It’s been a wee while since the last entry and no, I haven’t been abducted by aliens or fallen into a medical vortex. We were away for our annual four-week pilgrimage to Gran Canaria. Sun, sea, men in far too tight shorts and tees and just enough denial to keep me functioning. It was wonderful. I did have a few wobbly days.

Cutting way back on alcohol in 2025 meant that one glass of wine, a pornstar martini, and a Spanish-measured vodka and Fanta Limón turned me into a deeply emotional whoor. Hogmanay, in particular, was a masterclass in snot and tears. No idea why. The bells rang and I just collapsed into a puddle. Maybe it was because my anus horribilis was over, but the new anus was shaping up to be no better? Hard to say. Apologies to The Devon Boys and The Dublin Boys for my high-maintenance emotional collapse.

I don’t post much on Facebook, but I did share a photo showing what a 6.5-stone weight loss looks like. Holiday bonus: I spent my Christmas money on new shorts and shirts. Mediums. Actual mediums. I reminded The Rock every ten minutes that I was wearing a medium, just in case he’d forgotten. Or blinked.

We came back expecting the operation to be on 13 January. I had my pre-op assessment on the 8th and spent a solid hour being poked, prodded, questioned and generally assessed by a rotating cast of medical professionals. This included the unforgettable moment where I was asked to rub a very long cotton bud around my bits. Not sure that was legit. Didn’t question it. Enjoyed it nevertheless.

Then came the ECG, where my heart rate dipped below 50 and a terrifying Dr Russia informed me (while scowling) that I should see my GP about stopping one of my heart medications. She looked at me like I personally invented blood-vessel-widening drugs just to annoy her.

On the 10th, we went to see Dr Lump. I love Dr Lump. She is genuinely lovely, and I hadn’t even realised she’d be my surgeon too! I should think of a better name. Dr Lovely Lumps? The Oracle was there and told us to grab a coffee because they were running late. We waited over an hour. At some point I turned to The Rock and said, “How many days do you think we’ve actually spent sitting in waiting rooms this past year?”

Immediately after that thought we were called in and told the operation was postponed until 3 February because more urgent patients needed surgery on the 13th so even more waiting. I briefly considered reminding them that, as a Queen, I should technically outrank everyone  but also acknowledged that if someone needs emergency surgery, that’s probably worse than my situation.

LESSON 33: There is always someone worse off. Perspective is a gift. Use it.

For anyone going through this, let me be clear: this is a waiting game.

Waiting for appointments.

Waiting for results.

Waiting in waiting rooms.

Waiting for operations.

Waiting for things to get better.

It’s exhausting in a very quiet, invisible way.

On the 16th, we got a call saying the operation was being brought forward to the 28th. It’s now the 27th, and today is my last day at work. I am absolutely bricking it. At this point, I’m fairly sure I could perform the operation myself after the sheer number of YouTube videos I’ve watched. (Note to NHS: please do not allow this.) I keep staring at my neck, trying to memorise what it looks like without a scar.

I think you have to balance optimism with realism. You genuinely don’t know what’s going to happen. So, we’ve updated the wills. I’ve written my death letters with instructions. I’ve decided not to go with The Macarena at the funeral although I am laughing whilst typing thinking of you all doing that dressed in black. I’ve spoken with Big Boss Man. I’ve planned as much as possible. Running life like a project probably has to stop at some point. But not today.

See you on the other side.