Post-Surgery Here's What I Learned About the Difference Between Men and Women

Pre-op, I would whizz around our house cleaning, collecting washing as I went, dusting, and attending to a myriad of jobs that constantly needed doing in a busy household. Except our household is not that busy; there are just the two of us. But still, there are a ton of household chores that need doing regularly. Cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, changing beds, watering plants and the list goes on. We all do them without a second thought.

A woman’s work is never done:

Man works till set of sun,

Woman’s work is never done.

From rise of morn to set of sun

Woman’s work is never done.

When I woke up with severe tummy pains on 29th December, my husband asked if I needed an ambulance and, knowing the NHS (National Health Service) is under severe pressure due to Covid, I declined and took some heavy-duty painkillers, hoping the problem would go away. It didn't.

What is an emergency and how do I know if I qualify?

Telephoning any doctors’ surgery is fraught with difficulties; they are under extreme pressure and I am not one to make a fuss. But today, I needed to. Instinctively, I knew that something was wrong with me. The acute pain had now shifted from my tummy to my lower right abdomen. My immediate thought was appendicitis, but I’m no doctor, so it was pure conjecture on my part. Still, I didn’t think I qualified as an emergency.

There was no reply from the surgery; I tried and tried but the telephone just rang out, after going through a frustrating array of options, numbers to press, and finally, having got through to the receptionist, there was no answer. Perhaps he/she/they were still on holiday? I changed tack and rang the NHS helpline and was put on hold for 27 minutes, but as I was lying in bed with nothing else to do but manage my pain, I stuck it out.

After hours of waiting around, I was eventually admitted to my local hospital later that day and on New Year’s Eve, instead of partying like the rest of the nation (or perhaps not, since the re-emergence of the Omicron variant), I listened to the fireworks going off from my hospital bed. I was all alone in a side-ward and I don’t know what I would have done without the company of family and friends on WhatsApp.

The cause of the pain and recovery from surgery

The first day of 2022 started with a bang and a cut. Well, several incisions, actually, in a triangular formation on my tummy. Having been pumped full of antibiotics, painkillers, and sickness relief drugs intravenously and then finally operated on, my acutely inflamed appendix had been pinpointed as the root of my problem and was thankfully skilfully (and very neatly) removed.

I cannot praise the NHS staff highly enough; they explained everything they did from taking blood to a CT scan through to the operating theatre. The surgical team was wonderful and I am so grateful to live in a country where we have such a fantastic health care system. For those of you who think it’s free at the point of access, well, I guess for some it is, but as a life-long resident and UK tax-payer, we have something called National Insurance Contributions or NICs. These are taken at source from our salaries each month and are quite hefty and I have been paying mine since the age of seventeen, so a long time. Regardless, I am still extremely grateful for the life-saving treatment that I received.

I was discharged home less than 24 hours after the operation

Three tiny white patches, two cannulae in my arm, and a wristband containing my name and NHS number were the only evidence that I had been cured of my debilitating pain. Until I moved. Then the post-op soreness hit home and I gasped for air as a nurse assisted me out of bed for the first time. Whoomph! It hurt, but that was to be expected following surgery, albeit laparoscopic.

Moving around at a snail’s pace hunched over is not a good look and I was encouraged to stand tall. Easier said than done. My daughter, a nurse, sternly told me to keep ambulant (nurse-speak for moving or walking around) to prevent clots from forming. I am doing as I’m told, pottering around, no heavy lifting, and being catered to by my loving husband. The heaviest thing I have lifted so far is a mug of tea.

Why does he announce everything he does?

Imagine this: “I’ve ordered the weekly shop online, hoovered through, put the washing on, organized the leak in the conservatory roof to be fixed, loaded the dishwasher, got the kids off to school, remembered birthday cards to post…” The list would just go on and on.

I am not complaining and am fortunate to have a carer to help out, but I don’t need to know when towels have been dried and folded and where they have been put, or how many loads of washing have been done, or which part of the house is being or has been cleaned. Welcome to my world, darling. Day in, day out, these jobs get done without you even noticing.

Multi-tasking comes naturally to those who rear children

You need eyes in the back of your head while cooking, tending to children, running the home, and juggling a career on top of everything else. Women are resilient and just keep going, taking everything in their stride from childbirth to rearing children to running a family home, running businesses and yes, men do their fair share these days, but why do they feel that they need to be thanked or acknowledged for sharing the ‘burden’ of raising children, doing household chores, etc? I think I have thanked my husband a dozen times since I’ve been home because he announced that he had deep-cleaned the bathroom (even getting on his hands and knees to clean the shower tray) and had tidied up some books. I do those jobs (or similar) every day of the week and he doesn’t thank me every time.

I can’t wait to get strong again

I had to clear out a tray of mouldy raspberries, some yoghurt which had turned a funny colour, a plate of cooked green beans and potato out of the refrigerator on my first day home. Does my husband not see what I see? I hate to see food go to waste and when I admonished him, he got upset and said that he was doing the best that he could. “Well, your best just isn’t good enough”, I whispered under my breath. I would have used the food up.

In my husband’s defence, he was probably a little pre-occupied. His best friend and soul mate had been undergoing emergency surgery and he had been left all alone. I forgive him.

Just as long as he stops announcing what tasks he’s completed. I don’t want to hear it, darling. Just roll your sleeves up and get on with it. I will think far more of you.

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This article was first published on Medium. You can also find me on Twitter and Substack. Thanks for reading.