minutes?”

“Alright, but I really need to go.”

“I’ll tell the nurse”.

Up until now, my stay at Homolska hospital had been 5-star. Between the private room with balcony, giant en-suite bathroom, and cheerful nurses everywhere, I had absolutely nothing to complain about, and loads to be grateful for.

But then the Grumpy Nurse showed up.

She had checked on me earlier before my surgery, and I’d made a note of her slight irritation at having to use Google Translate. I tried to soften her by gesturing to the window and saying ‘isn’t it a Dobry rano?’ (lovely morning). She reluctantly smiled, saying ‘Ano’ (yes).

And now. Here she was. With all the grumpiness of a hungry bear (and she looked like she enjoyed a meal or two), she insisted that it was normal to feel the urge, and that I could wait up to 6 hours before I needed assistance (in the form of a catheter). This was all relayed to Annabelle in fast-paced and angry-ish Czech. As I lay there listening to the two of them argue, it was obvious that Annabelle’s heckles were rising.

“What are you two talking about?”

“She’s a cow”.

“What?”

“She basically told me to let her do her job and I should stop worrying so much”.

“Oh, she IS a cow”.

“Did you tell her I really, REALLY need to go?”

“Yep, and she said you could manage. She’s going to put some drug in your bag that’ll relax your bladder”.

“Keep an eye on what she’s putting in that bag. I don’t want a Charlie Cullen done on me. She seems unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant isn’t the half of it. You’re lucky you can’t understand our conversation.”

It takes a lot to upset Annabelle, but the look on her face said it all. She was fuming. Meanwhile, my bladder literally felt like an American football about to pop. Not that I’ve ever popped an American football, but I digress.

Five minutes went by and I started writhing around the bed. Desperately trying to find a comfortable position.

“Here, try again gorgeous”.

It took everything out of me to raise my bottom up onto the bed pan. The pressure on my bladder was so severe that I started to feel nauseous. I pushed and pushed, beads of sweat rolling down my face, the pushing motion causing my freshly cut wound to throb. I screamed.

Annabelle jolted upright. And she rang the nurse’s bell.

At this point, it’s important to highlight that as a nation, the Irish are known to apologize for everything. For their very existence. For wearing the wrong colour socks. For bumping into someone accidentally. For putting too much milk in your tea. We’ll take the blame for something even if it’s not our fault. We’ll say sorry if someone spills a drink on us. If we win first prize in a raffle, we’ll feel guilty about whoever won second prize, and dutifully apologise offering them our prize as a token. The word ‘sorry’ is probably the most overused word in our vocabulary. It must be from all the guilt we were stricken with as kids, (but now is definitely not the time to go into that).

When GN slapped (I use that term lightly, it was more like a full-on throw) the icepack onto my wound, despite the pain driving into me like a hammer hitting your thumb when you miss the nail, I apologised to the nurse for saying ‘ouch’. When she was changing the icepack, she flung the old one onto my stomach, and I apologized for wriggling a little. I launched into verbal diarrhoea about how sorry I was to be complaining, disturbing the nurses, sorry for having this pain, this need to go to the toilet, sorry for my existence, sorry for the inconvenience, sorry for everything!

So, when Annabelle rang the bell, I begged her not to, as I didn’t want to disturb the nurses. In particular the Grumpy one.

“ORLA. Do NOT be sorry for needing to release two giant bags of medication they’ve pumped into you. The bell is there to be used. This is what they are here for. To keep you comfortable”.

Grumpy Nurse appeared looking more than bothered. The two launched into what can only be described as two Irish seagulls fighting over a bag of chips on Howth pier. Meanwhile, I was tossing and turning, grabbing onto the bars of my bed, crying aloud.

“I can’t take it. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry but I can’t take it”.

GN left the room, and was replaced by a much nicer kinder nurse who said she would help. After pushing on my bladder, an unfamiliar shriek emitted from deep within me, sending Kinder Nurse and Annabelle into shock. Kinder Nurse left the room, then swiftly returned. I’d lost all sense of modesty at that point, and when I saw her approach me with the catheter, I flung my legs open without hesitation and braced myself for the milli-second of discomfort as the tube was inserted. It was nothing compared to the pain I was feeling.

The average female bladder is full at about 500 mls. We get the urge to go around 150 – 200 mls. Within 4 minutes of my tube being inserted, I had urinated three times the full amount. THREE TIMES. So maybe it WAS an American Football ready to burst.

“You’re peeing!” the Kinder Nurse did a little dance, then left the room with an alarmed look on her face.

“Jesus Christ, that bag is nearly full already”, Annabelle started heading for the door.

I like to think that she went out to GN and said something like “are you taking the piss here or what?” She returned with Kinder Nurse who had another bag at the ready to replace the almost overflowing one.(Which Annabelle took a photo of! The things we do when we are under duress!)

I was lying there in sheer bliss feeling relief from an empty bladder. My pain was subsiding too. But I felt delirious. Timed perfectly, in walked my mother.

“Mam, mam, my bladder is nearly after bursting” I felt her soft, cool cheek soaking up my tears as she embraced me.

“It’s all over now, all over love”.

“What’s that?” I asked, seeing her put a gift bag on the windowsill.

“That’s the Jameson’s for your doctor you asked me to get”.

I noticed Annabelle pacing the floor. I later found out she was composing a nasty letter to the Grumpy Nurse. Enraged didn’t capture it.

“Here, do you want to sit up pet, you look uncomfortable”, Irish mammy to the rescue.

“Yes please, the remote for the bed is hung on the railing there”.

Like a scene from a 1970’s hospital comedy movie, she pushed every button on the large remote, causing my legs to go up, go down, then my head came up, then back down, then both at the same time so I was an Orla sandwich. It’s a good thing I had so many drugs in me as I’m quite sure I was not meant to be in so many contortions. I could see Annabelle using all the strength she had not to grab the remote from my mam, doing the polite thing and letting her ‘have a go’. I was being tossed around like a rag-doll, and my mother was doubled over laughing.

“‘SORRY! Orla, I’m sorry, I’m going to wet myself.” Mam sat back in a chair Annabelle had placed directly behind her precisely for a moment like this.

“Easy for you to say. I need a f**king tube up me”.

“Oh Sorry”, (see what I mean!)

“Ah here Annabelle you do it”, she said, handing the remote to poor Annabelle who by this stage, had been through more trauma than me.

“Maybe we should open the whiskey”, I said.

Then came a knock on the door.  

“Doctor.Kucera!” I called out extending my arm to him.

“Hello champion”, he said with a smile.

“This is my mam, I told her all about you”, as if he was my new boyfriend.

“Isn’t she a great girl, Doctor?” reverting back to being the mom she was when I was 8 years old winning first prize in a piano competition.

Annabelle stood there bemused, observing this mother/daughter behaviour.

“Yes”, in his lovely accent. “It was a successful surgery. We replaced your disc at the C6 level, and took some time to move the vertebrae which had moved. You are straighter now. And taller”.

“Straighter?” I asked. “I think that’s probably impossible Doctor, I…” My mother squeezed my hand extra hard.

“Oh, she’s very funny isn’t she, Doctor?” she kept squeezing.

“He knows we’re a couple mam”, I laughed.

“Does he? Sorry Doctor.” (There we go again)

There was a four-way awkward chuckle between us, followed by silence and all eight eyes looking at the ceiling.

“Well, you must rest now and I will see you tomorrow.”

Dr. Kucera left, and I’d forgotten to give him his whiskey.

I had a fair amount of pain in my arms, shoulders and neck – to be expected after I was contorted around to get that one part of me straightened out. Still irritable, I didn’t feel like making small talk, so Annabelle and Mam agreed they’d leave for a cup of tea and come back in a little while. I don’t remember if they did come back or not, but I do remember at about 10 pm, the night nurse came in and spoke English very softly to me.

She caressed my head and said “I give you big injection tonight and you don’t feel pain ever again”. A lone tear escaped and I smiled saying “Ano prozim”. (Yes, please).

The bladder ordeal had taken a lot out of me, and I was unable to find a comfortable position to lie on that didn’t hurt my shoulders.

I didn’t complain that my bottom got a bit more attention that night. The night-nurse appeared with the largest needle I’d ever seen and jabbed my right cheek with the prowess of an experienced veterinarian, right into the muscle. It went so deep I could feel it down my thigh. I’m quite sure it was a horse tranquilizer.

The last thing I remember was waking up at about 4 am having an out of body experience. I was gazing at the shadows on the wall, having conversations with them, simulataneously saying “Giddy up” and neighing like a new-born pony. My teeth felt bigger than my face, and I couldn’t stop laughing. Clearly, the experience of peeing like a racehorse followed by the giant dose of opiods had an unusual effect on my brain.

Here I am two weeks post-surgery and thriving. I’m so grateful for how it all went, and I like to think the grumpy nurse was just having a bad day. We never know what’s going on in peoples’ lives, so I always try to give the benefit of the doubt. She was quite awful though, and I do still wonder if Annabelle is going to post that letter…

Now, I’m off to embarrassedly watch the videos Annabelle took. Thank you for reading about my journey. It’s been fun to write it, and I hope you enjoyed it! Please do comment below as it boosts traffic to other posts. I love getting all your texts and DMs, but it’d be fabulous if you could comment on this page. x