I woke the next morning to be shaved (yet again) And is often the way life, when you’ve been waiting for something for so very long, and imagining exactly how it will be it and how it will be said: suddenly it just happens when you stop thinking about it . I looked up and the porter was coming in and he was most definitely this time, finally , headed towards me.
Cheery and matter-of-fact “Mr Cearns?” And I climbed into the wheelchair and we travelled the draughty corridors of the wards and up in the lift to the theatre.
As I sat in the antechamber to the theatre, I witnessed once again that sense humour of God’s . On the radio was a discussion about the congestion problems of Cambridge. As a County Councillor over the last four years, and a resident of Cambridge for some twenty plus, this problem had exercised my thoughts and energy a lot. Though I’m not really sure I wanted to enter into a discussion about it moments before the doors of theatre opened and my chest was prized apart…
Thankfully I was spared a protracted debate as I was quickly taken into theatre, asked to lay on the table, stretch out my arms, as two lines were put into my wrists.
Just as I was thinking of how there was something sacrificial and vulnerable about all this, my theological musings were interrupted by “What’s your favourite tipple?” It was a bit odd, being asked that at 8 in the morning- but then there wasn’t much that was normal about climbing onto a table in a nightie surrounded by strangers-. “Gin & tonic” I helpfully replied (bizarrely thinking that I better give the “right’ answer, whatever that may be). “Here’s a nice in gin and tonic” said the anaesthetist and that was that.