Julie Walker on her 8-hour brain op: 'I knew a frame had been clamped to my head because my scalp looked like an alien spaceship had landed... Then someone had neatly blanket-stitched my head, neck and chest'

Parkinality columnist Julie Walker, of Bishop's Stortford, writes for the Indie not about parking, but about living with Parkinson's disease in her 50s...

Part 1: I am always honest in my writing but I usually wrap up honesty in an analogy – it was time to cut to the chase.

After my scheduled operation using deep brain stimulation (DBS) – which involves electrodes being implanted into my brain – was cancelled at the very last minute in May, I was given a new date for the operation straight away. This time I didn't tell many people.

I had got myself so worked up in May attempting to prepare for every eventuality that in June I was in denial. I couldn't take the stress of it being cancelled again. So the realisation that the op was in two days' time was a huge shock.

Emotions were seeping out of every orifice. I turned to those who I knew would be there in times of stress, who I knew would listen without judging and who would guide me through my complex emotional rollercoasting maze. The Samaritans are always there 24/7 to guide you through difficult times. They didn't tell me what to do, they 'just' listened.

Part 2: 3... 2... 1... I was back in the room and people were shouting at me to wake up.

Prior to going into theatre, the risks of undergoing brain surgery had been explained to me. This was major. It wasn't fiddling round with an ingrowing toenail (apologies to any toenail fiddlers). It was eight hours of surgery on my brain.

A lost foot would be inconvenient, a lost head a slightly more serious dilemma. On the other hand, to me personally it was eight hours of unconsciousness, of nothingness. For all I knew they were carving an intricate representation of my foot in a cornfield. They certainly had time to.

So what had happened over those eight long hours? In my best Lloyd Grossman voice: "The clues were there." I had had the longest, shortest haircut. When I went into surgery I had a space cadet hair cut, when I came out, some eight hours later by the Gregorian calendar, I had a space shave. The surgeon had to shave my head in theatre to lower the risk of infection.

Those eight hours had disappeared from my known universe. I knew a frame had been clamped to my head because my scalp looked like an alien spaceship had landed, leaving red dots on my head. Then someone had neatly blanket-stitched my head, neck and chest. I didn't feel or remember a thing.

In the recovery area the medical professional who was charged with looking after me – where 'looking after' meant laughing at my jokes – must have wondered why he had gone through years of med school to be stuck with guarding a mad woman.

In my words, "I was testing out my personality on him", to make sure my brain worked and I hadn't lost my sense of humour.

Oh dear. It wasn't great. To those (un)lucky enough to get a garbled message from me, sorry. To those I didn't contact, please be grateful, I was keen to note down some of my classic comedy lines, but fortunately for you I had difficulty operating my phone.

I was finally wheeled up to the ward after about four hours recovering in recovery. Alice was the lovely nurse who looked after me that first night, who was there when I cried and when I asked for the 20th time the exact location of my stitches because I was so frightened of knocking them.

Alice was also the lovely lady who showed me my head. I did consider drawing hares on my, I assumed, square head, as at a distance they would look like rabbits, or even vice versa. But actually my head was spherical and devoid of lapins.

My selection of scarves and hats were hot and uncomfortable and so my head and scars have been mainly uncovered. I'd like to apologise to all those I have scared with my alien head shave.

I was released back into society the next day – so 33 hours after being admitted, eight hours of which were in theatre. Unbelievable, I know, but there are no pain receptors in the brain so the pain was on the outside of my bonce – a couple of paracetamols and I was fine.

So tis done – but what is the effect? Like all the best cliffhangers, you must watch this space as I will be switched on in August. Watch this space.

* Deep brain stimulation (DBS) is not a cure for Julie's Parkinson’s disease, which will continue to degenerate. One of the aims is to temporarily reduce her medication, which might lessen their debilitating side effects.