The one where I finally start talking about the surgery

Well... it's only taken me nearly a year to write this. Not because I've forgotten what happened. Quite the opposite, so much went on, so much that even now I almost can’t believe and have to keep checking in my medical notes that it did really happen.

I think I've needed the time to work out how to tell the story. Not just because recovering from having three-quarters of your liver removed isn't exactly a quick job, but because I've had to process everything that happened that day. I'd built myself up for the surgery, I'd prepared for the surgery, I'd accepted the risks of the surgery and then, well... you'll see.

This is Part One. It's long. Grab a bottle of water, you’ll need the hydration, and as it is me, there are of course some giggles, there are some moments where, you'll all be shouting things like “SERIOUSLY?”, and “WHAT?” and as before, if you don’t want to read all this, then scroll to the bottom, I’ve got a TL;DR. Or, you could listen to it on my podcast…

Right. The 11th August 2025. The day before my surgery and I did what any normal person does the day before major surgery. I went to work.

Looking back, that seems a little odd. "Morning everyone! Just popping in for the day, somebody's removing most of my liver tomorrow, see you later!" But genuinely, it was just another Monday. Just like the day I accidentally found out I had cancer, I went to work and got on with things that needed to be done because that's what I do. I don't even remember if Lisa and I even had something nice for lunch!

Seriously, what else could I do? Sit at home and wait? There really wasn't anything else to be done. I wasn’t allowed to exercise. I didn’t want to watch any TV shows as I was saving those for after surgery and being bored wasn't going to make Tuesday arrive any quicker.

Tuesday morning came soon enough.

I was up very early as I needed to drink the hmm… vile is too strong a word but yucky too mild… well whatever the word is, I drank the Nutricia pre-op drink as I’d been assured it was very important and then Mr PippaD, Top Ender and I headed to The Churchill in Oxford.

Whilst I was checking in, there were a lot of people there for various surgeries, all accumulating in the room, and there were not enough chairs. Everywhere we went, people kept offering Tops a chair because she had her walking stick with her, and a few people said things like “you’ll need your strength for the surgery”.

It was really sweet. Everyone trying to look after her, whilst she kept politely explaining that yes, she was fine, thank you and that it was her Mum that was actually having major surgery and standing next to her looking all perfectly healthy.

Eventually, I had to go through to the surgical prep area, and I could only take one person with me. So Mr PippaD came with me and Tops headed off to the Costa with her laptop to wait for Mr PippaD to return after I went through to surgery, and then they could keep their vigil.

Mr PippaD and I were put into an examination room, and then came the people.

So many people.

Medical students.

Resident doctors.

Anaesthetists.

More doctors.

More questions.

More explanations.

More signing of documents.

More questions.

More explanations.

More faces.

I genuinely think every medical student in Oxford had me on their timetable that morning and I was beginning to wonder whether someone was handing out tickets outside.

Then my surgeon came in.

Now generally, when your surgeon walks into the room before a major operation, you're expecting a reassuring chat, maybe a quick "We'll look after you," perhaps a reminder of what they're about to do.

What you don't expect is for him to sit down and say, "There's a chance we won't be operating today."

I remember thinking “I beg your pardon? It sounded like you just said that you might not be operating on me today?” but the words didn’t come out.

He started to explain that following the earlier Portal Vein Embolisation and Hepatic Vein Embolisation, that my scans were not showing any growth in my liver. The scans were being looked at again, with the Head of Department coming in on his day off to check them himself because if there was any doubt, they wanted that important opinion.

Oddly, neither Mr PippaD nor I fell apart. I think we were both just in shock for about ten seconds and then our brains immediately went into practical mode.

"Okay. What's next? What happens now?"

I do remember saying that if they were sending me home for another few weeks of that diet then I was absolutely having a Chinese that evening first.

Priorities people! Priorities. They are very important.

The surgeon said that there were three options depending on what the double-check of the scan said.

1) They could operate anyway and risk the bit of liver they left behind not being enough and me needing an urgent transplant.

2) They could send me home for another few weeks on the 800-calorie diet and hope it grew, but there were no guarantees.

3) They could do the operation in two stages, one part today removing some of the tumours, another in three weeks, with me staying in hospital between the two surgeries and the risk that the tumours were “exposed” and could decide to take a quick trip to other vital organs.

We asked whether we could go for a walk whilst waiting for the head of the department to come in because there was no way we could just sit in that little room staring at four walls for another couple of hours whilst people somewhere else decided whether I was going to have life-changing surgery or go home. They agreed, so the first thing we did was go and find Tops.

She'd been sitting quietly in the café on her laptop, and whilst she'd been waiting, she'd somehow managed to accidentally become the receptionist. A lady had walked over, stood patiently waiting for Tops to acknowledge her and then asked her something because she'd genuinely thought she worked there. I don't know why this made me laugh so much at the time, perhaps because everything was so surreal already that, of course, my daughter would accidentally get promoted to hospital staff just by sitting by a low wall in Costa.

The three of us chatted for a little while, and then Mr PippaD and I wandered around the hospital grounds.

It was actually a lovely day.

Sunny.

Warm.

We talked about us more than cancer. About how we'd deal with whatever happened next. About how we'd got this far already. About how, honestly, this whole situation was so incredibly on brand for me.

Rare cancer? Tick.

Months of dieting? Tick.

Portal vein embolisation? Tick.

Hepatic vein embolisation? Tick.

Turning up for surgery only to be told I might not actually be having surgery because my liver apparently hadn't got the memo? Also tick.

I messaged my two best friends. Mary and Scott. Just a quick "I might not be having surgery." Both replied within seconds, concerned, worried but both wanting to reassure and calm me. They said they’d support me all the way, no matter what happened and Scott reminded me that I had this. He knew I was petrified but not saying anything and he and Mr PippaD kept me grounded throughout this whole saga. I told Scott and Mary I'd know by lunchtime what was going on and would update them as soon as I could.

We eventually wandered back upstairs and waited some more.

Then, and I swear it happened as quickly as you’ll read this next part, everything changed.

Apparently, “someone” had misread the scans.

My liver HAD grown. Not only had it grown, but it had grown more than they'd first hoped.

One minute I was wondering whether I was going home and the next minute it was like someone had shouted, "Places everyone!" and people appeared from absolutely nowhere.

"Gown."

"Compression stockings."

“Say goodbye to your husband; he’ll see you after your surgery”

"Come on, this way."

Five minutes earlier, I had it in my head that I probably wasn't even having surgery, and the next second I’m sitting without any underwear on and about to have a needle shoved into my spine.

The anaesthetic team were absolutely brilliant. The chap who would be looking after me during my surgery chatted away whilst attaching what felt like approximately seven thousand sticky pads, wires and monitors to me before announcing it was epidural time.

His Boss was doing that, she is the best of the best, he explained.

I wish I could remember who everyone was, too much time has passed now for me to remember the names of all the people I met, but the boss was lovely. She’d asked if I’d ever had an epidural and I explained how no, I’d not had one when giving birth, just gas and air, as I was petrified that a contraction would happen whilst it was being put in and with my luck I’d be paralysed.

She didn’t laugh, but reassured me that it wouldn’t happen today, and got me sat up, bent forwards, where the anaesthetist who was going to look after me during surgery sat talking to me to distract me.

About ten minutes later (there was a clock, I was watching it) I realised that I was going to faint, and let them know. They quickly had me lie down and I know that I lost consciousness for just a few moments, they worked quickly to cool me down and when I came back round they tried again to get the epidural into me.

I was starting to feel bad, thinking that it was my weight that was causing the issue, when the lovely lady trying to get this needle in decided she needed to call her boss as she was having such a hard time.

I remember thinking, "Well that doesn't sound especially encouraging, seeing as how she is the best of the best.", I apologised for the problems I was causing, but she exclaimed “Pippa it’s nothing to do with your weight! I’m having trouble placing this because your back is so muscular!”

I have lived off that compliment since. I think I’d like it on my tombstone.

"I work out every day," I said, probably sounding far too pleased with myself. "I know I don't look like I do."

"Oh no," she said. "You absolutely do. You don't get muscles like this without putting some serious work in."

Honestly, if they'd just started cutting me open at that point, I wouldn’t have noticed I was high on those compliments!

The top dog anaesthetist walked in, said hello to me and then the team explained the issue, again the words “muscular back” were used, but just as the Top Dog was about to take over, they got the epidural in.

So Top Dog didn’t even get to feel my muscles. Typical.

I mean I had been complimented on them twice in the last ten minutes! They could have at least made it three times…

After that, everything starts to become a litte hazy, the drugs were starting to make me sleepy but I remember being wheeled into theatre and being amazed at the number of people in the room. 15. 15 people for this surgery, I mean some were just there to observe but 15 people looking at my insides?! FIFTEEN!

I remember being covered in various drapes and thinking how big the room was and that I couldn’t even start to count the ceiling tiles. Guess what I do at Church each week…

There were bright lights and beeps and hisses and other strange noises.

I remember looking at the clock and noticing it was almost 1pm. I remember feeling incredibly sleepy and falling into myself and then, just before I disappeared completely, I was aware that somebody needed my position adjusted from the waist down, but also didn’t want me to move from sort of the chest up. It was decided that I would be held by those in the room, who would scrub back in, by my chest and outstretched arms to help keep me still whilst they moved the rest of me.

Again, I remind you that I do not look as muscular as I am and one of the students holding my arm exclaimed

"Wooooah... muscle."

Apparently, because I have absolutely no memory of this, I was still just awake enough to retort, "Obviously! Laura trains me..."

Then I was gone.

The anaesthetist came to tell me that story a couple of days later. Apparently, everyone in the theatre had laughed; they had to check that I was under sedation properly, because apparently, even when I was supposed to be unconscious, I was still making sure my PT got the credit. That's commitment, and if you want that commitment Fitness Tribe is the place to go.

Mr PippaD and Tops went to get some lunch off-site (McDonald’s) as they didn’t want to keep pacing around the same corridors and let DJ know. They were talking about what time they thought I’d be out of surgery; the operation could take anywhere between three and six hours. So they guessed they’d be able to see me after the surgery before making the drive home at the latest around 8pm.

Tops, ever with the optimism, thought I’d be done and back in recovery much sooner and she replied, "She'll be done by then."

Except what Mr PippaD heard was...

"She'll be dead by then."

Thankfully, that misunderstanding was corrected very, very quickly. We laugh about it now. Well, I do. It’s still a little sore point for my family.

It’s at this point, I should point out that the entire time that surgery was being proposed and then discussed, it was repeated to me time and again that no surgery is without risks and being on the “much larger than I should be” size, there is an increased risk for surgery to not go well, for my body not to respond as it should.

I guess I had made peace with it. I’d had long chats with Mr PippaD and Scott talking about the what ifs, all the unspoken things and I guess that all this overthinking meant that I understood things a little too easily, as I’ve previously mentioned, I couldn’t work out why the staff didn’t seem to like my sunny disposition and it was because they thought I wasn’t taking this seriously.

The thing is, there were only three options ahead of me.

1) I didn’t have the surgery and you’d all be invited to a party in my honour, where Amy would be leading the congregation in squats, lunges and plank walk-outs in my honour.

2) I had the surgery and it all went south and again, party in my honour.

3) It went well and no party was held.

Of course, just because I had made peace with this didn’t mean that my family or friends had.

Heck, apart from my closest friends, nobody really knew how serious it was. They thought we were just joking about funerals; Really, I was making sure that those whom I would like to speak were ready. That a video introduction to my funeral (from me!) was recorded. That there were letters for my family at various points in the future.

Right. Now I’ve made myself cry, apologies if you are too. Let’s get back to the story.

Mr PippaD and Tops had worn out the corridors, the garden and the cafe. They had been spoken to by random people who appeared to just be hanging out at the hospital. They had found at least four different toilets, Tops had been walked around the different places that Mr PippaD and I had visited in the hospital and now they were back in the car enjoying some aircon because of the very sunny day that was going on.

The phone rang.

Mr PippaD believed that a sooner-rather-than-later phone call was a bad sign. This was a little over 6 hours since he saw me last. Then his brain thought what happened if the call, like this one, was later than they had said it could be... that would be a bad sign too right?

He answered the phone.

And, not to spoilt the story or anything because I'm pretty sure you've worked out the ending, it was a member of the surgical team (FIFTEEN PEOPLE!) letting him know that the surgery had gone well, that they'd ended up removing around three-quarters of my liver, that they hadn’t needed to give me any blood (they were able to just use my own, which is pretty cool right?) and that I was being transferred into the overnight recovery unit and that I should be allowed visitors very shortly and Mr PippaD could call to arrange this.

Which he did.

Mr PippaD asked if Tops could come

“I’m so sorry, we don’t allow children in”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll just come and she can wait here… Wait! She’s 21 does that make a difference?”

Apparently, it did as the first thing I really remember was Mr PippaD and Tops coming to see me, and the one thing I do clearly remember is they looked worse than I felt.

They didn’t stay for long. I was exhausted. They were exhausted and, from what they've told me since, I really didn't look my best. Wires, tubes, tape, dried blood... not exactly the glamorous post-op glow I'd been hoping for.

What I do remember most clearly, is looking at them and thinking they looked worse than I felt. I mean, I’d just had a nice long sleep, despite feeling like I’d never slept in my life and I was on some pretty great pain meds. At least I assumed I was, far too many tubes to work out if I was, and also seeing as I couldn’t feel anything… yeah, definitely on the good pain meds.

They of course hadn't had that luxury. They'd spent over six hours waiting, trying not to imagine the worst, jumping every time someone in scrubs appeared, and then suddenly finding out that the surgery went well.

Right, that seems a pretty good place to end Part One.

Still to come:

The one picture that I sent to Heather that she thought should have been on a top shelf somewhere, what PONV is, why I nearly wasn’t released from the hospital, and that one moment where my team thought I wasn’t going home at all…

TL;DR: Went to the hospital expecting major surgery. Nearly got sent home instead. Went for a walk, found out Tops had been mistaken for a hospital receptionist, waited whilst consultants re-read my scans, discovered my liver was actually an overachiever, got rushed into theatre, found out I have a ridiculously muscular back, survived over six hours of surgery, woke up to find my family waiting... and that's only Part One.