I consider myself a semi-professional-operation-haver because I am rather accomplished at requiring regular hospitalization. Not to brag; but once I even managed to get admitted to hospital just for having chicken pox… If they had a hospital version of the Frequent Flyer program, I’d be a Platinum Member by now.
Last week I once again assumed the role of medical patient in order to sort out a pinched nerve I’d been suffering with. I checked in at 6.30am and was admitted into a 4 bedroom ward. Waiting on my bed was the traditional humiliating operation gown that says “These are my buttocks” when you wear them.
Next, a nurse drove me into theatre (I am using the terms “into theatre” here in the sense of “literally into EVERYTHING in between my ward and the operating table - including six door frames, a lot of extremely expensive machinery, a cleaning cart, an innocent pot plant, a fruit fly, three surprised nurses, and two doctors scrubbing in for surgery.) You think I’m joking but I’m not. One of those doctors enquired where she got her driver’s license and she just laughed in a manner that suggested she truly believed he was simply making a joke.
Then, they tried to anesthetize me quickly but I fought them off bravely and managed to compliment one surgical nurse on his “funny green ninja outfit” and gave everyone an enthusiastic double thumbs-up before succumbing to the all-consuming blackout. I often wonder what actually happens after they put you under anesthetic. I like to believe that the doctors and nurses remain medically professional and go straight to work slicing you open as soon as you’re out. But the strange bruises on my shoulders and outer arms beg the question, “Do they strap you down tightly to prevent you from falling off the operating table while they make shadow animals with your limbs in those large overhead theatre lights?”
When I came round in the surgical recovery ward I was naturally in a lot of pain and managed to put on such a tearful performance that the nurses had to administer three doses of pain killers before I calmed down to a mild panic. By the time I reached my regular ward, the three doses of drugs had affected my critical functioning abilities to the point where I was opening my eyelids so wide my eyeballs nearly rolled out of their sockets voluntarily. I spent the next 3 hours making impressive medical comments such as, “the peacocks keep swapping my teeth!” and displaying an unnatural interest in the nearby water jug.
Then there was the issue of the post-operation bathroom expedition. Severely drugged and armed only with a drip stand for support, I shuffled across the room towards the bathroom at a speed that would impress an athletic earthworm. Approximately 38 minutes later I arrived at the bathroom door and hovered there unstably whilst simultaneously attempting to hold the back of my hospital gown together. As I basked in the glory of my physical accomplishment, I realized with horror that there was not one but THREE light switches to choose from - one regular white one, one with a picture of a nurse on it, and an ominous red one. I tried the white one and it just turned on the ward lights. Then I pushed the nurses one and waited. Nothing. Then I got dizzy, lost my balance and pressed the red one by mistake. By the time the nurse arrived, I was completely distraught and informed her with animated sincerity that I just pressed the red button and launched some nuclear weapons. She smiled and assured me that the red button just turns the bathroom lights on.
In order to maintain at least a slight shred of dignity I shall not reveal to you the other ridiculous things I vaguely remember doing thereafter. Suffice to say, if you ever find yourself in Durbanville Mediclinic hospital it’s probably best not to mention that you know me.
Last week I once again assumed the role of medical patient in order to sort out a pinched nerve I’d been suffering with. I checked in at 6.30am and was admitted into a 4 bedroom ward. Waiting on my bed was the traditional humiliating operation gown that says “These are my buttocks” when you wear them.
Next, a nurse drove me into theatre (I am using the terms “into theatre” here in the sense of “literally into EVERYTHING in between my ward and the operating table - including six door frames, a lot of extremely expensive machinery, a cleaning cart, an innocent pot plant, a fruit fly, three surprised nurses, and two doctors scrubbing in for surgery.) You think I’m joking but I’m not. One of those doctors enquired where she got her driver’s license and she just laughed in a manner that suggested she truly believed he was simply making a joke.
Then, they tried to anesthetize me quickly but I fought them off bravely and managed to compliment one surgical nurse on his “funny green ninja outfit” and gave everyone an enthusiastic double thumbs-up before succumbing to the all-consuming blackout. I often wonder what actually happens after they put you under anesthetic. I like to believe that the doctors and nurses remain medically professional and go straight to work slicing you open as soon as you’re out. But the strange bruises on my shoulders and outer arms beg the question, “Do they strap you down tightly to prevent you from falling off the operating table while they make shadow animals with your limbs in those large overhead theatre lights?”
When I came round in the surgical recovery ward I was naturally in a lot of pain and managed to put on such a tearful performance that the nurses had to administer three doses of pain killers before I calmed down to a mild panic. By the time I reached my regular ward, the three doses of drugs had affected my critical functioning abilities to the point where I was opening my eyelids so wide my eyeballs nearly rolled out of their sockets voluntarily. I spent the next 3 hours making impressive medical comments such as, “the peacocks keep swapping my teeth!” and displaying an unnatural interest in the nearby water jug.
Then there was the issue of the post-operation bathroom expedition. Severely drugged and armed only with a drip stand for support, I shuffled across the room towards the bathroom at a speed that would impress an athletic earthworm. Approximately 38 minutes later I arrived at the bathroom door and hovered there unstably whilst simultaneously attempting to hold the back of my hospital gown together. As I basked in the glory of my physical accomplishment, I realized with horror that there was not one but THREE light switches to choose from - one regular white one, one with a picture of a nurse on it, and an ominous red one. I tried the white one and it just turned on the ward lights. Then I pushed the nurses one and waited. Nothing. Then I got dizzy, lost my balance and pressed the red one by mistake. By the time the nurse arrived, I was completely distraught and informed her with animated sincerity that I just pressed the red button and launched some nuclear weapons. She smiled and assured me that the red button just turns the bathroom lights on.
In order to maintain at least a slight shred of dignity I shall not reveal to you the other ridiculous things I vaguely remember doing thereafter. Suffice to say, if you ever find yourself in Durbanville Mediclinic hospital it’s probably best not to mention that you know me.
This is brilliant!!! you are an awesome writer xxxx Love you
ReplyDeleteFunniest blog entry yet Jules!
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